Page 19 of Severance

“Okay.”Considering my boyfriend got shot and killed a couple of weeks ago.

“I-I’m so sorry to hear about Dakota,” she stammers through her condolence.

“Thanks,” I tell her, wondering if that was the right thing to say. I’ve never had anyone close to me die before. Are there any rules of etiquette regarding how to act in public after you bury someone you love? Although, technically, Mikah and his family buried Dakota. I was that girl at his funeral who tried to tear his hand off.

“Hey”—Mallory clears her throat—“if you need anything, let me know.”

The number of times this phrase has been thrown at me since The Crystal Room is probably well above a hundred. I’m sick and tired of hearing the same exact words day after day. I should have a proper response handy, but my brain still struggles with the answer. I give her a small nod, and the silence between us becomes awkward.

“Call me or text me, all right?” She forces out another smile.

“Okay. Thank you,” I say as I watch her hop up the steps and disappear into the building.

* * *

I don’t remember how I make it to class. My mind blocks everything out and wanders off into some parallel universe where Dakota is still alive. I relentlessly push through the noisy crowd in the hallway, my hands clutching the straps of my backpack, my head low and my gaze trained on the floor. My damp t-shirt sticks to me. Thankfully, no one can see the sweat stains under my jacket.

Talking to more people is not part of the plan today.Or ever.

Once I’m inside the auditorium, instead of going to my usual seat in the front, I search for every means of escape and walk all the way to the back to take a lonely spot in the corner, near an emergency exit and away from the stares of other students. Some are nosy enough to turn around and look, but most don’t bother. Maybe because The Crystal Room is now old news.

The chatter dies down and a quiet murmur takes its place when the professor finally enters the auditorium.

I drop my gaze to the brand new notebook in front of me and stare at the white pages. My brain tries to recreate the building evacuation plan, but I can’t remember where exactly the crisis response boxes are. I know there are fifteen on this campus. There are also six emergency phones and seventeen AED locations.Or is it sixteen?

Concentrate, Alana. Concentrate.

My mind’s having a hard time focusing on the lecture. I’m not entirely sure why I need to know what year John Locke was born or what his major works were about, but I still force myself to jot down some notes because I practiced holding a pencil all weekend and I don’t want my efforts to go to waste. And because this is what college is for. Taking notes. Although mine are just a bunch of sentences that make very little sense, and I probably won’t have any use for them. Ever.

A fire drill might be a better alternative, but we haven’t had a single one since I started going to this college, and I’m certain that’s not right. They need to be carried out at least twice a year.

We’re fifteen minutes in when I hear the squeak of a door followed by heavy thuds. Someone is late to class, which is nothing unusual. Professor Pollock isn’t that great at keeping his students interested. I suspect that by the end of the semester, there will be only five of us left. That’s ifImake it to the end of the semester. I’ve already missed quite a lot. Does this college have any special make-up rules for students who take time off after being gunned down? Is there some sort of excuse for people who’ve lost someone?

My eyes are still glued to my notebook when I hear a loud pop. I jerk in my seat, and my heart crashes into my ribcage. A chorus of whispers swirling around snap me out of it, and I realize what I heard was only a door slamming. But in my head, it sounded like something else. It sounded like a gunshot.

“Ms. Novak?” The professor moves in my direction.

“What?” My vision blurs and my hands shake.

“Are you okay, Ms. Novak?”

“Yes,” I murmur, tossing my notebook and my pencil into my backpack.

The whispers that trail after me as I charge for the door grow louder. The noise is overwhelming and I almost want to stop and tell them to shut up, but instead, I rush outside as if the building is on fire. My feet carry me into the courtyard, where there are no walls and no people crowding me.

Where I can breathe and run if I have to.

* * *

There’s a police car in our driveway when I return home. Something tells me my parents didn’t expect me this early, because their faces are twisted with anxiety when they see me walking into the house.

“Ma’am.” One of the officers gives me a light nod. The other one shows me a tight-lipped smile. The two of them, along with my parents, watch me take off my jacket as if I’m stripping and pole dancing in the middle of our living room.

“What’s going on?” I look at my parents, then at the police. There’s a heaviness inside my chest and I feel like I can’t get enough air.

“We’ll talk about it in a bit, sweetheart,” my father says. His everything-is-okay face isn’t that great; I can read through his bullshit perfectly. Something’s going on and they just don’t want to tell me. It sickens me that they think keeping stuff from me or keeping me away from things is going to make it better. Things are shit and they’re not going to get better.

“Okay, fine,” I snap, hurrying toward my room, my heart sputtering.

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