Page 25 of Encounter

Iwent back to theConservatory after a few more days of sleeping and reading. Dad and I agreed on one of the drivers from his company taking me, and I was fine with that, at least for a while. As I walked through the halls, things didn’t seem to change that much. There were the same faces, bringing up the same feelings. Same repetitive activities and motions, like any other day. Likebefore.

Yet... somethinghadchanged. I felt it. I knew something had shifted in a big way, but I couldn’t find the reason—I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why or how.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About everything that happened, about me, about the violence. Couldn’t stop hearing the mocking, evil laugh and the sounds of someone choking on their own blood. In class, while eating lunch, at home… I stared into my textbooks but couldn’t concentrate. I kept waking up at night to the sight of corpses around me. Sometimes I thrashed around so much I woke myself up.

Everyone else seemed to move on. Dad never talked about it again. Never gave me a proper explanation or a genuine apology. Once he asked me—after he came home the same night Chast left—if I felt like I needed to speak to someone. I said no, and he seemed happy about that. If I had said yes, he would’ve probably thought I was weak and a burden. I already knew what his opinion on therapy was.

People at the Conservatory didn’t know, and even to Zola, all that happened was I came down with a horrible virus for a few days. To her and everyone else, I was the same person, but somewhere deep inside, I longed for the excitement and adrenaline Chast brought me. It was twisted. Disturbing. Like two opposing forces fighting, messing me up in the process. Madness and sanity. Normalcy and chaos.

I just wanted to feel it again.To feel anything. Everything.

I was scared but wanted to experience real emotion again. Different from my typical doom and gloom, doubts and anxiety.

Unfortunately, as was customary in my life, nothing changed.

Days and weeks passed one after another. School, home, reading, piano, sleep, repeat. Nearly every time I played, I felt like his gaze burned into my back—like that time he watched—expected him to be there; expected to hear those heavy steps moving around the house. Instead, it was only me again, with Dad coming home long after I went to bed.

One night, I found myself standing in his office.

At two in the morning, when I couldn’t fall asleep, I stared at his phone book, locked away in his top drawer. He thought I didn’t know where the key was, but I did. I also knewhisnumber was there, somewhere...

But what did I even expect, truly? No matter how hard I tried to understand it myself, I couldn’t pinpoint why I would want to do such a thing—to contact that man again. His chaotic aura, his overwhelming presence... It was everything I found uncomfortable. It was the exact opposite of the mellow, predictable existence I liked to lead—shielded from the daily anxiety and intrusive thought as much as possible.

So... why?

Did I somehow hope that just like he made the whole experience somewhatlighter, seeing him again would make the nightmares and flashbacks go away? Did I hope for his strength to somehow seep into me, washing my worries away?

I went back to bed in the end. The same thing happened a few more times after that, but I never made the step. I knew it was just an idea. An intrusive thought…

?

“Yo, De Clare!”

Reacting like an antelope catching a glimpse of a lion, I turned toward the familiar voice. And a lion it was—with bleached blond hair, surrounded by his pride of similarly arrogant but less dominant friends. Blake walked across the hallway, heading right toward me.

Oh, no.

Tightening the grip around my bag—the one I still couldn’t get used to, even though it was the exact same kind as my old one—I tried to not seem as freaked out as I was. I needed time to readjust, some leeway, not more of his childish tormenting. “Wh-what’s up?” I asked, nervously darting my eyes across all of them.

It was stupid. I still reacted to Blake like a six year old kid, scared shitless of the boy that kicked me in the stomach on the playground and pushed sand into my mouth. There were many more kicks and threats that followed, so I guess it would only be natural for my gut to twist any time I heard him speak to me.

“Remember the assignment you offered to help me with?” Wrapping his arm painfully tight around my shoulders, he took me aside with a fake smile on his face.

“The one you forced me to do for you,” I mumbled, kind of hoping he didn’t hear me. Earning me a dissatisfied frown, I knew I was fucked even before I talked back. His three friends cornered me, and before I knew it, we stumbled into one of the many shadowed and rarely frequented alcoves.This huge, stupid building.

“Yeah... So youdoremember?”

The second he said it, my heart sank.Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

With how distracted I had been lately, I completely forgot to do it. “I’m sorry, I was really sick, and ever since then—”

While others watched out, Blake flashed me a brief, understanding smile, but I knew him better. I knew what kind of person he was. Before I could apologize again, he hit me in the stomach with all of his football-player strength. I barely held in a scream, grabbing his arms desperately to not fold. Instead of helping me, Blake used the position I was in and kneed me in the face before pushing me against the wall.

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