99

EMBER

I PUSH OPEN THE heavy wooden door of the Dean of Engineering's office. The room is a mixture of warmth and formality, with bookshelves filled to the brim and framed certificates adorning the walls. A tall, bespectacled man with greying hair sits behind a large mahogany desk, engrossed in a stack of papers.

"Here I am," I say. He looks up, eyes meeting mine, and offers a kind smile.

"Yes, you must be Ember. My assistant told me you called in last night about withdrawing?"

I take a deep breath, willing myself to stay composed, yet my teeth clench. "She wouldn't let me until I met with you."

Dean Anderson's eyebrows knit together in concern. "Yes, yes. Is everything alright? Is there something I can do to help you succeed?"

My laugh is cold. "Absolutely not." I reach into my bag and pull out the neatly folded documents. "Here." I slap the stack onto his keyboard and he flinches. "Signed, sealed, delivered."

Understanding dawns in his eyes as he takes the papers from me. "I see. I'm...truly sorry to hear this."

I glance around the office, my gaze landing on the diploma hanging proudly behind Dean Anderson.

"You also need to vacate your residence," he says gently, breaking the silence. I scoff, shaking my head. Dean Anderson gives me a sympathetic smile, his eyes filled with compassion. "And just...Well, take care of yourself, Ember. It's never too late to find a new path, to discover what truly brings you happiness."

My smile is laced with ice. "Thanks so much for your support."

~

I walk back to my dorm in the snow, ignoring my buzzing cell phone in my back pocket. My bones weigh heavy with that unexplainable numbness. But it's better, I think.

Opening the door, I'm greeted by the warm, inviting atmosphere of our shared space. Nes and Noor are sprawled on the sofa, engrossed in a romance movie playing on Nes's laptop. Their laughter fills the air.

I can't bear the happiness, the obliviousness to the storm raging within me. They call out my name, their voices laced with concern and confusion, but I ignore them both. Anger pulses through my veins, an intense frustration at their inability to understand, to see beyond their own stupid joy. Cam was right—it's all complete bullshit.

Without a word, I walk past them to my room, deliberately ignoring their pleas for me to join. I seek refuge in the solitary confinement of my room. My belongings are scattered haphazardly, reminders of a life I don't live anymore. My clothes spill out of drawers, chargers lay broken and frayed on the carpet, and lipstick stains the pillowcases. Fuck all of it.

Grabbing a suitcase, I pack my things with an apathy that borders on indifference. I mechanically stuff items into the suitcase without care.

"Chapman!" Nes bangs on my door, her voice laced with panic. "Um, you're kinda scaring us. Cam said you freaked out back at—"

"Shut the fuck up!" I say, stuffing Greyson's blue hoodie into my suitcase before zipping it closed.

When I open my door, suitcase in hand, Noor goes toe-to-toe with me, glaring at my remark to her soft little girlfriend.

"Problem?" I whisper. Her expression twitches, fear showing there, but she recovers.

"Don't talk to Nes like that," she says.

I step forward, knocking her entire body back. "Or what?" I say softly.

"Ember," says Nes, setting a hand on my arm. She's disturbingly warm—or maybe I'm just the opposite. I shake her off and barrel through Noor, knocking her to the floor. I only turn around to ensure she won't swing at me. It's a chilling sensation, this absence of feeling. By the look in Noor's eyes, she's more than chilled herself.

As I leave the dorm behind, the world feels distant. I nearly bask in it.

~

I clutch the coach bus ticket tightly, scanning the rows of seats for an available spot. A seat next to an old man catches my eye, but as I settle down and remove my coat, I feel his repulsive stare burning into my skin. 

I turn towards him, my voice steady and filled with unwavering resolve. "You really think you can ogle me without consequence?" With a swift and deliberate motion, I reveal the pocket knife concealed in my palm. The glint of steel catches the old man's attention, and I see a flicker of fear pass through his eyes. "Lay an eye on me again," I taunt.

The old man stammers, his apology barely coherent. "I... I didn't mean any harm. I'm sorry." He quickly gathers his things and moves closer to the driver. I end up alone.

As the bus speeds down the highway, I dig into the depths of my backpack, my fingers fumbling until they graze the cool metal chain at the bottom. Pulling it out, I find Greyson's old cross. As I bring the cross closer, a small ache settles in my chest. I fasten the clasp at the back of my neck, and a few strands of hair get caught in the process, ripped mercilessly from my scalp. I let out a breath and adjust the cross so it rests against my heart.

As the bus continues its journey, I stare out of the window, the passing scenery a blur of fleeting moments. The highway stretches endlessly before me, much like the path I now tread. But I don't plan on being on this path for long.

The bus becomes a new sanctuary, the rumble of the engine a comforting backdrop to my thoughts—until my phone buzzes again. It dings incessantly with Uncle Pat's concerned messages, Nes's attempts to reach me, Noor's angry accusations, and even Cam's desperate calls—they all blend together into a cacophony of voices and words.

Then, amidst the chaos, I see a text from Cade Blackwood. It's simple, to the point.

stop calling me.

A bitter laugh escapes my lips, wild and unhinged. It's as if the universe itself is mocking me. I'd respond, but I don't think it would go through.

I lash out, my hand colliding with the coach bus window. The impact cracks the glass, and pain radiates through my hand. But it works and the window hinge loosens enough that I can open the pane. The cold air floods in, biting at my skin.

I take my phone and hurl it out into the unforgiving snow, watching as it disappears into the blur of white.

As the bus hurtles forward, I lean against the cracked window, feeling the rush of cold air against my face. Okay, Cade. No more calls, I promise. No more of me at all.

~

My bedroom never changes and neither do I. I lay still, tangled in the suffocating embrace of my dirty sheets day after day. The daylight seeps through the cracks in the curtains, casting feeble rays upon the dishevelled blankets that show the signs of my prolonged stay. White turned grey. Sweat salt stains on my pillowcase. Days meld into nights, and time becomes a meaningless blur.

The hunger that gnaws at my stomach is a faint echo, drowned out by the gnawing emptiness everywhere else. Food loses its flavour, its appeal gone.

Under my bed, concealed from my family, lies my secret companion: a hidden stash of cheap whisky. It calls me, promising solace in its burn. With trembling hands, I reach for the bottle again tonight. I take a desperate sip, feeling the fire course through my veins, dulling the sharp edges of reality. I fade outstandingly over and over again.

~

Pat, his face etched with lines of concern, clings to a hope that I'll talk, but I won't. He watches over me with a mixture of love and desperation. His gentle eyes, once filled with warmth and mirth, now carry the burden of uncertainty—uncertainty of me, for me, and in regard to my little life. Raveena stands by his side, offering quiet support amidst the crumbling ruins of this shattered family. She brings morsels of food to coax my appetite, but everything stays untouched.

Pat and Raveena exchange whispered conversations, their voices heavy. They speak of a facility, a place where I might find the healing I no longer want. A place with restraints and medications. A place Grey should've been, I guess. But even their discussions are met with my silence, a fortress unbreached. I'd like to see them try, I think with an unhinged smile.

Yet Pat's eyes still plead with me, a silent prayer for a sign of life, for the sound of my old voice, the sight of my old smile. Last night, I finally spoke. I told Pat to stop watching me and get the fuck out.

The world carries on while I linger in the shadows, a ghost among the living, a vessel adrift in a sea of black.

~

The days grow longer and sunlight stretches past its reach. The shift is slow at first, then all at once. The icy winds give way to a gentle breeze. Spring tiptoes nearer, painting green upon nature, awakening the earth. Our neighbourhood is overrun by floodwaters from the melting snow, drowning the streets.

Sometimes, I watch. From the safety of my bedroom, I peer through the cool glass, my gaze fixed upon the world outside. My fingernails harbour caked dirt and grime and leave oil on the pane. Most mornings, winter's cold embrace still clings to the neighbourhood, refusing to loosen its grip.

Time slips through my fingers like sand, each grain a reminder of the moments lost, the life that continues to elude me.

Round and round and round we go, then, May arrives like a bullet.

The first day of the grassy, flowery month is marked by Raveena's storming entrance into my room in hospital scrubs. She doesn't knock, her anger radiating through the air. With a forceful yank, she rips the blankets off my fragile, feeble body, exposing the evidence of my deteriorating state. Her voice trembles with a mixture of frustration as she screams.

"Enough! This is enough! You do not get to live here without a job and without school! Get up!"

Raveena's words echo through the room. I meet her gaze with hollow eyes, and say nothing. I remain motionless, a statue carved into my dirty mattress.

"You're killing him!" Raveena says, her voice cracking. Her anger gives way to tears, the torrents streaming down her face. "You're killing him."

Raveena trips over to my bed and collapses beside me, her arms enveloping my form in a futile attempt to shield me from...what? Myself? Her? But even her touch fails to ignite a spark, to coax life from the dormant embers of my spirit. And still, I don't care.

What am I waiting for?

We lay entwined by a shared sense of defeat. Raveena's tears land in my hair and neck.

"Please," she whispers. "Ember, please."

Time stretches on, an eternity trapped within the confines of that room, until finally, Raveena rises, defeated. She waits another few moments for me to say something, but I just stare at the wall. So, she leaves. The door closes with a finality that reverberates through my frail bones, and I am left behind.

Turns out May's arrival brings no respite, no glimmers of hope. Is that what I'm waiting for? A bit of light? I remind myself that I don't deserve it—not even the slightest bit.

So what am I waiting for?

I lay still until darkness falls. As it does, I hear Pat head to bed, followed by Raveena. Their teary whispers fade away.

I reach under my bed and fumble in the dark until I feel the last bottle of whiskey. I swing it up around and bring the open lip to my mouth. I drain the last few gulps, feel the fire in my empty stomach, and then fall out of bed. The taste of alcohol lingers on my lips.

With shaky hands, I fumble to dress in clothes that hang too loosely on my emaciated body. Each movement is a small battle, my limbs protesting against the effort required to simply put one foot in front of the other. I try to be quiet, to keep my stumbling steps muffled in the stillness of the night.

Down the stairs, I navigate the darkness with blurred vision. On the wall, Raveena's car keys glint in the dim light. I take them.

Slipping my shoes on haphazardly, I stumble out into the night, the chill air biting at my exposed skin. The car door creaks open, a reluctant invitation for me to step into the void that stretches out. I slink into the driver's seat, my hands gripping the steering wheel with a desperate fervour as if it were the lifeline that could pull me out of all this. When I turn over the key, the small engine hums to life, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night.

I slowly navigate the dimly lit streets, my vision blurred. The road stretches out endlessly before me. Each passing streetlight casts harsh light across my face. I swerve once, twice, ten times, snapping my head around to look for cops.

Soon, the miles meld together, and I nearly forget my destination. But not nearly enough.

The red neon motel sign is even dimmer than it was almost a year ago, and less structurally attached.

I park the car in the desolate lot, the sight of the old motel stirring memories of the worst of the worst. The air hangs heavy with the weight of it, the echoes of my mistakes reverberating through my fist, wrist and arm. I remember swinging in the dark, my knuckles connecting with Steven's jaw. How his knees crunched into the ground before he crumpled on the sidewalk, all heavy bones and swollen flesh.

And...And it's too foggy to remember the rest.

I step out of the car, my legs feeling weak beneath me. The asphalt greets me, unforgiving, and I crumble, my palms connecting with the rough surface. Pain shoots through my hands, a tangible reminder of that hit. I stay there, sprawled on the ground, cheek on the pavement.

The memories flood back, the filth and stench of that motel overpowering my senses. This is the last place I saw Greyson's parents. Serena and Steven were swallowed by the darkness that night. The weight of all the absences presses down on me, compressing my lungs.

When I eventually rise, I grapple for the keys but they're under the car. I leave them and head over, wiping the blood off my palms.

I shuffle through those same front doors and come face to face with a lanky teen girl with bronze skin and shaggy, dark brown hair. Her eyes widen and she stands up from behind the desk.

"Can I—can I help you?" Her voice is high and crackly. She can't be older than thirteen.

I struggle to blink the haze away and straighten up. "You look...familiar," I say slowly. "I need to...Where's the Scott room again? Hm?"

She gulps, twitching. "I'm not supposed to give out—"

I wave her off and leave down the first hall. The first door is locked so I frown and throw my shoulder against it. The lock crumbles almost immediately and I turn to give the girl a smug grin.

The hall is narrow. Orange and red. Dark and old and covered in a cacophony of patterns.

When I reach room twelve, the familiarity kicks in.

"Knock knock," I say, tapping the bottom of the door with my shoe. 

The creaking of the motel room door slices through the silence. And it's not Serena who I came to see. It's not her at all.

I meet the haunting sight before me. Steven Scott's once swollen frame has deflated, like a leaking balloon losing its air. Gaunt cheeks hollowed out, a testament to the pain after Grey. His head remains red and oily, a constant reminder of the inner sickness that grows within him.

As I stand frozen in the doorway, he stands alone in the room. Behind him, the fanlight above burns bright and flickering. A small TV is set on the wooden dresser, playing a glitching sports game. There are pizza boxes littered on the stained carpet—lots of them. And no Serena.

"I heard she left you, Steven," I slur out, snickering. "She plan to move on? Yeah?"

"What do you want?" Steven says. His voice confuses me. It's hollow and vacant. Not cruel but...

I squint. "You're sober. You're actually—" I burp. "—sober."

Steven's fists ball up at his sides and I laugh.

"Yup," I say. "That must suck. For you." I sigh. "Not for me!"

"Why are you here, Ember?"

I sway slightly and hiccup. "You're not very nice, Steven. You were always an asshole, weren't you. Wanna...Hey. Hey. Let's go for a drive. I'll tell you...then."

"Now."

I wiggle my finger. "Tit for tat, Steven."

"No," he says.

I reach in and tap his oily cheek a few times with little sharp slaps. My smile grows as his eyes harden in rage. A laugh builds in my throat at the—

His palm connects with my face. 

I stagger back, shaking my head and working my jaw. I taste blood from the inside—maybe I bit my cheek or something.

That laugh still bubbles from my lips. Tit for tat indeed. 

I walk up until I'm only inches from his face. "Maybe I should go have a conversation with the girl upfront about the welt developing on my cheek." I brush my shaking fingers over my jaw. Yes, it's swelling. Perfect.

Steven regards me for a very long time as I try to keep steady. There's only so much I can do with the alcohol in my system. And thank god for that.

After a while, Steven's lips twitch up cooly, the grin isolated to his crusty little mouth. All ice. 

"I need to find—"

"Yeah, yeah." I offer the thumbs up and walk away to wait.

~

Steven drives like he's trying to scare me, that much I know. Quick sharp movements between cars. Rushing through traffic lights. Heavy accelerations on longer stretches. When I taunt, "Faster," his hands just tighten on the wheel.

Before not too long—but maybe it's hours, I have no idea—we park beside a treeline outside the city. There's an old, dilapidated sign and caution tape near the entrance to a trail.

Steven parks his beater car and pockets the keys. "Out of gas," he says. I shrug. "Remember this place?" he asks, raising his voice. 

I shrug again, because no, I do not. I have no clue where we are. It's dark and this place is closed.

"You will," says Steven. Then, he gets out, leaves his car door open, and starts walking right through the taped-off trail.

"Wait," I murmur, trying to open my door. When I do, I fall right out—again. And I laugh. 

I'm quick—but not coordinated—to catch up.

The moon casts a dim light on the path as I stumble behind Steven, my clumsy steps a stark contrast to his resolute strides. How the hell can he even see where he's going?

"You know, Steven," I say, "life is pretty random. I mean, usually I'm dreaming at midnight, not hiking on a—" I hiccup "—closed trail."

My laughter rings hollow, a desperate attempt to drown out the deafening silence that surrounds us. But even in my intoxicated state, I sense the edge in his silence. And I welcome it. The silence between us speaks volumes, really. Maybe it's twisted, but I find it comforting.

We walk forever and a day. I sober up enough that things start to suck again and my jokes aren't even half as funny. At least to me. Steven never laughs anyway.

I take out my new phone at some point and see no calls, no texts. So no one knows I left. That's good, I guess. And it's nearing five o'clock in the morning now.

I'm sober enough to need a goddamn break. 

"What's the point of this, Steven."

"This," he says, pointing ahead.

Then we finally arrive at a cliff, and a wave of