Wednesday, September 20th, 6:13 PM.
Dakota's Aunt Lisa dropped Bergen and Dakota off in town
after dress rehearsal for Our Town, though they're not really
in the play. They were just backstage,
adjusting props, running lighting queues.
The car pulls away, tail lights flickering in the evening dusk,
leaving Bergen on the edge of West Market.
Bergen checks her phone. She had to meet her mom for
dinner. Her mom's idea.
Let's talk before I head to my A, a meeting thing that's more
uncomfortable than it sounds. Something feels off, but that's
nothing new with her mom. Everything feels off lately.
The town sits in that weird in between state, the sun not quite
set, the night almost here. She reaches Jade, the Asian
place on West Market. Pausing at the door, she takes a
breath, wondering if she really wants to do this, but then
pushes it open. Her mom is already there, alone
at a table near the sushi counter, picking at a bowl of
edamame like it's the most interesting thing in the world.
The sight of her, so calm, so composed, does nothing to quell
the unease gnawing at Bergan's insides.
She crosses the room, each step feeling heavier than the last.
Hey. She says, sliding into the chair
opposite her mom, the word coming out too tight, too
forced. Hey, sweetie.
Her mom replies, looking up with a smile that's warm but also
hollow, like it's been practiced too many times in the mirror.
There's something in her eyes, a flicker of sadness, or maybe
it's just exhaustion. How was rehearsal?
She asks, trying too hard to sound interested, her tone
light, almost airy, like it could float away at any second.
Bergen shrugs, not wanting to get into it.
Rehearsal was fine, except Lauren was being a bitch again,
complaining about everything, and for a moment Bergan had this
vivid fantasy of dropping a sandbag on her head just to shut
her up. But that's not something you
share. Uneventful.
She says flatly, her voice a dull monotone, hoping it ends
there. Her mom nods, not really
listening, and starts talking about her day work, errands, the
little things that make up her life but don't really matter.
Bergen tunes out, eyes drifting to the menu.
Even though she's not hungry, she doesn't want to be here, but
the thought of a dragon roll is enough to keep her seated,
enough to keep her from bolting out the door.
Then, in the middle of her mom's rambling, Bergen hears it.
A slight slur in her mom's words, barely there but
unmistakable. It's like a hairline crack in a
porcelain cup, subtle but impossible to ignore.
That familiar cold knot of fear tightens in her stomach, anxiety
rushing through her like a drug she didn't want but took anyway.
She tells herself she's imagining it, that it's just her
mind playing tricks, but deep down she knows better.
She can't be drinking, Bergen thinks, panic clawing at the
edges of her thoughts. Not now, not when she's supposed
to be going to a meeting. She wished her dad were here.
He'd know what to do. Bergen was his little shadow,
always trailing behind him, never far from his reach.
There was a safety in that, a calm she hasn't felt in a long
time, not since he passed. His death left a gaping hole in
her life, a wound that never quite healed.
And now she's stuck with her mom, a woman trying too hard to
mold Bergen into a version of herself.
But Bergen isn't her mom, Can't be, won't be.
She misses her dad. This is the simplicity of the
way things were before everything got so complicated,
so messed up. His absence hangs around her
like a phantom limb, something she still feels but can't touch.
And now she's here, navigating the mess left behind, stuck in
this weird, fractured relationship with her mom, who's
barely holding it together, if at all.
But the fear lingers, gnawing at her like a rat in the walls,
reminding her of all the times her mom has slipped before, all
the time she thought no one was watching, that she could get
away with it. The lengths her mom had gone to
for a buzz, drinking anything, everything that could be
swallowed, Hairspray included, just to take the edge off
reality. Bergen swallows hard, trying to
steady her voice, to sound casual even though everything
inside her is screaming. How are you doing, mom?
She asks, forcing the words out, but the tension wraps around
them like a noose, impossible to hide.
Her mom blinks, surprised by the question, like it caught her off
guard, like she doesn't know how to respond.
I'm good. She says after a beat, her tone
uncertain, almost defensive. Why do you ask?
Bergen forces a smile, pushing down the fear, the anger,
everything that's bubbling up inside her.
Just checking in, she says, her voice tight, barely managing to
keep it together. She can't confront her mom, not
here, not now. The last thing she wants is
another argument, another scene. So she swallows it down, hoping
the dinner will pass quickly, that she can get out of there
before everything falls apart. Her mom's expression softens,
the confusion fading as she reaches across the table, her
hand warm, soft, almost comforting on Bergen's.
I'm glad we're doing this. She says, her voice low,
sincere, like she actually means it.
I feel like I don't spend enough time with you anymore.
You're growing up so fast. Sometimes I just want to slow
everything down, you know? Bergen nods, but the words are
like static in her ears, meaningless, offering no
comfort. The fear is still there, lurking
just beneath the surface, a constant reminder that things
are never as simple as they seem.
But she pushes it down, hoping the dinner will be over soon,
that she can escape into the night and leave the tension
behind. When the bill is paid and her
mom gives her a quick hug before heading out to her meeting,
Bergen feels a sense of relief, like she can finally breathe
again. Her mom tells her to be safe, to
enjoy the hour of freedom before she has to head home.
Her mom walks out of Jade, heading towards her a a meeting,
and Bergen stays behind, her legs heavy as she steps out onto
the sidewalk. An hour to kill before she has
to go home, An hour to wander the streets and try to shake the
lingering dread that settled in her chest like a dark cloud.
She starts walking, the familiar streets of the town stretching
out before her. She could go anywhere, do
anything, but all she really wants is to feel normal again,
to push away the thoughts that have been haunting her since
dinner. So she walks, letting the night
air clear her mind, even if just for a little while, hoping it'll
be enough to make her feel whole again.
Friday, October 6th, 10:37 PM. Dakota drifts through the party
at Sorens, the base from sexy back pulsing through the walls,
a low throb that matches the beat of her heart as she weaves
through the crowd, disinterested.
The energy of the night clung to the air like humidity, everyone
still dressed in their homecoming attire, adding an
extra layer of surreality to the usual chaos of a house party.
The girls in their dresses, the guys in their loosened ties and
wrinkled dress shirts. It was like the dance had simply
spilled out into the night, refusing to end.
It was a scene ripped from 1000 high school movies, but to
Dakota, it's all just noise. She had gone to the dance with
Chloe before the event. The two of them, along with
Bergen and Bobby, had hit up Taco Bell, causing a minor stir
among the regulars who weren't expecting a quartet of teenagers
and formal wear to waltz in and order Crunchwrap Supremes.
It was the kind of thing that would seem cool in retrospect,
but now, hours later, it just felt like a setup for a night
that was already losing its edge.
Owen had blown the whole thing off, said it wasn't his scene.
He doesn't even go to Washington High, so why bother?
Sadie didn't care though, she went with Bethan.
Both of them coordinated in green, a color that somehow
managed to look good on both of them.
Bethan in a dark green tie that matched the shade of Sadie's
dress, which was flowing, silky, the kind of dress that clings in
all the right places. They looked perfect, sickeningly
so, like the couple from a school sponsored poster about
the ideal high school experience.
Dakota finally reaches the bathroom, pushing open the door,
shutting out the noise. She locks it behind her and
leans over the sink, the cool porcelain steadying her in the
mirror. Her reflection stares back,
tired eyes rimmed with dark circles.
She doesn't remember being there this morning.
Her hands are shaky as she touches her face, fingers
tracing the smudges under her eyes pressing down like she can
erase them, like they're just dirt.
But they aren't, and she knows it.
She doesn't know why she opens the medicine cabinet, but she
does, the movement almost automatic, like it's something
she's done a million times before.
Inside rows of bottles. But only one catches her eye.
An amber bottle with a white label, Demerol, 50 milligrams,
prescribed to Carol Dippity. She hesitates for just a second,
a flicker of hesitation that she quickly pushes aside.
Her fingers twist the cap, shaking out a few pills into her
palm, their weight insignificant but full of promise.
She drops them into her pocket, closes the cabinet and stares at
her reflection again, the face looking back at her now even
more unfamiliar. Outside on the porch, Bergen is
chain smoking, a cigarette dangling from her lips as she
struggles with her phone, her fingers fumbling over the
keypad. T9 predictive text is a
nightmare, each word a battle to form, each letter a struggle,
her frustration mounting with each misstep.
The glow of the cigarette flares with every drag, but the
nicotine does nothing to calm her nerves.
The night was fun, sure, but now she just wants to talk to Owen,
share the ridiculousness of it all the way.
He'd get it without her having to explain.
But he's not answering, and the irritation is building, wrapping
around her like a vice. Across the porch, Bobby is
trying to keep up with the guys shotgunning beers, the cans
popping open with a hiss, the liquid rushing down their
throats too fast to taste. Bobby's never done this before,
never really liked beer, but something in the night, maybe
the expectation, maybe the pressure, has him going along
with it, forcing it down. He wants to fit in, wants to be
a part of something, anything, but now the beer is sitting
heavy in his stomach, sloshing around like a bad decision, and
the world is starting to tilt, the edges blurring.
In the pool house, Chloe stands in a haze of smoke, the joint
passing from hand to hand, Chris, Eric, Marina, Bethan,
Sadie, each taking their turn, the smoke like a wisp of cloud.
Chloe inhales deeply, holding the smoke in her lungs until it
burns, then lets it out in a slow exhale, the world
softening, fading into something more bearable.
The hot tub bubbles in the background, the water barely
covering the lazy laughter of the group sprawled in and around
it. The door creaks open and Dakota
stumbles in, her eyes glassy, a crooked smile pulling at her
lips. She makes her way to the group,
her steps unsteady, and grabs the joint from Chris without
asking, taking a deep hit that makes her cough, her body
jerking with the effort. Marina shoots her a look,
annoyed, disapproving, but Dakota doesn't care, doesn't
even notice. She passes the joint to Bethan,
her hand shaking, and collapses onto a cushion, the room
spinning around her, the music vibrating through her skull.
Outside, Bobby is losing it. The color drains from his face,
his skin turning a sickly shade of Gray, sweat beating on his
forehead. He tries to hold it together,
tries to swallow down the nausea rising in his throat, but it's
no use. Burgon sees it happening, the
way his body is tensing, the way his eyes are wide and unfocused.
You all right? She asks, her voice low, cutting
through the haze of the night. Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.
Bobby mutters, but his voice is shaking, his words slurring
together, his hands trembling as he runs one through his hair,
slick with sweat. He could feel the sour taste
rising in his mouth, the unmistakable warning that he was
about to be sick. He sat down abruptly, right
where he'd been standing, trying to take deep breaths, trying to
calm the storm in his gut, but it was no use.
Bergan wasn't fooled. She'd seen this before, knew the
signs. Hang tight.
She told him, already moving towards the door to grab him
some water. But before she could take more
than a few steps, Bobby lurched forward, retching violently.
The vomit spewed from his mouth, splattering across the porch,
some of it catching the front of his dress shirt, the remnants of
Taco Bell unmistakable in the mess.
The party around him carried on, the music still thumping, the
conversation still flowing. But for Bobby, the world had
narrowed to the porch, to the cold sweat on his skin, to the
acrid taste in his mouth and the sick feeling of having lost
control. Bergen paused, glancing back at
him, her face a mix of concern and resignation, a heavy sigh
escaping her lips. This was how the night was going
to end. Not with a bang, but with a
mess. 11 O 2:00 PM. Owen climbed out of Lee's truck,
the vehicle's old shocks groaning under his weight as he
stepped onto the cracked concrete of Gage's driveway.
Owen slung his backpack over one shoulder, the weight of it
pressing down like a bad decision, and then moved to the
truck bed where his old duffel bag waited, overstuffed, the
zipper straining a physical representation of the mess his
life had become. Lee rolled down the window, the
whirring sound too loud slicing through the thick silence.
You going to be all right? He asked, his voice carrying the
kind of concern that comes from someone who's seen too much but
knows they can't do shit to fix it.
Owen nodded, swallowing the knot in his throat.
Yeah, thanks for the ride, Lee, I appreciate it.
The words came out steady, rehearsed, but inside he felt
like he was holding on by a thread, one good tug away from
unraveling completely. Lee hesitated, eyes scanning
Owens face like he was searching for something, some sign that
the kid would be OK. Finally, he nodded, a short,
sharp motion before rolling up the window and pulling out of
the driveway. The truck's departure left a
vacuum, a stillness in the air that made the quiet suburb feel
like a scene from a bad dream. Owen stood there for a moment,
staring at Gage's house, A2 story with peeling paint and a
lawn that hadn't seen a mower in weeks.
The place had always been familiar, almost comforting in
its neglect, but tonight it felt different, like it was taunting
him, daring him to step inside. The lights were on, casting a
warm glow through the windows, but that warmth felt like a lie.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack, shifted the duffel in
his grip, and walked up the path to the front door.
He was about to knock when the door swung open, revealing
Gage's mom, Kim. She was in her pyjamas, an
oversized Queen concert tee hanging off her like a relic
from a better time, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that
bore the weight of a long day. Owen.
Kim's voice was thick with concern, her eyes widening
slightly as she took in the sight of him, tired, disheveled,
carrying more than just his bags.
What's going on? Everything OK?
Owen tried to smile, but it was a weak thing, more of a grimace.
Is Gage home? He asked, sidestepping her
question. His voice strained, edged with
something close to desperation. His gaze flicked to the stairs
leading to the basement, where he knew Gage would be, where he
needed to be. Kim searched his face, looking
for answers she wasn't getting. She didn't push, just nodded,
stepping aside to let him in. Yeah, he's downstairs.
Her tone was soft, like she was trying not to scare him off,
like she knew this was something big and fragile.
Owen muttered a quiet thanks as he stepped past her, each step
heavy with the weight of everything he wasn't saying.
He descended the stairs into the basement, where the air was
thick with the pungent scent of weed and the low, pulsing hum of
Final Fantasy battle music. The dim light from the TV
flickered against the bare walls, casting shifting shadows
that made the room feel smaller, more claustrophobic.
Gage was sprawled out on the couch, a bong in one hand, the
controller in the other. He looked up as Owen entered,
eyes bloodshot but alert, the lazy haze of his high sharpened
by recognition. He took a long, slow drag from
the bong, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling in a
thick plume that hung in the air like a promise.
His gaze settled on Owen's bags, a frown pulling at his brow.
What's with the bags? Gage asked, his voice rough,
still clinging to the remnants of smoke.
Owen stood there, his duffel slipping from his hand and
thudding onto the floor, the sound loud in the quiet room.
For a moment he couldn't speak, the words tangled in his throat.
Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he let it out, the truth
that had been burning a hole in his chest since he'd left home.
My mom kicked me out. The words fell heavy, like
stones dropping into a well, each one echoing in the space
between them. Owen tried to keep it together,
but saying it out loud made it all too real.
His shoulders sagged under the weight of it, his breath
hitching as the reality of the situation settled in.
Gage sat up, the bong forgotten on the floor.
His game paused. The easy, stoned grin he'd worn
moments ago was gone, replaced by a look of genuine concern.
Shit, man. He muttered, his voice trailing
off as he struggled to find the right words, something that
could make this better. He knew there was nothing, not
really, but after a moment he sighed, nodding toward the bong.
Let's get you greens. He offered the word soft like a
bomb, a small attempt to soothe the raw edges of the night.
Owen nodded, dropping onto the couch beside Gage, the old
cushions sinking under his weight.
But there was something comforting in the give of them,
like maybe this was a place he could rest, just for a little
while. The bong passed between them,
the weed doing its job, dulling the sharp corners of reality,
blurring the lines, making the world a little softer, a little
easier to bear. The game's music hummed on.
The lights flickered. And for a few moments, Owen
could almost forget the heaviness of his bag still
sitting on the floor, almost forget that the weight pressing
down on him wasn't just the weed, it was everything.
But for now, sitting there with gauge in the dim light of the
basement, it was enough. At least it had to be.