Camp Where The Hell Are We? | ✓

10

When a child grows up, they learn how to share. To say please and thank you. To chew with their mouths closed, keep their hands in their pockets around breakable things. They learn how to emphasize, to understand body language, not to throw rocks. They learn to tie their shoes into bunny ears and say 'cheese' for the camera.

Marley learned all of those things, at some point or another. Most of them from her daycare and her school. She learned other, more unorthodox lessons from home.

One of them was: you're safest in a closet.

Jacobi Hoover, pale-faced, shaking her awake with brown eyes constantly darting around the room. Come on, Marebear. Come on, wake up! The fabric of her favourite blankie and her stuffed giraffe clenched between her tiny balled fists. Trembling. The biting pain of stepping on toys in the dark but not being allowed to make a sound. Curling up. Careful. Doors closed, the light making lines on her skin. Little flashes then. Most of them drowned out by hands clamped down over her ears, the rest buried so deep in her memories that she wouldn't know where to find them if she wanted to look. She was grateful for the gaps.

Marley's learned to shove her demons down so they don't haunt her daylight hours. But when she wakes up in the middle of the night with a sheen of sweat on her skin, her heart racing and her eyes darting around the same way his always did, the darkness from her childhood, from her father attacked her again and again. She felt beaten down by them like they were drowning her.

Marley curled the red quilt in her grip. She took deep, trying breaths before checking the analog clock on her and Gabby's nightstand. 1:37 am.

She only lasted one night.

Marley's gaze darted around the quiet room, save heavy breathing and the nature sounds from just outside of the window. Gabby always had this quiet snore which only came about for a little over an hour around midnight. She was making that noise now. Every exhale a quiet sound escaping from her throat.

Marley remembered the first night Gabby had seen it happen. It was between the summer of seventh and eighth grade. They'd had a few dozen sleepovers by then, and Marley was lucky that it hadn't happened sooner. When she woke up the next morning, it was to a hand shaking her shoulder and the soft voice of Mr. Collins as he stared at her balled up form, lying amongst a whole collection of comic books and a bin of stuffed animals.

It wasn't something she could control on her own, and she didn't want to see a therapist. If it happened, it happened. She'd sleep in the closet; it's not like it's such a big deal anyway. She sleeps alone, primarily lives alone, and the only other person she shares a room with at night is Gabby, who always kept the floor of her closet clear apart from a shelf of quilts and pillows in a discreet corner.

They never talked about it unless Marley herself brought it up, which had been maybe once in all of the years they'd known each other. Gabby didn't treat her any differently, another one of the million reasons why she loves her best friend to the moon and back.

Marley sat up, the urge she described as a clawing on the inside of her skin. Little scratches right beneath the surface. It was an insatiable itch in every sense; the only cure was when she sat in a closet and felt the familiar small walls circle around her like a bear cub in a den.

She shoved the covers off herself. She'd have to tell Gabby so she could help her keep this from their roommates.

There was no choice, no option in what she was going to do. If she tried to withhold the urge, it was almost like cutting off an alcoholic cold turkey. Marley has attemped to hold it back before but after about ten minutes, she gets the shakes. A cold sweat builds on her forehead. Her breathing shallows. She feels like a million spiders are crawling across her arms, resulting in constant scratching of them.