MIÉRCOLES
12:04 PM

Dahlia Gray

"Dahlia, you're friends with Reid and you didn't tell us?"

I look to Hannah through gritted teeth, trying my best to appear neutral and bubbly. Another round of bullets flares through my system, brazing every inch of nerves. The auburn-haired girl takes a seat in front of me, completely unaware of my misery, and drops her phone face flat against the table to give me her utmost attention.

"Huh?" I gawk, her question barely having the chance to register as another shot of pain sends up my spine and forces me to go rigid. My elbow propped on the table, my hand slapped across my forehead in a lazy attempt to minimize the face of my pain.

"I said," Hannah clears her throat theatrically, her sole warning that tells she's going to raise the volume of her voice by a couple of notches. Josie notices and playfully hits her arm, slyly attempting to stop her before her words become an announcement for the whole cafeteria to witness. Hannah laughs. "You're friends with Reid Harlow and you didn't tell us?"

I grind my teeth together as another wave of pain passes through my stomach. It felt like a cramp—very similar to my period—but it was much worse. It was uncomfortable and ripping. My bones felt like they were shifting, poking, tightening to subdue the agony. I'm almost ready to surrender my entire soul to get rid of this feeling.

My breathing labor as I suck in a couple of choke breaths, contemplating on what to do. "Dahlia..." Josie spoke, her voice morphing into concern. I can't see her from the edge of my sight, my eyes beginning to close. My free hand slips from my side and pockets into my jacket, praying I remember to bring my inhaler. "are you okay?"

I only found lint.

Coño.

"I...I...um," I stammer, squeezing my eyes for a good second. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. "I need to call my mom."

"Okay, okay," Josie said, her voice slightly etching with panic. The tension in the air feels thick, like my friends knew something was wrong but didn't know exactly how to help me. "Um, um, do you know where your phone is? Do you want to use mine?"

"It's in the first compartment of my backpack—" I cut myself short, my hands involuntarily balling into fists and my toes curls at the pain. I swallow the urge to let out a scream. "Please."

I hear rustling from my left, where my backpack leans against the table, and before long, a cool slick screen slaps against my palm. I force myself to open my eyes as I find my mother's contact. I hold the phone to my ear.

Please, pick up. Please, pick up.

The call fell flat, and I ended up dialing for a second, third, and fourth time before I gave in.

I knew she was going somewhere—the first time in a while—when she offered me breakfast and told me this morning. It was a hushed secret, and I wasn't supposed to tell my father, but I didn't think she would need to shut her phone for the occasion. She is always there when I need her.

"Dahlia." I hear Hannah coming to my side, offering a comforting hand on my shoulder. The act was pleasant, but the touch felt unfamiliar. Every inch of playfulness on her face is replaced with a seriousness. "Call your dad. I'm sure he'll pick you up."

I inhale sharply.

My first contact would never be my father, and he wouldn't be my second choice either. I would rather call Harlow than him—but the issue stands. Harlow doesn't have a car. He doesn't drive Presley's car to school or for day-to-day activities, and I know he has classes.

So, I suck in my pride.

I prepare myself for the worst, on top of this gruesome massacre that waged itself in me, and dial my father's number.

Here's to help—or hell.

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MIÉRCOLES
12:35 PM

Dahlia Gray

We stop in front of his car.

"Are you okay?" My father asks, exiting out of the front office. The gnawing feeling in my stomach wavers a bit the minute my name was called to the front, and I like to think it's because the pain subdued and I was only witnessing a temporary ache—but I know more, and I'm betting my body knew I had more pressing issues to deal with than the basics of human anatomy.

"Um," I pause, a fresh wave of nausea hits me. My head feels lightheaded, and a small disgusting bile forms in my throat. I take in a deep breath, to swallow the urge to puke. "I think...I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" He asks, opening the passenger door for me to take. I meet his brown eyes, identical to mine, which holds small doses of concern. "We can go to the hospital."

I shake my head, almost a mechanical response. This is a small issue, so there would probably be a long waiting period. I know how impatient my father could be, and how he grumbles and complains during the process. I can't handle the emotional labor alongside the physical pain.

Plus, it's not that bad right now.

"We can go home." I say, stepping into the car and he closes the door behind me. He goes to his side and gets in, reversing the BMW out of the parking lot and onto the road.

We don't say anything on the ride home. It was filled with an awkward silence and the occasional shift in our leather seats. The rate of speed he was going wasn't helping my case either, and I had to lean against the window to stabilize myself.

Another pang of pain passes, creating knots in my stomach and a burning sensation all over my body. I nearly lunged over at the jolt of pain sent up my spine.

I wanted to scream. Instead, I clutch onto my stomach and silently hope my father didn't notice.

The second we reach the driveway, I jump out of the car and race up the front porch, fumbling to produce the keys from my pockets. I unlocked the door and ran upstairs, dropping my backpack at the foot of the stairs and racing to the bathroom. I stop in front of the toilet.

"Take some medicine!" I hear my father encouraging from the foyer as I vomit into the bowl, clutching the edge of the porcelain. My stomach feels slightly better—and sort of alleviated—but there's still tension coursing through my body, providing a sense of discomfort and the occasional jolts of pain.

The audio of the football game my father prerecorded begins to play and I grind my teeth in response, wiping the puke from the corner of my lips.

Another wave of nausea overpowers me, and that's how I found myself sitting in the middle of the bathroom floor, clutching onto the toilet seat like it was my life support.

Hours pass, and my muscles ache and convulse with each tiny movement. My stomach cramps in tight knots, and rounds of migraines formulate on every inch of my skull. Every time I move to get my phone, I get lightheaded, and I couldn't even stand to reach the cabinets of my shelves for some pain medicines without wanting to sit back down.

I grind my teeth, knowing time didn't help. "Dad..." I whimper softly, hoping he would hear. The volume of the tv blasts off his stereos he bought, drowning me out. I feel weak with each minute expiring, and I had to gather the very little strength in me to yell. "Dad!"

"What?" I hear him reply, lowering the volume.

"I need..." the words falling small, "I need to go to the hospital."

There was a pause.

"What?" His voice gruff, "What do you mean you have to go to the hospital—I asked you before if you wanted to go and you said no."

He sounds mildly annoyed. A nuisance fed to his schedule. I couldn't respond, loosening my clammy grip around the toilet seat and sucking in a labored breath as the pain in my stomach intensifies. My hands bottle into fists, my nails digging into my palms and my lips pressed together to silence my whimpers. I wanted to cry, and die, and everything in between. "Dahlia."

I close my eyes, "yes?"

"We can't go to the hospital right now. Traffic is too bad, and you probably just have a stomachache."

I wince, "but..."

"Just take some medicines in the cabinets!" He offers, raising the volume to his game. "It's probably nothing."

I don't have enough strength to entertain a fruitless argument, and instead, remain quiet. I knew I needed help. My breathing was getting harder to control and my chest constricts with each inhale, like my ribcage were tightening. I need to call someone.

Nothing was going to save me unless I act, and I knew there wasn't going to be a knight in shining armor to help me. I had to do this myself, and that's the lesson I've always told myself.

I inhale a sharp breath and push myself to my feet, immediately a wave of lightheadedness hits me. I feel weak, my legs felt like jelly, and I had to cling to the edge of the sink for balance. Get to a phone.

I take quick, swallow steps to my bedroom, reaching out and using the walls as a tool for balance. I had to stop several times, just to catch my breath or to give myself a second, but the minute I stepped in the room, I ran to the desk.

I grabbed the house phone off the table and thought of a number to dial. The only one I could recall off the top of my head was my mother's—and the police—but nothing else.

Harlow.

Call Harlow.

But I didn't know his number. And my phone was downstairs.

At that moment, I wanted to cry.

I couldn't fathom having to take a couple more steps to reach the bottom of the stairs, to unzip my backpack and find my phone. It was already frustrating and tiring enough to get here, imagine taking more.

I didn't know why, but helplessness consumed me in that moment.

I had to keep pushing.

I suck in a deep breath and brace myself for another trip. Nausea overcomes me, and I swallow the urge to throw up. I drop the house phone on the desk and walk out the door, balancing myself on the walls.

I grabbed onto the rails as I took slow steps descending; my head spinning and the stairs felt longer than I remember. My grip burns the oakwood, and I struggle to keep quiet in the face of everything.

I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to go to sleep. I wanted to stop everything and just knock out. My head felt light, and it was the perfect chance. But, I'm almost there, and the bag is coming close, and before I know it, I drop to the last step with a thump and my toes skim the fabrics.

I lean over and unzip the front compartment. I pulled out my phone, and in a daze and slightly blurring vision, I went to my small pool of contacts and clicked the first person I trust.

Aysa Kamali.

The phone's pressed to my ear, and I silently begged, hoped and somewhat even prayed to a theoretical God that she would answer.

And she did.

She answers the phone as he usually does—in pure silence—and waits for the other person to state their business.

And I do.

"I...I need a favor."

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AVA'S NOTES

i created aesthetics for G78MPH and i really like them. the songs the aesthetics, at the exact time stamp, describes the character in some way.

anyways, i'm going to upload part two in a couple of hours. how do we feel, people?

please vote and comment!!