Hey, he can be quite funny, actually, when he’s pissed.This is almost fun.
Only almost, though.
“OK, whatever,” I drawl, picking up my phone, my key, and my jacket.
“Er, what are you doing?”he asks.
“What does it look like?”
“It’s almost wing time,” he says.
I laugh.This just gets better and better.“Great.”
“Which means we have to stay in our rooms now or—”
“Know what?”I interrupt.“I couldn’t care less.”
“What would you do if I grassed on you?”
“I’d thank you.”I give him my most engaging look.“Seriously.Then I might get out of here even sooner than I thought.”
5
Olive
Tori, Henry, Grace, and the others hung around until just before wing time.They only left when Ms.Barnett appeared.Tori and Emma helped me unpack and make the bed, then had to head off too.Now they’re just next door, but the loneliness strikes remorselessly as soon as I’ve brushed my teeth and I’m staring at my face in the mirror.
I wander from the sink to my desk to the wardrobe and back to the loo.Putting things away, folding clothes, tidying my bathroom shelves.All so that I don’t have to lie down in bed.
It’s silly, I know.It’s totally irrational to be afraid of it because it’s not eventhebed.I’m in a different room in a different wing from last time.But I’m still back at the boarding school where I went to sleep in the summer and only woke up when the floors below me were in flames.What if I hadn’t woken?What if I’d suffocated in my sleep?What if the flames had surrounded me?I woke up and saw them out of the window.I was lucky that the fire was only on the ground floor and in the stairwell.I was on my way down when they blocked my path, not far from the exit.
I’m not scared of it happening again.I know that’s vanishingly unlikely, and that isn’t what this is about.This is about the likelihood of everything playing out over and over again in my mind the moment I lie down in bed.And that isn’t vanishingly unlikely.It’s one hundred percent definite.I’ve dreamed it every night since.Or every night I can consciously remember anyway.They’ve always been there: the images, the flames, the biting smoke, the heat of the fire, my pounding heart, my knees, which wanted to give way beneath me.In my dreams, I can’t run—I can’t move at all.I just stand there and sink to the floor, my only thought thatthis is it.And a thing like that repeating every night is exhausting.Exhausting, but sadly no less terrifying for that.On the contrary.It gets worse.You start to be afraid of the fear.Fear of the dreams turns into fear of sleep.Fear of being alone.And fear of everything.Plus the rage.God, I’m raging that this is my life now.
I take a step toward my bed.
OK, no bother.It’s only a problem if I make it one.It’s all in my head.It feels real because my body hasn’t twigged that the danger is over.But it’s not real.It’s over.
I force myself to slow my breathing as I sit on the bed.
I was sitting here earlier, but it was OK then because Tori, Grace, Emma, and the others were here.
I let myself sink back.OK, OK.While the light’s on, everything’s fine.I stare up at the ceiling and try not to think.And I’m tired.If I shut my eyes now and just drop off to sleep, nothing’s going to happen.It’s not difficult.Slip under my duvet, ignore my throbbing shoulder, switch off the light.Breathe.
Pitch darkness all around me.And quiet.I feel my heart rate accelerating.
I have to shut my eyes.I have to...
OK, no.I sit up again so fast that pain shoots through my shoulder.My fingers are trembling as I can’t instantly find the light switch.My bedside lamp comes on.I jump up and pace around the room.
Good grief, why am I like this?Why is my heart racing?Why do I feel like an animal that’s been jammed into a cage to waste miserably away?
I run both hands over my face.Nothing does any good, so I grab my door key.Ha, now I’m breaching wing time, on my first day back at Dunbridge.At least I’m not doing it for fun.Anything but.I’m just trying to cope.To run away from the panic that’s got me in its clutches.I think the teachers will understand if anyone catches me.
I abandon my original plan—to face up to the west wing to prove to my body that the fire is in the past—as I walk through the dark corridors.It’s probably more sensible to work up to that project slowly.In daylight.Maybe start by happening to stroll past with my friends.Baby steps.I hate being like this.A weak, delicate version of myself.The old Olive would never have jumped in panic at loud noises or quick movements.But that happens to me now, seriously.Like my body’s permanently in flight mode.And however much I hate myself and put myself down for it, it never stops.
Not even here in the hush of the swimming center.The place, after the classrooms and my bedroom, where I spent most time.It’s locked at night but, like every member of the swimming team, I know the access code to the building, which Ms.Cox, our trainer, never changes.
The water is dead smooth and has an almost hypnotic effect on me.I sit on the bottom row of the small bank of seats beside the main pool, at a safe distance from my element, because even the thought of getting too close to the water is painful.Not because I’m suddenly afraid of it.Not in the least.After all, water’s the opposite of fire.But it’s not my home anymore.I’ve lost it, lost my one true talent.Swimming, doing lengths, faster than the rest, just because Ican.Sorry.Could.
