Bury A Friend

Chapter 1: I hate pumpkin spice

[1] Running. I always remember running. The pavement beneath my feet came hard with every stride. Air burned in my lungs with every second I got closer to a building in the distance. A muffled voice turns into a name being called. The desperation in its pitch makes my pulse rise, but the echo of the name never makes it to my ears.

I halt in pace, letting my icy breath escape me. Higher, higher, and higher my gaze lifts, as if compelled. Gripped by the twinkle of dark sky above me, the feeling was overwhelming that it could swallow me whole. There's a repetitive sound in the distance that I can't quite make out. A chime? Maybe a bell or a whistle?

I can't seem to focus past the continuous vibrations going off in my ear. Then, without warning, I'm paralyzed. I fight against my body, the terror settling in my bones. Only when I feel the warm, heavy flow of liquid, do I look down and notice my t-shirt disappearing under the redness of it all. Wet droplets stick to my shoes. I gurgle and spit, clutching at my neck, but nothing helps. Gulps of air become futile, with thick liquid choking me. And then – I'm awake.

I'm back in my bed, pajamas clinging to me with sweat, my breath coming in ragged. These new nightmares started a few days ago, coming to me whenever I lie down, welcoming the sweet bliss of sleep beneath my Death Star comforter. Like most, I never remember the beginning or end, but more so the climax of events in between. The feeling of dread, the sense of something after me, ending with blood. So much pours out of me, more than I even knew I contained until I woke up gasping for water to replenish myself. Good dreams fade away. They leave only a slight feeling of some comforting resolution. Bad dreams stick. The events, however elusive, leave behind worry and panic. My therapist gave me that sentiment years ago when the onslaught of nightmares started for me. I was too polite to tell him how unhelpful that remark was.
With every click of the fan like a metronome, I focus, trying to piece together the origin, but draw at a frustrating blank. Why so much blood? What the hell was that sound? Do I feel like making that walk down the hall to pee? They're all questions I muse, lying in bed as I try peeling the wet sheets off when my alarm starts to screech. Four hours of sleep. Terrifying and draining. I might as well have not slept at all.

    Bathroom, then my usual routine, I rummage through my overstuffed drawers. A quick check in the mirror. yawning as I hold both shirts up. The first of many hard decisions roll in for the day. Shall it be my 'Nucking Futs' shirt, or the ever popular 'Lobsters and Lovin Is All I Need in Life' state pride shirt? Foil-wrapped breakfast baked with love and a car ride later, I'm standing in the hallway, grimacing at all the orange and black. It was the only way I could get through school last year, counting the days with every holiday I hated. The cumulative hallway laughter, the teachers that still gave me that sympathetic look, and the kids. They were everywhere. Every bell that ended class like a human hive swarming the lockers. I take a breath and set my focus. This day will be over shortly.

Instead of just sitting in a hospital room, I used my time sensibly to do online classes. Yet, there's one class that no matter what I try, I can't seem to avoid. A class so hideous, so ungodly that someone came from the depths of hell to create it – math.  A.P. Calculus can kiss my ass. Perhaps sometimes I give off a sort of intelligent vibe, an aptitude for education that radiates off me. But math, that stubborn bitch, is my weakness.

"Hey, you want to use our extra off period to go over stuff?", a student whispers, tapping me on the shoulder. I knew what he meant. A sort of burnout code for 'would-you-like-to-do-my-homework-while-I-make-bongs-from-water-bottles-and-fall-asleep-instead'. He smiled, and I frowned, watching him wait for my reply like the proposition in some way benefited me.