For the Faceless (CAMREN)

I - Damn It, Dinah!

Camila squeezed her eyes shut to readjust her vision but the sight before her never shifted. The quilt she couldn't sleep without still splayed in a rumpled mess on her bed. The flowery curtains she'd detested still hung on a rod with that crease her mom always tried to straighten but couldn't. The desk overflowing with books jutting just by the side of the door and one of its legs that she'd always managed to stub her toe on.

Everything was in place.

Her childhood bedroom cloaked in darkness, the foreboding sense of danger lurking in the shadows. The clatter in her chest forced her to inhale a greedy breath but the air scorched her lungs.

And just at the right moment, a panicked scream — sharp, raw and terrifying. 

She woke up with a jolt. Her chest expanded and collapsed as she tried to catch her breath. The grips of the nightmare she'd escaped when she opened her eyes refused to leave her consciousness. It stuck to her skin like she sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. It continued to flash behind her eyelids every single time she blinked.

She hadn't had that nightmare in a while.

Her eyes scanned the dark room, her nose longed for the familiar smell of home, her hands brushed the soft surface of her down comforter and her ears listened for something, even a cricket's song. Dare she say it, even her roommate's obnoxious music. She hoped she wouldn't hear a mouse squeak. She hated those.

She glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand and squinted to see the time flashing in bold red.

17:58.

A whole two minutes before her alarm went off, four hours before her shift.

A flash of white caught her attention and her stomach clenched at the sight of it. She'd been too tired to deal with it much less have the energy to tuck it away when she got it that morning.

Three loud, successive raps on her door had her jumping in place, the staccato she'd memorized since. She fought the urge to reach for her gun as the pull of instinct told her to like the first time but by then, she'd gotten used to the daily racket.

That didn't necessarily mean she couldn't be scared into leaping in the air like a frightened mouse, though.

She's known — with utter shame — how jumpy she is, and her roommate did, too.

"Wakey wakey, clumsy Lucky!" Exclaimed the devil on the other side of the door, laughing like the asshole she is as she retreated. The roommate she couldn't get rid of because she just so happened to be one of her best friends.

It didn't mean she didn't feel ounces of hostility every now and then, though.

"Damn it, Dinah!" She grimaced, yelling had been a terrible idea. Her head didn't appreciate it.

More laughter. Louder this time.

Groaning, Camila cupped her face, shaking her head at Dinah and at herself because she'd been stupid enough to ask her that one time to wake her in case she didn't hear her alarm. Since then, Dinah had taken it upon herself to create a cruel tradition without fail.

But said obnoxious roommate always made sure there's hot breakfast food on the table when she was ready to eat even if they were the same two types she made. Two eggs, scrambled and two pieces of toast. She'd once complained that she'd smell like chicken shit if all Dinah fed her were eggs. And Dinah being Dinah took the plate away from her and proceeded to eat everything without remorse, making a show out of each bite.  

Still, Camila commended how Dinah knew the kind of toast she ate. Hot and crunchy on the outside but not colored. Over time, Dinah also discovered how Camila took her coffee. Hotter than warm, colder than boiling.