A Writer's Death

one

Arilyn Blackwell graduated almost top of her class at Theodore Roosevelt High School in 2008. That wasn't what her peers took notice of though. No – she was more so known (rather widely) for being clumsy. Actually, they voted her 'most likely to die within the first five minutes of the zombie apocalypse'.

   Which was exactly why she shouldn't have been taken aback when she tripped over her own feet and spilled her gas station cup of iced tea.

   "Oh, shit," Daveed laughed after turning around to find his friend in the middle of his dressing room with a soaked, brown-tinged shirt. "Really spillin' the tea, huh?" He asked in jest – it was all fun and games until she met his gaze with tear-filled eyes.

   "Damn it," she hissed through her teeth, having clenched her jaw so tight it almost hurt.

"Ari," Daveed stepped forward and eased the plastic cup out of her hand, noticing her paper-white knuckles. "Hey, what's wrong, sis?" He asked, knowing full and well that she wasn't standing there crying over her tea.

   "'S already been a bad day, D." She muttered. With shaking hands, she pulled her backpack around her body and opened it. Normally she'd pack an extra set of clothes in the morning so that after practice when she was all gross and sweaty, she wouldn't be the one stinking up the subway. Of course, as she rifled through the bag, she realized that that just wasn't her luck. As she zipped the bag back up, she let out a huff and a groan. "Fuck this day so hard."

   "It ain't even eleven in the morning yet. That's rough." He heaved a sigh as he watched her flop down on the futon he and the other guys had put in their room. She smoothed back her messy hair with trembling fingers – and had she been trying to lose weight? Under her eyes, the skin was darker and deeper set than it'd been back half a year ago. It seemed she'd been extra stressed . . . and it went back to . . . "You and Gabe been getting into it again?" Daveed asked hesitantly, moving to shut the door of the dressing room he shared with a few of the other men from their show.

   From what Daveed knew, Arilyn's boyfriend Gabe had issues with drinking, or rather, knowing when to stop drinking. It was enough to stress Arilyn out to the point of panic attacks. One night after a show, one of her first performances in Hamilton, she had a panic attack and almost passed out because she couldn't breathe. Daveed hadn't been able to get a lot of information out of her about him, even after all the months that passed. All he knew was that he was worried she was taking on too much.

   "He ... he was drunk again. Last night. Said some stuff I know he didn't mean, but ...," She trailed off and Daveed pursed his lips to keep himself from making a comment that upset her further. She saw the subtle action, the way he was restraining himself. "Well, anyway," she continued, "I'm just tired. I'm fine though, D."

   He nodded and let out another sigh (more disappointed than the last), and walked to the duffle he had on the floor by the futon, kneeling to go through it. He kept spare clothes with him for the same reason she normally did. Grabbing the first random shirt from the top, he took it out and zipped his bag shut again, tossing the bundle of fabric to her.

   "Don't give me that sigh, Diggs." Arilyn grumbled. The exasperation dripped thickly from her tone. Daveed could tell from the slight gravel in her voice that she'd been doing some yelling the night before (and not the good kind).

   "I just worry about you, sis," he told her and sat next to her. She pressed her lips into a thin half-assed smile as she held up the shirt that had been thrown to her. It was a yellow Oakland-ish tee.

   "Thanks." The small sentiment had a dual meaning and they both knew it. Not caring that Daveed was there, she peeled the wet shirt off her skin and sighed. "Damn. I'm sticky. And my bra's gonna be stained. D, you got any napkins?"