Page 1 of Bright Blinding Ruin

Chapter One

I have things I should be doing.

That thought rings in my head and bounces around, rattling in my brain as I sit in one of the offices of the financial aid building, listening to the man behind the desk tell me I failed to send in the forms I needed to in order to keep my scholarship.

And that, somehow, those stupid forms should’ve been sent in two months ago. Like, I’m late, obviously, and telling this guy I was unaware I had to redo the forms every single year doesn’t matter.

There is nothing he can do for me.

He’s young, in his twenties, maybe a graduate student working while also teaching. Capitalism for you. It’s hard to take him seriously as he goes on, “For students with cases similar to yours, we do recommend visiting us more often—”

He says more, lots more, but I tune him out because I just can’t shake the feeling that I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

Which doesn’t make sense at all. If I’m not supposed to be here, then where the hell should I be? My life is crumbling around me, bit by bit, and if I don’t pick up the slack somehow and fix the mess, I won’t have anything left.

No job, so I’m late on rent. And now no scholarship. My life is peaches and cream. Peaches and fucking cream.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, my mind at war so much it’s giving me a freaking headache. I tell him, “I’m sorry. I’m not… there’s a lot going on in my life.”

“It sounds like maybe you’re juggling a little too much.” Unless I’m mistaken, I detect a hint of pity in his voice, and his dark eyes stare at me like he wishes he could help me, but he simply can’t.

God, what I wouldn’t give to make things right. To make things normal for me. This sucks.

“Listen,” the financial aid officer says, “all we can do is wait until next semester starts and turn in your forms then. You’ll miss the fall semester next year, but if we stay on top of things—” As he goes on, explaining about the only thing I can do, something weird happens.

I get the strangest sense ofdéjàvu, and the hairs on the back of my next prickle and stand up. Just like that, it’s like I’m not in the financial aid office. I’m somewhere else, somewhere far away, where problems like this don’t concern me at all, a place where I’m drowning.

He talks about helping me out with FAFSA, and I mutter something about not having any credit. This is all feeling… familiar, for some reason, but I can’t explain how or why. All I can say is I don’t feel right.

“I have to go,” I mumble as I lurch to my feet and lumber toward the door. I don’t wait to hear him say goodbye; I just go. Sitting in that office, listening to him… it’s like torture on a normal day, but today feels different.

Today feels wrong. Like I’ve been here before, like I have somewhere else I should be.

But where?

Somehow I manage to sit in my afternoon classes, though my attention span is shot. I swing by the library after that to use their computers to fill out as many job applications as I can. Hours pass, and I get annoyed more than once.

A familiar feeling of hopelessness takes over me. Sometimes I just feel… like it’d be so much easier to give up. Give up, give in, stop trying. Ever since my dad died, it’s like I’ve had something to prove, but lately it feels like the world just isn’t cut out for me.

Or, I guess, I’m not cut out for the world. I don’t belong here.

I hang my head low as I walk to my place. Off-campus, it’s downtown, just above a bar. An old bar that looks out of place now that everything is new and built-up. It’s why the rent is so cheap. About the only place I can afford since my scholarship didn’t include housing costs.

Wait a second. That’s a lie. I said I can afford it, but that’s a fucking lie. I got fired and I’m late on the rent. Frank is understanding when things come up, but I hate letting him down like that.

I don’t go up through the bar; the fire escape on the side of the building in the alley is how I reach my place. I’m so lost in my head, trying to dissect the nagging feeling that refuses to go away, that I don’t realize Frank is coming out of the door to the second-floor hall, where my apartment is.

When I see him, I freeze. “Frank. Why aren’t you downstairs working the bar?” It’s late enough. I spent hours at the library. Too long with nothing to show for it, although with any luck, that will change soon.

“I wanted to see if you were home yet,” Frank mutters as he rubs his jaw. Pulling away from me, he moves to lean on the metal railing behind me. An older man, wrinkled around his eyes, skin with countless sunspots; but I like him. We get along.

I… don’t get along with most people my age. Don’t ask me why.

It doesn’t take a psychic to know what this is about. “I don’t have the rent yet, Frank.” The words come out in a whisper… and they feel wrong. Like I spoke them before, somehow. Like I’m a character on a stage, trapped in a play—but that doesn’t make sense. “Can I have a few more weeks?”

“Rey,” Frank says with a sigh as he turns to face me, “I’m gonna level with you. The bar ain’t—”

“Doing good,” I finish for him, somehow already knowing what he’s going to say.

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