Hooked

August was sitting on the waiting shed.

She had both ears occupied with headphones, fingers tapping beside her, dancing in a slow staccato along with the thumps of her heart. She didn’t even like the song that much, not really. Not on her very first listen, nor her second, nor the many times that came after it. But August still gave it a chance just in case, because she wasn’t the one who gave up so easy. And because it was one of Rachel’s favorite songs.

Rachel.

Where are you, Rachel?

August looked down at her crossed feet. The song was beginning to tire her, though she supposed it was better than having no companion at all because her real companion hadn’t come yet. So, she’d set out the whole playlist Rachel had sent her one time to listen to while she waited for the sign, any sign at all that she was doing the right thing, that she was still waiting for something. For someone.

There had been a few people sitting on the other side just a while ago—an hour ago? Few hours ago? But they were gone now too. August was left alone with herself again.

Just as the playlist had come to stop, she heard the tack, tack, tack of the raindrops on the roof. She pulled her sweater closer to her body, the wind ruffling her curls. She checked her phone for the nth time: no replies. August sighed. It was getting colder.

She thought of calling Rachel again, but she didn’t want to appear too needy or impatient. It was bad enough that she was starting to doubt if this supposed trip was a good idea after all. As soon as August saw the poster, she practically shook in excitement and had rushed into Rachel’s home just so she could tell her in person. Five days in and August was here, waiting for Rachel’s shadow to make a show. Maybe they should’ve gone together, she thought. Rachel said she had an important meeting this morning, but it would only be a short one and she would still come. But maybe August should’ve still waited for her anyway.

She groaned, frustrated with all of it, with having to think at all. She put her head in her hands, elbows on knees, and resisted the urge to pull her hair out. Her stomach curled in that familiar way, green and vicious.

This was a bad idea.

It was August’s idea.

The sky growled in agreement, the rain going wilder. 

She sat up and breathed deep. She wasn’t going to call Rachel. She wasn’t going to text her either. Two missed calls and four texts with the gist of I’m here, you still coming? should be enough. Maybe Rachel was on her way. Maybe she just got caught in traffic. Maybe her phone died. Maybe she left it. Maybe she—

Rachel wouldn’t stand her up, would she?

Of course, not, answered the familiar voice in her head. It was Rachel.

But August also knew who Rachel was.

Rachel. Rachel Mort. The smart, kind, interesting Rachel Mort. Charming by her clever wit. She was a lot of things, alright.

But Rachel Mort was also confusing.

Five years ago, Rachel’s hook got her in the chest. August hadn’t been looking, so she hadn’t been expecting the sharp tendril that forced its way through every hole in her body either, as Rachel pulled the other end. It somehow hurt worse. It hurt worse because she didn’t exactly hate it. And what did that say about August?

Rachel was… not like anyone August had ever known. She was a lot more interesting, for one. She understood August. August understood her, at least she thought she did. Or no, that wasn’t quite true. No matter what she did, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—ever understand someone like Rachel. Rachel was a puzzle she couldn’t ever solve, because you needed a key in every move, and in every move the key changed. So, how could she move past that when she couldn’t even figure out what kind of puzzle Rachel was? If August knew, it would be easier to look for hints, for suggestions, for guides. It would be less frustrating every time she hit an impasse because then, she would know what to look for next.

But August didn’t.

She didn’t know how to figure out the sort of puzzle Rachel was, where to search, what to find.

Maybe Rachel had designed her own kind of puzzle. Maybe she was every piece, deliberately cut into jagged edges only she knew how to put in place in which it would perfectly fit with the rest. As it seemed, she wasn’t planning on being solved anytime soon. By anyone.

August tried not to be affected by it. It wasn’t about her, she knew. But it was also impossible to ignore the persistent fire her constricting chest was bringing, like an agonizing reminiscent of that time the hook had first got her in the flesh. The flesh that bled a deeper red every time the hook was tugged.

She didn’t mind it at first, couldn’t even feel it was there. Rachel was so good at that, at making anyone forget by tending the wounds she’d inflicted there in the first place. Oh, Rachel was really, really good at it. August could testify.

It had been great, ecstatic even. They had spent chipper mornings and doleful nights whispering in each other’s ears like gung-ho soldiers, one scar at a time. August had to admit it had been scary how much she trusted this whole thing, how much she’d felt confident at the idea that it would never end. She knew just like she knew her childhood dog couldn’t live forever, just like she knew the sun would always come down no matter how she tried to stretch the day out, just like she knew losing too much blood could hasten one’s demise.

Was August losing too much blood already?

How long could she still tune out the sting?

Would she ever get off this hook?

She didn’t know, she didn’t know. She was always wishing she did.

She wished she knew what to think, what to do, how to pull Rachel back because damn did it hurt. She wondered why she couldn’t seem to stop Rachel from going away. One moment she was there, just an arm’s reach, being as gentle as the soft breeze touching August’s skin at summer nights. And then with a blink of an eye, she was pulling away again, abrupt as if August’s presence had burned her. Never mind that it was the other way around. Never mind that the wound she’d just tended had reopened. Stitches snapped like nerves, leaving her paralyzed and useless, unable to do anything but be dragged by that hook.

It was almost astonishing how her chest had remained intact, with those burning tugs and all.

She knew it wasn’t right, but she felt guilty anyway. She felt guilty every time she bled. She felt guilty because what right did she have? It was her fault for overthinking anyway, for thinking that it was something it wasn’t.

But did it really have to be this flaying?

‘You know, you mean a lot to me.’ August felt the same. ‘I was asleep, I’m sorry.’ It was fine, no worries. ‘I’m glad I met you.’ August was too. ‘I’m not in the mood right now.’ Sure, I’m sorry. ‘You’re literally my favorite person!’ That was nice to hear. Static. Static. Rachel? ‘I’m always here for you.’ I am too. ‘I’m busy.’ Okay. ‘I don’t know what to do without you.’ Me too. Dead air. Dead air. Dead air. What happened? ‘You’re my best friend, August, you know that right?’

Was she really?

Static. Static.

Where do you always go, Rachel?

Would you ever stop?

A thunder snapped her out of her ever-deepening hellhole, making her flinch and almost fall down the bench.

She was confused for a moment, and then remembered in a single flash.

Right. Of course.

August probably couldn’t count—even if she tried—the times she had to sit on waiting sheds and wait for something to happen. It shouldn’t have been that tiring, but it was. It was tiring because she didn’t only have to wait; she had to watch this long reel of all the times she was waiting roll out, frame by frame, as if it didn’t want her to miss anything out. Every time, she failed to look away.

She let out a shuddering breath, trying to swallow the lump in her throat that never seemed to thaw.

It was dark now, but it was still raining just as hard as it had been before she’d given in to spiraling down. Still no replies. Still no answers, both to her friend’s whereabouts and to the thrashing questions in her mind. Still no Rachel.

She wanted to laugh.

She wanted to stand and walk home.

She wanted to throw out her phone and make herself into a burrito in bed and never ever wake up again.

August wanted, but she knew better than to make herself even more foolish by believing in false hope. She was so, so stupid.

She was screwed tight to her seat, shivering from the cold, burning from the pain inside.

And she waited. She waited even as the night went deeper, the wind becoming unbearable. Her phone was blinking red, she noticed, announcing it needed rest as well.

Just another hour. Please.

She closed her eyes and leaned back. She told herself everything would be fine, not just because it was what she wanted to happen, but because she knew for certain that—if not by tomorrow, then by the following days—everything would get back to being okay. It would’ve been such a relief if August didn’t also know that it wouldn’t last.

It never did. The hook had never stopped from being pulled. August still couldn’t get off of it.

But she waited, because it was Rachel Mort.

Her phone buzzed. August almost dropped it from the sudden rush she felt: anticipation? Fear? Bracing for disappointment?

The words were a huge placard on her screen, bright and flaming.

‘Hey I’m at Houston’s party. Wanna come?’

She bled.