Catfish | A. Svechnikov

FIFTEEN

Truth be told, the next morning I was far from fine. The little things like thinking about New Year's Eve parties and thoughts about having to deal with Nev and Kamie transformed me into my own personal storm, lightning bolts shocking my skin and burning molten flesh into a tragic combination. Driving to work the next morning in the rain, I felt like something was wrong but I was unsure of what it was, and that feeling, that sensation bothered me so much that I nearly missed the traffic signal turning red.

Andrei not responding after telling me not to come to his game didn't exactly help me, either, so I debated texting him again but I eventually never did because I didn't was to self-sabotage Nev and Kamie's investigation. I didn't want to taint their work with something as trivial as my unknown emotions. My body felt heavy, my thoughts wander carelessly, and it seemed like my grave is already early in a land full of nightmares.

It's frustrating why I'm like this, and I feel a pang of crimson agony as I get out of my vehicle and try to avoid the rain the best I can, hair falling around my shoulders and air oddly humid for a winter morning. Snap out of it, I think to myself. What's wrong with me?

The question brands itself on my stomach, and although I desperately try to search for an answer, I can't come up with a solution. It's like an everlasting scar settling on my cheekbone or a mosquito bite right on the ankle: unsolvable, damaging, and conflicting. I feel useless and inarticulate, resembling something of a flickering lucid dream.

Unlocking the door to my office, I think to myself, it was a relief that most of my coworkers had not arrived yet. I drag myself to the kitchen to make myself a hot cup of green tea before leaning on the edge of the countertop and just staring as the raindrops dance mockingly on the windows sill.

I stand there, head empty, I don't think about how tears stain my lash line. No, of course not.

I don't think about that at all.

Why do I hurt so much?

"Good morning Alyssa!" Cheered our office manager, Staci.

"Hi," I sniffed quickly, wiping away my tear as quickly as possible, "how are you?"

"Not good," she huffs back before putting her typical goofy expression on her face, "that is until I have my morning coffee."

I turn away from her to blink away any glistening emotions left in my irises, letting myself melt into my strength. "Funny as always Staci, see you later."

"Morning." Alex greeted me from the doorway of his office, shutting the door behind him.

I wasn't able to bring myself to sleep last night, my thoughts running rampant with hateful words written in blue text message bubbles, Alex's footsteps thudding the halls with vigor. The bags under my eyes hopefully reflected my mood.

"Have you been crying?" Alex asked with hesitation in an attempt to make small talk once I proved I did not feel like conversing with him.

I pondered not answering, but the concerned look on my coworker's face gave me the incentive to part my lips and whisper out a short response.