It’s because every inch of it reminds me of them. It’s constant. Never ending.
I need to get away. Drown myself in foreign noise and sights and smells, just for the day.
Just to survive.
Since my body doesn’t seem able to just let me die.
“Sure,” I say, finally, and I think to both of our surprise. “I’ll come.”
The Ren faire is quite a production.
If I didn’t already feel completely void of life or thought, I would probably enjoy it. But instead, I do the same thing I’ve become accustomed to doing lately; I wander around aimlessly, not looking too closely at anything at all.
Still, a small part of me appreciates the change in scenery.
Even if I still feel numb.
Eventually, even Jess gives up on trying to convince me to have fun. Every so often she checks over her shoulder to make sure I haven’t wandered over to drown myself in a rain barrel, even though the look on her face makes me wonder if she’s thinking that would just make all of this a little easier.
If I had any will in me to feel anything, I’d be grateful to her.
Anyone else would’ve given up a long time ago.
Like they did.
Like Rory, Marlowe, and Kaleb did.
And just like that, a stabbing pain washes through me—another grim reminder of what they did to me when they left.
I shove the pain down so deep, that for a moment, I overhear the conversation in front of me again. Jess, Aimee, and Tom have walked on ahead to where some other kids from school are loitering by the edge of the river that winds along the edge of the fairgrounds here.
Behind me, a Ferris wheel blares a tinny tune in my ear, but even that’s not enough to drown out the taunting lilt of the voices up ahead.
“I am not chicken,” Tom’s voice raises above the rest. “Forgive me for not wanting to break my back.”
He points towards the river, and for the first time, I see what they’re arguing over.
A bungee jump station.
As I walk up to where my friends are standing, I can hear some of the other guys from school taunting Tom further, goading him closer to the poorly constructed stand. Even the attendant looks wary, glancing over his shoulder at the water below like he’d never be caught participating in his own attraction.
“Whatever, man,” one of the boys says. I think I recognize him from the halls, but lately, most of the faces have just become featureless blurs. “You’re just a wuss, and you know it.”
One of his friends jostles him from the side, encouraging another round of insults hurled Tom’s way.
I’d feel bad for Tom if he didn’t kind of deserve it.
He’s all talk and no substance.
“Bet you a hundred bucks he won’t jump,” one of the boys says, stepping forward.
The first boy who spoke throws his head back and lets out a guffaw. “Two hundred that he won’t ride the kiddy coaster.”
Tom’s face grows red. “I couldn’t … you have to be like twelve to ride that.”
Even I, in my state, get tired of the insults … and step forward. I don’t look at them. Instead, my eyes stay glued to the rope in the man’s hand on the edge of the river.
“I’ll do it,” I say.