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Rochelle has been running down these roads for as long as she can remember, but at the same time, she’s never been here before. The streets are unfamiliar, yet her body moves like it knows exactly where to go.
Adrenaline pumps through her veins, exhaustion seeping into her body, but she keeps going. She has to. But why?
Why is she running in the first place? What is it she’s running from? She’s not sure, and she feels if she tries to turn around and see, she’ll end up six feet under.
The roads start curving, a tile on the sidewalk she’s running onto floats up and makes her stumble to the side. Nothing about what she’s seeing is normal, and yet it feels so routine.
She falls to the ground, her skull almost meeting with the concrete, but she saves it by planting her arm down. She can feel the gravel piercing into her skin but sucks in a deep breath.
She hears her heartbeat thumping loud in her ears, almost like it’s trying to break out of her chest. She scrambles to her feet, but it’s like the world tilts beneath her, like a cruel trick of gravity. No matter how she moves, she keeps falling back down.
The sound of a car isn’t so distant anymore. The engine gets louder as it gets closer and closer, the faint smell of exhaust fumes enters her lungs, making her cough, and Rochelle can only hope that whoever’s driving hits the brakes, but it doesn’t seem like they’re going to.
So she just sits there, arm over her eyes as the headlights grow brighter, trying to get even the smallest glimpse of who’s driving.
She catches it.
A chicken head.
Beware the chicken.
She’s always felt like she’d die before her mom. Being the adult in the family does that to you. And though it’s hard, she closes her eyes, accepting her fate.
She just hopes it doesn’t hurt.
The engine roars. The headlights are blinding now. The chicken head tilts slightly—watching her. And then, impact.
Rochelle opens her eyes wide. But instead of bright headlights, she’s met with darkness. A soft blue hue tinting the walls from a dim light somewhere in the room.
Her chest heaves. Her skin is damp with sweat, her fingers twitching against the sheets. She looks left only to be met with a wall. She touches it tentatively as if unsure whether it’s real or not. It’s cold.
She looks to her right and sees the rest of her bedroom. On the floor is a multitude of blankets and comforters stacked on top of each other and atop it lies Laurie, sound asleep.
Rochelle sits up, wiping the stray sweat off her forehead. She tries to catch her breath, but it seems to escape her every time.
She stumbles out of bed, trying not to wake Laurie in the process as she carefully makes her way to the kitchen, self-conscious of any and all sounds she makes. It feels like even the slightest creak of the floorboards will wake everyone up.
She grabs a glass from the cupboard, hearing it clink against all the others, and pours herself a cold glass of water. She chugs it, each swallow sending a cool shock straight to her core.
Now she’s wide awake, and she’s not sure if she can go back to sleep.
She collapses onto the couch, eyes squeezing shut as she starts counting sheep. One, two, three, four—whatever. By two hundred, she’s still wide awake.
When that doesn’t work, she starts tracing patterns on the sofa cushions. First she draws a star, then a softball, a square, triangle, then a circle, two lines, and a little upside down U. She frowns to match what she just drew.
As a last resort, she gets back up and starts searching the cupboards again. Rochelle used to have a hard time sleeping back then, so much so that doctors had prescribed her melatonin gummies. It’s been a while since she had to take them, and she doesn’t even know where they’re stored.
As she searches on her tippy-toes trying to reach the end of every cupboard, she hears footsteps behind her. Her muscles lock up, her heart spikes—too fast, too loud. She closes the cupboard with a loud slam, bracing herself for something.
When she turns, her breath catches in her throat. Dim light. A familiar voice.
“Rosh?”
Laurie. Not a threat. Just Laurie.
Rochelle freezes for a second before stepping towards her. “Laur, did I wake you? I’m so sorry‐” She hesitates, hands hovering awkwardly, unsure whether to reach for her or not.
“No, I just- I woke up and you weren’t there, so... I got worried.” Her words are quiet, hesitant. Then she blurts out, “Are you okay? You’re, like, really sweaty.” She immediately regrets it. Wow, great job. Super helpful. She fumbles with the hem of her shirt, resisting the urge to apologize again.
Rochelle exhales, backing up until her back hits the counter. “Yeah, I’m...” She shakes her head, voice dropping. “No. Not really.”
Laurie carefully approaches her, hands held in front of her as she rocks on her heels. “What’s wrong, Rosh?”
Rochelle loosens her grip on the counter and lets herself sink to the floor. “Had a nightmare.” Her fingers pick at a loose thread on her shorts. “Do you get nightmares, Laur?”
Laurie hesitates before sitting down next to her. “Yeah. Sometimes.” She tugs at her own sleeve. “I get ones where my dad leaves. And it’s not like I hate my mom or anything, but... I dunno. My dad’s special to me.” She looks down at her hands. She didn’t even notice she’s been clasping them together. She sneaks a glance at Rochelle and grimaces. “S-sorry. I just made it about me.”
Rochelle shakes her head. “It’s okay.” She tilts her head back, staring at the ceiling. Their shadows stretch across it. “Mine was about getting chased by a car.”
Laurie squints. “Oh. That’s, um... That’s gotta mean something, right? Like, symbolically? Like, y’know, one of those dreams where your teeth fall out or you’re naked in class or-” Her fingers are splayed out to list them down.
“No, it was real.”
“I think I read somewhere that it meant avoiding problems or a fear of- Wait, what?” Laurie blinks, like she misheard. “You’re serious? You were actually... chased?”
Rochelle exhales sharply. She doesn’t look at Laurie.
Silence stretches between them. Rochelle presses her nails into her palm, grounding herself, before forcing the words out. “I never told you, did I?”
It’s been months since it happened, and she’s tried to move on, tried to ignore it, tried to pretend like it didn’t and doesn’t affect her at all, but she can’t. Not anymore.
“It happened the night of the championship. That’s why I was late.” She sneaks a glance at Laurie’s face—somewhere between shock and sadness. “I was trying to sell my cleats so I could afford next season.” She twirls the loose thread on her shorts between her fingers. “But they didn’t want the cleats. They wanted the keys to the concession stand.”
Rochelle bites her lip. She’s been keeping this in for so long. She told herself it’d be a secret she takes to the grave, but something about spilling it all out is so cathartic she keeps going.
“I know, I know. I helped people cheat, but I don’t steal, okay? That’s where I draw the line. If I screw up, fine, I’ll own up to it. But the concession stand isn’t mine. I just work there.”
Laurie looks at her, lips turning down into a frown. She wants to help, to do something, but she hesitates.
“Sometimes it just feels like I’m falling all the time,” Rochelle admits, her voice is quiet as if she believes if Laurie doesn’t hear it then it isn’t real. “The world keeps turning, and every time I try to get up my legs, like, fail me. It’s like I’m trapped in this world that refuses to let me stand.”
“Hold on.”
The words come out of Laurie’s mouth before she can think it through, and when an awkward silence stretches through the air, she fears she’s messed it all up.
“What exactly am I holding on for?” Rochelle asks tentatively, finally breaking the silence.
Laurie lets out a nervous chuckle—too loud, too forced. “No, I mean, like- Hold on to me.”
Laurie bites the inside of her cheek. Did she just mess this up? What if Rochelle doesn’t want to be touched? What if it just makes things worse? Her fingers twitch. But Rochelle looks so small like this. So she slowly, carefully, reaches for her hand.
“You’re a good person, Rosh.”
Laurie doesn’t have the most confidence. But when she says it, there’s not a doubt in her mind.
Rochelle finally looks at her, something soft in her eyes. “Thanks, Laur.” She leans her head on her shoulder, and Laurie simply lets her.
They sit there on Rochelle’s cold kitchen floor in silence. Laurie’s fingers tighten gently around Rochelle’s. Her thumb moves in slow, steady circles, something she learned to do from her dad. She’s not sure if it helps, but Rochelle lets out a shaky breath—a small, quiet thing, but enough to make Laurie keep going.
“Are you okay?” Laurie asks when she hears a sniffle come out of Rochelle.
Rochelle wipes at her eyes. “Yeah. I- I think I’m just emotional because it’s late.” She laughs weakly, voice barely there. “I’ve never told that to anyone before. I kept trying to push it down, but... I guess I’m not as strong as I pretend to be.”
“You don’t have to be strong. My dad says it’s not, like, keeping your feelings in that makes you strong. It’s, um... letting people see them. I think.” She cringes. “Does that make sense?”
“Yeah. Makes sense.” Rochelle lets herself relax against Laurie, feeling safe in the girl’s presence. “I’m tired. Mind if I fall asleep here?”
Laurie tenses. “Um, y-yeah! I mean... no..? I just mean I don’t mind, okay?”
“Gotcha.” Rochelle chuckles.
Rochelle pulls away for a moment, taking her in. The dim light, her wide eyes scrambling to look at anything but her, her cheeks more flushed than they usually are.
Rochelle grins, tilting her head. “Hey, Laur?”
Laurie looks towards Rochelle, her body tense as she wonders if she’s done anything to help. She barely gets a breath in before Rochelle leans in again, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.
Laurie’s face burns. Her brain feels like it short-circuits for a second, thoughts stumbling over themselves in a frantic pile-up. Rochelle pulls back, a soft smile on her face, and all Laurie can do is stare, wide-eyed and speechless.
“Goodnight, Laurie.”
Laurie thinks she should say something. Anything. But all that comes out is a tiny, squeaky, “Uh-huh.”