Gaslighter

14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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2018

          In my defense, I did try to go back to college immediately.

          Though my weekend had been, generally speaking, uneventful whenever I managed to keep my memories about the frat party at bay—at least those I'd kept—and I'd used my free time to catch up on reading and college work, I'd also been all by myself at the loft, with Chase having left on the early hours of Saturday morning. I hadn't heard from Savannah and Ingrid at all, but perhaps that had been for the best; who knew if I'd snap at either of them—maybe both—the second I heard their voices or read their words?

          I finished Dune on Saturday, marked it as complete on my reading journal, then moved to the next book on Chase's list—Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre. I felt suddenly overwhelmed by the dense literature he had recommended, going straight from a cult-favorite Science Fiction book to Philosophy when I was stuck at home with a concussion, but I couldn't bear the thought of ever disappointing him or making him think I wasn't cut out for his world. Though I had little to no interest in Philosophy, I'd grown up listening to my father talk about Sartre like he was an old friend he used to drink coffee with, and he had attempted—and failed—to spark an interest in Existentialism in me, as he had turned me into a miniature film geek just by bringing me to his sets. Exposure worked, I supposed, and maybe this book would end up saving my life or changing it in any way; if both Chase and my father praised this man's work, that certainly had to count for something.

          I quickly found I could not get into it.

          I was horribly stressed out, dreading the week ahead of me, the week I'd miss of college, a clear reminder the world would always keep spinning and life would go on without me, regardless of my protests. I couldn't handle this weird, uncanny world, something that felt so absurd to me even though I'd lived here my whole life, and I had to stop and remind myself this was supposed to be normal. People with concussions didn't usually dive into books with deep meaning, and there was no valid reason for me to force myself to do so.

          Thus, I went back to bed, turned off all the lights, closed my blinds, and didn't come out from under the covers for the rest of the day. I didn't feel strong enough to face the real world, not like this, and I knew word about the frat party and my subsequent trip to the ER would come out eventually and reach my parents' ears. I didn't want to explain any of it to them, much like I didn't want this to reflect itself on their reputation, and, sometimes, I wish I could simply cease to exist so I wouldn't put everyone in harm's way anymore. Everything I'd done at the party could be used against me, even my attempt at defending myself, even the skin and blood under my fingernails, and the mere thought of being accused of causing the whole ordeal made me sick to my stomach.

          So, on Monday, I got out of bed against my better judgment and drove to college. Things would never go back to normal, not when I walked with a target on my back, already attracting more attention than I appreciated, and now, more than ever, I needed to stay discreet and pretend I wasn't present.

          I'd made sure to leave my loft early enough to guarantee I'd be one of the first people to get to the auditorium, just in time for Film Theory, but I knew it wouldn't sit well with Chase. Maybe I could make it better somehow, if I tried to make him see I was making an effort to not fall behind, especially in the class he taught, or maybe I could find a way of justifying me being there that wouldn't make him second guess having stayed with me.

          It was far from fair of me to drag him into this, but I hadn't had anyone else to call for help. Regardless of how much I tried to rationalize things, to find a decent, plausible explanation for pulling him into my mess, every excuse always fell flat at my feet, and I was left with nothing.