Chapter Text
Flick stood frozen while the world screamed around her. Through the eye holes on her Chica mask, she could see Mike on his knees, hands over his ears. His eyes were wide and panicked, Theo yelling his name, trying to get his attention. Noa was staring wide-eyed at the body fallen to the ground, bloodied and mangled. Everything was telling her to run, or scream, or comfort Noa, or…do anything. But her legs were glued to the floor, her eyes glued not to the body but to the scene.
Mike was crying, his foxy mask splattered with blood, the bandages he wore on his wrists soaked through.
Charlie was sobbing, standing in front of the body, shakily trying to check his pulse.
Noa was looking around, trying to comfort people, but Flick knew him well enough to know that he was just coping.
Kids screamed.
William's voice, sharp and commanding, broke through the chaos. He yelled for Mike, so Mike got to his feet and ran the other way. Theo tried to follow the brunette, but Noa told him not to.
Noa was scared of Mike when he got like this. He didn't want Theo to get hurt.
Flick knew her friends well enough to know that Mike would never hurt Theo, and that, if anything, Theo would stop Mike from hurting himself.
She knew that she should intervene. But her legs were glued to the ground, her brain screaming to move.
She had to get out of there.
In an instant, she turned on her heels, dashing for the bathroom. She had enough conscious thought to know that Noa would surely try and stop her if she went for the door — which wasn't a bad thing, but she seriously thought that if one person tried to calm her down now she might punch them in the face. And she reallllyyyy didn't wanna have to deal with the guilt of punching her boyfriend in the face on top of everything else.
Her footsteps fell hard on the floor as she stormed off, head down and hands in her pockets. People told her she stomped a lot. She couldn't deny it. She just needed to get away — maybe to the skate park, blast music in her ears until there was no room left for thoughts. No thoughts meant no guilt, and no guilt meant Flick could keep focusing on the important things in life.
Like skating, dance, guitar, taking care of her dad.
She couldn't afford to be all mopey. Maybe later, when her gut wasn't all twisted up.
The crowd parted for her easily, everyone focused on the scene that was Evan. She was so close — just a few steps away from the door, away from the chaos, awa—
Someone she could only assume was Noa grabbed her by the arm, his grip strong but not desperate. Fuck.
She whipped around, trying — and failing — to change her face into anything but rage. She wasn't angry at Noa…well, kinda. They hadn't spoken properly in weeks. It wasn't like they were breaking up or anything. She just…
…She was scared. Scared that she had vented one too many times on those long nights, scared that Noa knew too much. She wasn't used to that — telling people how she felt. And yes, she knew that technically it was meant to help, but…all it did for her was make her question everything. She would spend long nights staring at the ceiling, regretting talking at all.
It was fine, though. They were fine. But now, Flick really didn't feel like talking to Noa. He'd want to have a deep conversation when Flick's brain could barely process thoughts.
"Hey, Flick? A-are you ok?"
"No! I'm not ok, dimwit!" She didn't really mean that. Maybe it was too harsh. But she needed to leave. Now.
"Where are you going?"
"I need to piss, leave me alone!" She yanked her hand free, both of them knowing full well that Noa wasn't strong enough to actually stop her.
She thought she heard the echo of something he replied with, but the slam of the bathroom door numbed his desperate voice. The deep pit of regret inside her only grew — because really, he was only trying to help. And really, she wasn't scared of Noa trying to talk to her about feelings. That wasn't exactly new. She was scared of what would happen if she let him. If she started talking, really talking?
Fuck. She might find herself crying on the floor with months of repressed emotions if she wasn't careful.
She sighed, the sound too loud in the empty bathroom, bouncing off tiled walls. The floor was a checkerboard of black and white, four neat cubicles lined against the far wall. Flick stood in front of the mirror, wiping away mascara that had streaked down her face in thin black lines. She normally hated the feeling of makeup, but there were days when she put on some eyeliner. Made her feel like she had armour on.
Noa said it looked good. So did most other people.
Flick didn't give a shit what people thought.
Noa was incredible. But at the end of the day, they were a high school couple. To think he'd be satisfied with her for much longer was crazy, especially considering how she'd been ghosting him lately. Sad, if he ended up leaving. But predictable.
She had long learned that the things you love can never last.
Flick knew her way out. It might have been a concern, how easily her muscle memory carried her to the last stall, how she knew by heart how to pick the lock. It had started as a hobby — lockpicking. A fun, innocent little puzzle. Then, gradually, almost imperceptibly, it turned into something else. An obsession. Not out of wanting to break rules or be a rebel, but out of needing to escape. Escaping school, escaping the Diner, escaping home. Wherever she went, there had to be a way out. Some exit she'd already mapped in the back of her mind, just in case.
Just in case.
The window groaned as it opened. Cold spring air hit her face, sharp and immediate. It had recently rained — she could smell it on the concrete below, that wet-earth smell she actually liked. She locked the stall behind her, climbed onto the toilet seat, and squeezed herself into the window frame. It was tight, but far from the tightest she'd managed.
The recycling bin outside buckled under her weight but held.
She dropped down, landing with a soft thud, and straightened up. The wind hit immediately, messing up the neat pigtails her mum had insisted on that morning.
So much for deciding to be fem for once.
She pulled her skate shoes from her backpack — green, scuffed at the toe, always there — and laced them up on autopilot while her brain worked out where to go.
The pavement came hard under her wheels.
Music blasting. Head down. The city blurring past her in streaks of amber and grey.
It should've helped. It usually did — the rhythm of it, the way skating turned everything into just movement and speed and the next turn. Her brain usually went quiet out here. Usually.
But every time she blinked, she saw it.
A small boy. Tearstained face. Looking at her with eyes that were too still, too knowing. He would open his mouth and no sound would come out — just the shape of words she already knew, ones she had learned to read without wanting to.
He wouldn't have done it.
You pressured him.
I would be alive.
You don't care.
You're a monster.
She skated harder.
The words weren't real. She knew that. They weren't real, they weren't real, they were not—
The song on her playlist cut out mid-lyric, the silence slamming in before the next track loaded. She let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. Her wheels ground slower as she rounded a corner, and then the music came back, and something in her chest loosened just slightly.
"What's the problem? You're acting like the house's on fire—"
Despite herself, she felt the corner of her mouth pull up.
She liked this song. She liked it a lot, actually, though she'd never really told anyone that. It felt embarrassing to admit that a song about not caring what anyone thought was the one that made her feel most like herself.
She let herself fall back into the rhythm of it — left foot, right foot, the pavement a steady drumbeat under her. The wind picked up and she leaned into it, letting it pull her forward.
"I'm a lost cause, do it the way I want—"
She laughed, just a little. Manically, maybe. This was where she belonged. Out here, spread across the pavement, backpack on her shoulder, the whole world reduced to wind and wheels and noise.
She glanced toward the treeline as she passed, her speed slowing without her meaning it to.
She did that sometimes. Stopped at the edge of things and looked in.
It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. She had food in her bag, and a jacket, and a pocket knife. A lighter. A portable charger. She always had them, had packed them so long ago it had stopped feeling intentional and started feeling like breathing. Just in case. Just in case things got bad enough that she needed to go somewhere no one could follow.
She could.
The trees sat still, dark and quiet. Patient, almost.
She won't.
Flick exhaled hard through her nose and kicked off again, building her speed back up until the treeline was behind her and the music was all there was.
"Like I'm a loser, loser—"
Whatever. She was fine. She was always fine.
It was only when a dog walker shot her a look that she clocked the colour of the sky — deep orange, bleeding into purple at the edges. She skidded to a stop.
Sunset. Already.
…
She was past curfew.
Fuck.
And she'd left her jumper at the Diner.
Double fuck.
She sighed, turning herself around in a slow circle, weighing up her options. Better get going. Fast.