CHAPTER FOURTEEN | SOOKIE STACKHOUSE

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

          My World Literature professor does the unthinkable: she decides to read our essays out loud—excerpts from them, at least—and I sit in silence, completely mortified, wishing I could somehow make myself smaller, or even invisible.

          She doesn't name anyone, which saves me from the embarrassment of having my thoughts publicized. I'm biased because I know my writing style and I know exactly what I said on that paper—authors are not their characters and a character's views and opinions don't necessarily reflect those of the author, but yes, it's hard to separate the art from the artist when the artist is bigoted—but I'm praying no one else recognizes it. 

          I fear I may be, once again, overestimating my relevance in this hall.

          I'm far from being the most talented writer in this class and it's already been established I'm not that good of a critical thinker and reader, either. Those are important skills to have and to master while taking a course like this, something I'm painfully aware of thanks to how utterly mediocre I am, but there's a hopeful voice, small and frail, resting at the back of my head reminding me I still have three years of college to go and this is still my third week. There's always room for improvement, and it's fine if I'm not at the same level as my classmates.

          Realistically, I know that. However, I can spend the rest of my days spewing out rational bullshit I don't believe in and can't act on and still feel inferior to everyone around me, made worse by the realization that these people are much better than I'll ever aspire to be. Believing there's room for improvement is only a good thing if you believe you can improve; if you don't, you'll spend the rest of your life feeling like a failure everywhere you go.

          Next to me, Claudia visibly perks up when she recognizes the passages from her own paper, with the kind of confidence I can only dream of having. I'm not really surprised by the smug look on her face, as the arguments she raised during the first lecture along with Nadia were well thought out, and sometimes it's easier to get the point across through text.

          Meanwhile, while my passages are no longer the focus, I have some time to be grateful for the therapy session I've scheduled for this afternoon, something I'm certain will come in handy following the meeting. Even with Doctor Albott's support, I'm not sure I can do this without her physical presence, but it also feels impossible to drag her to one of these things. Just thinking about possibly being the only person showing up to a casual meeting with their bored beyond belief therapist tagging along with them makes my blood freeze with embarrassment.

          All things considered, panic attack in public aside, I'm doing okay, probably better than I ever thought I'd be.

          My bad days are terrible, leaving me with the impending sensation of doom, and it takes everything in me to keep moving forward, even if I have to constantly look over my shoulder. It's sad that what are supposed to be my good days are nothing but average, days when I manage to get out of bed and function properly, days when I do the bare minimum. I miss being happy, but it seems like a whole lifetime ago, so out of reach I can hardly remember what that feels like.

          It's pathetic, it is, the way I desperately cling to slivers of my past life like it all happened in a previous incarnation, when all that separates the two Wendys is a matter of months and a traumatic experience. It hurts, though; it's like my one chance at being happy was mercilessly ripped away from me the second one bad thing happened to me.

          No matter how hard I fight, no matter how hard I sink my claws into it and try to pull it back to me, it's gone forever. Happiness is something people spend their whole lives chasing after, but I had it then; at one point in my life, I had everything I ever wanted. I was content with how things were—friends, family, boyfriend, a bright future ahead of me, a comfortable life—and I was my own Dream Girl.

          Then, the dream shattered. 

          Real life isn't nearly as perfect as I once thought it was, and it's raw and dangerous, with menaces and hazards lurking around every corner. There's no reason to trust everyone you meet, not anymore, and even those closest to you have a chance of betraying you when you least expect it, stealing your trust and rose-colored glasses on their way. They never show up at your doorstep, apologizing for wronging you, or go back home for the funerals of the kids they used to know.

          You don't attend your own funeral. You understand there's a part of you that died that night, and yet you still don't go. You just sit there and watch your old life crumble into dust and fade away and do nothing to stop it. You go on surviving, haunted by the ghosts of everyone you let die, including yourself, and you understand why other people don't attend funerals.

          In the real world, the Dream Girl is pulled by an invisible hand into a rude awakening. In the real world, the Dream Girl is smarter yet untrusting, knowing that's what it takes to keep herself alive. In the real world, it's just the Dream Girl and her ghosts, tormented by the knowledge that she carries on living and the overwhelming realization that she is all alone in her suffering. The ghosts aren't tangible, even when they go straight through her, leaving nothing but aching coldness in their wake, and, in the end, she is all that she has.

          In the real world, she is the Final Girl. She finally understands why.

──────────

          I spend the remainder of the lecture in a daze, but manage not to die from embarrassment, even when my name is called to answer a question like in high school.

          The shock of being recognized by name in such a big class is more worrisome, leaving me to wonder if the gossiping has extended to the faculty as well, no longer restricted to the student body, but I'm learning to keep quiet instead of jumping to conclusions. For all I know, my professor might have a frighteningly good memory and is good at matching names to faces.

          Outside, the temperature has dropped considerably. It's technically still summer, but it's also close to the end of an Alaskan summer, so I've learned not to expect the previously warmer temperatures I've consistently had in Chicago.

          My phone informs me the day is resting at a comfortable interval between 63 and 64 degrees, something I can live with, but it's also a reminder that I should stock up on warmer clothing . . . with what money, I don't know. I don't want clothes, out of all things, to be yet another item on the list of things Xavier needs to spend more money on—especially with how expensive my textbooks and therapy sessions are—but at the same time I don't feel stable enough to hold a steady job that pays for such commodities. My current winter closet will have to do for a while.

          It should serve as an incentive to work harder in therapy, force myself to breathe normally outside and not worry constantly about my imminent death, force myself to fight against the urge to either have my brain shut down in panic or run for the hills, terrified of my own shadow. It should be a goal to work towards, as it would bring back the smallest feeling that I'm living, and yet it isn't.

          "You ready to go?" Claudia asks, swinging her bag's strap over her shoulder. Next to her, Nadia is distracted, speaking to other people, and, at that moment in time, Claudia is giving me her undivided attention. I suppose that should make me feel things, like a small sliver of pride for being acknowledged by someone who's used to having a spotlight and countless eyes on them, but attention isn't something I'm used to or am a fan of—good or bad.

          "I'm scared," I stupidly say.

          Scared is a good umbrella term, I've learned. It's my most prevalent emotion, along with guilt, and the word conveys plenty of other feelings I don't quite know how to or don't want to bother to explain, and it's something other people understand. They'll nod in agreement and understanding, as it makes sense for me to be scared—not too much, though, as they'll give me the stink eye for barely managing to function normally most days—and it's a palatable enough explanation. They don't want the gory, gritty details of what actually goes on in my head or how I'm feeling specifically on any given day.

          Fear is always there. Fear is constant. The absence of fear and guilt is usually supported by an immense loneliness and emptiness, and I don't know which of them I prefer. Maybe it's best to feel horror and shame than feel nothing at all, but, with each passing day, I feel myself sinking lower and lower into this black hole of despair, no light on the horizon.

          She gives me a small smile. "I know."

          "No, I—"

          "I understand, Wendy. I know it's terrifying to put yourself out there." She follows me down the stairs of the lecture hall and thanks me with a quick nod when I hold the door open for her. For a split second, this feels okay, this feels nostalgic, like walking out of a lecture next to Emma, her shoulder bumping gently against mine. Then, I remember. "You don't need to explain yourself to me. Just remember that the way you're feeling is completely justified."

          I don't press her for elaboration or for an explanation of what her story is, why she's been going to these meetings for a year, and it's not my place to pry. She doesn't give out any details and she doesn't have to, but I know she knows I'm curious. It's simultaneously natural and disrespectful, something I should understand, and my chest tightens with the ever so suffocating feeling of guilt for betraying her.

          When we're outside, I spot Odette in the distance and almost raise a hand to wave at her, but realizing she's not alone is what stops me. She's joined by a tall guy with dark hair, oblivious to everything that's not him, and I don't dare interrupt their moment, even though Betty and Clara's distaste for him isn't forgotten. I don't want to make assumptions and judgments about someone I don't know, when Odette's opinion of him must be the polar opposite of theirs, and old Wendy would give him the benefit of the doubt, but I've given the wrong people far too many chances.

          Thus, I turn my back on them and follow Claudia to the café. This time, she holds the door open for me, looking at me expectantly, her smile inviting, and I remember to keep breathing as I take a step inside. Sensing my ambivalence, Sidney presses her body against my leg as she trots next to me.

          With each day I come here, the café grows more familiar. I know almost every nook and cranny and where the best seats are, how to order from the secret menu, and how to get the perfect grilled cheese. What I don't understand is how they've remodeled the entire place in such a short amount of time—they've rearranged the tables and the chairs, hung banners, and built a small stage for the speakers. I don't know if they'll keep the decoration like this throughout the whole week, repurposing the stage after the meetings, but it seems like a lot of effort.

          I don't want to be that type of person, but I am. I sit there next to Claudia, cradling a bottle of Zoloft in my hand like it's comforting in the slightest—it hardly is—and can't help but fear I look ridiculous, a fish out of water. Claudia makes small talk with other people, short conversations with those she doesn't know, and smiles and hugs with those she does know from last year. When she introduces me to these strangers, I'm just Wendy, no clarification needed, but I see the glimmer of recognition in their eyes.

          Once the meeting begins and everyone has settled into their seats—no one is wearing name tags, fortunately, but I doubt I'll be able to remember their names—the walls are closing in on me. I close my fingers around my pill bottle, the plastic cool against my palm, and I realize just how bad of an idea this is.

          I wish the ground would swallow me whole. 

          My heart pounds so hard against my chest I have to dig the fingers of my free hand into my thigh to remain grounded, to remind myself this is a place where I have to at least pretend to be normal, but these people wouldn't get it. They'd sympathize, sure, and maybe they've gone through something similar—the crescendo of the panic spreading across your chest, speeding through your nerves—but it's not the same.

          When I go outside, the rare times that I do, I don't get to focus on the small things, on relaxing one muscle at a time, because I'm constantly wrecked by the fear that I'm going to die. Even with the can of pepper spray I carry with me, even with a small switchblade in my bag, I am never truly safe, and that's why the breathing and relaxing techniques they're suggesting won't work; in a way, they sound reductive, almost offensive. Even with all the precautions I take, there are still far too many risks to account for.

          They pass a platter of cookies around, separated by dietary choices and food allergies, and I reach out for a chai cookie like it's going to solve all my problems. My stomach is rumbling, thanks to the barebones breakfast I had out of fear of being late, and the sugar from the cookie serves as a reasonable pick-me-up, but it's not what I need.

          I don't know what I need, exactly, and I don't know how to come up with an answer whenever someone asks me about it. All I know is what I don't need, which is mostly everything these days, so the exclusion process should be easy, but there are times I'm not certain which things are decided by me and which are influenced by my current circumstances. It's an obsessive, recurrent, draining battle with myself, but I've never known how to go quietly or when to stop trying. I did spend hours fighting for my life, after all.

          At least I'm not a quitter. That's the best compliment I can give to myself, but even that feels like an overestimation of my capabilities.

          I fought for my life because it was the only thing I could do then, when everything Emma and Zach had done was to keep me alive, and I owed it to them to keep going. I did it because I had to, not because I found some unknown strength inside me when all seemed lost—my last spark of energy was entirely due to adrenaline and not to resilience—and yet I keep going back to this.

          And then I'll be twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, still thinking about this one event in my life that ruined my future, still alone.

          Someone hands me a microphone, beckons me to step on the stage, and asks me to speak. I've never been particularly great at public speaking—being on the debate team was my first and only experience with it and I loathed it—and this is far from being the ideal situation to change my mind, so it takes the combined efforts of my crippling anxiety (barely managed by therapy and Zoloft) and the five people sitting closest to me, including Claudia, to get me there.

          They ask who I am. They ask what my story is, but only if I feel like sharing.

          The room is on fire. I can't see the smoke, but I can feel it charring my insides. That's the main problem—no one else can see what I see, feel what I feel, and it's not real for them, but it's real for me. It's so real that my vision blurs and darkens at the edges and that the café spins around me, distorted from the heat. In the haze, I see Him, staring back at me from the back, lips curved into a smirk.

          The machete hangs from His hand, glistening with the light above His head.

          "All my friends are dead," I blurt out, sucking out all the oxygen in the room. "Everyone's dead. Everyone but me. Every day, I go on living pretending it's not real, but then it hits me, and I have to relive it over and over again. I look at their parents and see the look in her eyes that screams they wish it had been me, and I don't know what to do with that knowledge. I don't know if I should agree with them, if I should feel hurt, but I know that this has ruined all our lives and no one will ever get closure." I tighten my fingers around the microphone and look away from Him. "There's no closure. There's no explanation. It happened. It sucked. Everyone's still dead."

          I step away, stare at the crowd. The flames dim.

          Then, I throw up into the nearby trash can.