CHAPTER ELEVEN: ESCAPE

You'll learn odd facts. Like that certain persons simply will not like you no matter what you do. Then that most nonaddicted adult civilians have already absorbed and accepted this fact, often rather early on.
That sleeping can be a form of emotional escape and can with sustained effort be abused. That purposeful sleep-deprivation can also be an abusable escape. That if enough people in a silent room are drinking coffee it is possible to make out the sound of steam coming off the coffee. That sometimes human beings have to just sit in one place and, like, hurt. 
That there is such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness. 
That if you do something nice for somebody in secret, anonymously, without letting the person you did it for know it was you or anybody else know what it was you did or in any way or form trying to get credit for it, it's almost its own form of intoxicating buzz.
That anonymous generosity, too, can be abused.That there might not be angels, but there are people who might as well be angels.
-David Foster Wallace

"But what if," My voice is slurred in my dream and it doesn't make the demon stop kissing my neck at my voice, because I'm not saying stop. "I never get over you?"

It scoffs and kisses up my skin until it's black, dark eyes meet my own. "What do you mean?" It asks and I know the demon isn't happy and I don't like it.

"I mean what if I wake up every fucking day of my life and want you so badly that I can feel it in my bones? That's a real thing you know, missing someone that much. Sometimes when I can't see you my bones feel like they're going to break."

The demon frowns, leaning in to gently kiss my neck. I didn't know demons could be gentle. "I'm not going anywhere, you don't have to miss me. You're mine, I want you and I'm not giving you up."

Despite the confidence in it's voice, I don't believe it and continue anyway. "What if I keep waiting for you, and you never come. What if you're the one?"

"The one?"

"The one for me," When I say this, it smirks. "Don't look so, so smug. I'm serious." It rolls it's dark eyes, but tenses below me with what I say next. "What if she takes you away from me?"

"She won't."

Again, with that confidence. Rolling my eyes I let the conversation go and kiss the demon, never noticing how the world around us was burning.

With the demon, I'm immune to the flames.

I gasp awake once again, thinking this is getting old to myself as I roll out of bed and stand on the cold tile, making me shiver.

If addiction was a sleep pattern, it would be easy to describe.

Addiction wouldn't sleep soundly. It would toss, turn, kick and sigh all throughout the night.

It would try to understand all the mysteries of life instead of sleeping, leaving itself exhausted before a new day even starts. It wouldn't know what it's like to get a new prescription for glasses, and suddenly see the world again. All it would know is how to squint, the blurry world mixed with disappointment and gratitude.

Addiction wouldn't dream.

Because of this it wouldn't be able to talk about their night with everyone else, wouldn't share something everyone does.

It would wake up feeling like it's forgetting to say something, and realize just after it recognized that feeling that it has no one left to share it with -even if it wakes up in bed with another addiction.

There would be a disagreement or two, on if that feeling is the remains of something that was once something big or if it's because of the empathy it feels for humans, or for the need it has for drugs or alcohol.

Not knowing might make it weep.

These addictions would fall into categories, one would be called Heroin and another would be called something like 'Depression-and-Pills' because they interlap so greatly that the addiction wouldn't know where one word stopped and the other started.

Sometimes the addictions would call themselves Human, but at night, when they couldn't sleep, and they'd kick a wall and sigh, it would know it's lying.

And once again, it would weep for everything it's lost.

There's a sadness in this division, that makes sleeping harder.

Once again I ask why people without depression question those with insomnia.

This demon, these dreams- -these nightmares- -are starting to give me insomnia. Not because they're so uncomfortable that I can't sleep, that they make me afraid in anyway, but because it's so confusing that my brain refuses to let me get more than three hours of shut eye without begging me to figure it out.

I need to know who this demon is.

I need to.

With I sigh I wipe at my eyes, trudging over to my bathroom door to get ready for the day. I'm going back to my third hour, so now it's a little painful to move it being gym and all and a bad class for me to be in, and since the day I went back there I've been having nonstop sleep problems.

Jem was right, my life really is a train-wreck.

There's not enough mangoes in the world to solve my problems and that in itself is a problem.

Six hours, two smoothies and three cups of coffee later Jeremiah kicks open the Library doors, barging straight over to me while fuming. "SIX MONTHS AJ." The librarian instantly hushes him, looking more peeved at her job than ever.

This should be good.

Peggy White, his Junior friend, turns towards me and raises an eyebrow. "What is he talking about?"

Pretending not to know I shrug, "Don't worry honey I'm sure it's nothing-" 

"For six months you watched me water a plastic plant!" Jem shouts, making Ms. Golfer hiss at him to be quiet so he takes to whisper-yelling at me. "Six whole fucking months."

Smiling widely it takes everything in me not to laugh at my best friend. "It's not my fault you can't tell what's a real plant and what's not. I thought telling you would make you feel stupid, so I forgot about it."

Not to mention I'm the one who gave him the fake plant, but at the time I had no bad intentions- -funny or not- -in my mind.

"You forgot every time that you were over and watched me water a fake plant to tell me that all I was doing is getting plastic wet?" The incredulous tone in Jem's voice makes Peggy burst into another round of laughter. "Seriously!"

I wave a dismissive hand in his direction, looking back down to my homework. "See, you understand."

He makes a deep, annoyed groan in the back of his throat and sinks into one of the library's shitty chairs. "I hate you."

"I love you too." I reply, and try not to let the death-grip I have on my chemistry packet show as I say what I do next. "I had another dream."

"About what?" Peggy asks, busy polishing her nails a dark blue that almost perfectly matches her eyes. "Is it a sex dream."

"No," I sigh and flip off Jem as he goes to protest. "It isn't about sex. I'm having dreams about a demon, that I'm pretty sure is actually a memory of mine but I can never turn the demon back into a human and figure it out. It's voice sounds familiar but the only thing that its really super clear in it's actual voice is when it called me a coward. It's super confusing and I can't figure it out."

Peggy stops painting her nails and give a level look, "If it's a memory then just go through everyone you can remember from when you think the memory took place and the more people you know who isn't the demon the closer you are to finding who is." She pauses to blow on the wet paint, while my lips part in shock. "Work backwards."

"You are a complete genius Peg! You beautiful amazing human," I squeal in my seat, making Jem glare and for Ms. Golfer to hiss a sharp 'be quiet' in our direction. "I should have gone to you instead of listening to all the stupid useless shit that Jem had to say. No offense Jem, but you weren't very helpful."

Jem snorts but doesn't say anything, knowing that he actually did help me and I'm just teasing. 

"Uh, thanks?" Peggy chuckles, picking the nail polish back up. "So is the demon hot?"

I groan and hide in my hands, not wanting to explain but this only give Jeremiah the perfect opportunity to dive into the explanation of how sexy the way I described the demon is, clearly working to make it sound much more explicit than how I've actually told him it to get back at me for insulting him.

What goes around comes around.

Together we make sure the circle of stupidity is complete.

When I got to Grey Estate I found out that Micah's parents called him, and he had another breakdown because of whatever they said.

Going to a place like Grey Estate when you're addicted in every aspect of the word is weird. Imagine if everything in your house is on fire, and you're standing there and the fire department comes in and asks you to describe the fire to them and maybe they could find what caused it and put it out. And you can't just say everything, so you tell them how the fire on your favorite window's curtain is the biggest but the fire in the photo album burning up the ones you love might be doing the most damage. And also, how the fire in the couch is really inconvenient because now you have to sit on the floor, but even the floor is on fire too. Sometimes they'll suggest simple things like, "Have you tried water?" and you'll have to tell them that using a cup of water to put out an entire house fire is impossible, but in theory it could work since sure, you haven't tried it yet. 

Occasionally the fire-fighter tells you how since your TV is on fire, it might be electronic based but then your DVD player would be all hot and melty too, and that's the one thing that doesn't seem to be happening. Then you have to agree with them, because the TV has been on fire for years. You remember that you forgot to mention it because it's always been a relatively small fire, because it's been right next to the bookshelf which has much more fire on it. The fire-fighter might even smile at you then, and "Oh." he'd say. "I wouldn't worry about that, bookshelf fires just happen sometimes, and you're doing great putting it out all on your own with that cup of water we gave you."

It makes me furious, absolutely furious, that instead of helping him put out his fire Ruth and Quincy add more flames.

And it makes me really quite sad that Micah is still taking how little his parents know how to love personally.

When I walk into his room the punching bag is on the floor and sand is spilling out of in and Micah is sitting on his bed, holding his head between his knees and breathing heavily.

Jamie said that he told her that he wants to hurt himself, but said he wouldn't, he told her the truth and Jamie nearly cried at how much he reminded her of me in that moment. Broken, tired and mentally unstable is how she used to describe me, but she said that it just made her proud every time I made progress.

She's still proud of me.

And I'm proud of Micah.

"Do you remember the first time you broke down? You were on the floor, and you asked me what to do." I pause, staring up down him. He flinches, just realizing I've walked in. "And I told you sometimes you have to go through something to get through it, it will be painful, and you're going to want to scream at the top of your lungs at how unfair life is. I told you that you can do that, scream and cry, you can show your pain but the one thing I won't let you do is flinch -because I told you that means you're trying to hide away when you're hurting at the same time. That you have to tell the truth, even if it's painful."

Micah nods, staring broken down at the floor even as he raises his head. "I flinched."

Sighing, I sit down on his bed, to be able to look at his face without getting in it. "But you didn't stop telling the truth."

Then, he laughs, and it sounds like misery. "There's that."

"Do you want a hug?"

Apparently Micah did want a hug because the next thing I know I'm wrapped up in his arms, body resting on his chest as he laid us back down on the bed, getting as much pressure out of the hug as he can -the broken boy clutching me almost painfully tight around my waist and hips.

It's comfortable in a really awkward suddenly-pressed-against-a-really-hot-person kind of way that makes me giggle nervously, and struggle to free my arms to hug Micah back. It's feels weird to be twisted the way I am, because my body is on his chest but my legs are off to the side and he's laying flat on his back. 

This is most definitely the oddest hug I've ever given.

"I'm sorry," Micah says, talking in my hair. "For grabbing you that fast."

"It's okay, I offered." I say, and I have a reason me saying that is the only thing that prevented him from letting me go. I really hope that I'm making Micah feel safe right now, as I can already tell that I've reduced his anxiety and is making him feel better but I have no clue about safe. "Do you feel safe now?"

He only hums in reply.

It's at least several more moments until Micah drops his bruising hold from my skin and makes me tumble to the side, sitting up as if none of it had happened at all. "Fight with me."

"Right now?" I almost huff at him, as I would much rather be hugged by the broken boy than punched by him. "Do I give bad hugs or something? Because I've been told I give pretty good hugs, I'm not a wall of muscle like you. I have squish. Squish is nice to squeeze."

"You have no idea how many jokes I can make out of that sentence." Micah snicker, rubbing at both of his eyes before standing and turning towards me. "Fight me."

I look at him with a angry pout, grabbing his pillow and holding it to my chest. We were comfortable, he knows that. I don't have a mango smoothie on my so I have absolutely no motivation to get my ass kicked. "Make me."

"Oh," The dark eyed boy laughs, hands flexing at his side. "You're going to wish you didn't say that."

"What do you -eep! Motherf-" My vulgarity is cut off as I'm dragged off of his bed and pinned between Micah and the wall, unable to turn my head and look at him. Even my poor llama slippers are squished onto the wall, due to the toes of his shoes pressing into my soles.

"The first thing you need to know about boxing is that if your opponent can trap you, they can beat you. And if you're fighting someone and they can pin you like this, they can do anything to you." A chill runs down my spine and it's due to our proximity, I realize. That's not good. "So you need to learn how to unpin yourself or hurt them enough without them breaking your wrist that they drop you. And next time you tell me to make you do something, it really won't end well for you."

This guy is such a...he's such a jerk!

A really hot jerk though.

Oh god I really have to  stop thinking this way, especially about someone who always hates on my skirts and mangoes. The mangoes don't deserve it.

"So, escape." It was undeniable how smug Micah's voice is, it was like he wasn't even trying to hide it. He enjoys this. "First thing you should do is figure out how to face me, because if I can pin you on your front, you're a lot easier to control and the one thing you don't want to give your opponent is control."

This could be really helpful, actually, because of my third hour. It's a better solution that just skipping and getting a bad grade.

"I...I don't know, I don't know how to." I finally reply, everything I thought of would probably get myself hurt and just make him laugh at how stupid of an idea it was. 

Why couldn't one of the things I picked up when I was high is how to fight? That's such a better skill than knowing how to roll a perfect joint.

In a rather deep, amused voice, Micah tells me how to use me arms to push myself back and face him. This makes Micah's back hit the wall, but instead of actually letting me rejoice in doing something right he flips our position and I'm pinned to the wall again -this time face to chest instead of face to wall. In retrospect- -as much as he says the opposite- -when someone doesn't feel threatened by a guy like him, being face to face and pinned against the wall isn't the best place to be.

The seconds my hands come up, he pins them down with a single hand at my hips, one of his arms crossing over the front of my shoulders.

Seeing someone this confident in themselves is hard all on it's own, but having to fight someone like him is even harder.

After jerking my hands down like he hinted at me doing, I try to get out of his hold only to clumsily trip over my bulky, poor, llamas. Using this to his advantage I'm pinned back against his front and face the wall. "Back to square one I see."

"This isn't fair." I say, but realize that even while making me face plant against the wall and defend myself against him, he hasn't hurt me. "Teach me."

"Wrap one of your legs behind one of mine and kick it forward, I'll trip and either let you drop to catch myself, or I'll stumble with you." Because of the second option, I hesitate to even move. "If I stumble with you drop to the ground, if you're ever in actual trouble do it as hard as you can and run away as fast as you can, but right now I'll teach you how to roll out of the drop and fight."

"And you want me to...to trip you?"

"What I want you-" It's a startling realization to me, that just then, Micah could have been the demon and I wouldn't have noticed. The way he said that, I want you, it's like an echo to how it said that. "-to do is defend yourself."

I can't respond, my brain is too fuzzy, too confused.

But my body still works so I do the sane thing in that moment, and trip the broken boy and drop to the ground, following all his orders until my body is so overworked it doesn't matter what my head feels like.

Being exhausted by something other than my own mind is a welcomed change.

Later in the night, when I'm half-asleep half-awake and dead to the world, the demon comes back to me. And it was furious, and we were both crying black tears.

"Stop it! Stop all of this -dammit!" I was snarling, those tears were streaming down my face and I was begging myself to stop what I was doing, but I didn't. 

I had no control.

The demon grabbed my wrists and pulled me towards it's chest, pressing my back against the wall as it tried to look at me in the eyes. I wouldn't look up though, and watched as black drops fell down from it's dark eyes, staining it's cheeks. "I'll never stop Artemis and you know it. You're a coward." It snaps, angry and upset, but it doesn't hit me or yell. "You and I belong together, you know it."

"No we don't!" I scream, and I had to scream because otherwise I'd sob and then I couldn't even try to convince myself this was the truth.

"Stop lying to yourself." It's voice is cold, and angry, and hurt.

"I don't love you! I don't even care about you, I don't care about anyone." The bitter lie flew from my salt stained lips as I desperately tried to pull myself away from the demon.

Once again, I didn't think it was possible for the demon to look as hurt as he did then, before an impassiveness spread over his features. This was much worse, I realized, than any physical blow could be.

"I hate her." The demon seethes, hands tightening on me. "This is her fault."

"Let go." Now I sob, but defy myself by sinking into it's chest. We both knew what the truth was, how devastating it is, and this wasn't it. It sighs and lets my wrists go, but wraps both arms around me. "I don't love you."

The demon shook it's head, staring down at me as if it could read my mind. "Such a fucking liar."