Options: Part 1

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The grey light of evening filtered through the faded brown curtains. An irritating countdown had started in my head, warning me there were three days left until New Year's Eve. Three days left before I had a right to call myself an adult. Not that it mattered; I felt closer to forty than eighteen right now.

However, a more important issue needed my attention. I had avoided Sam all day, hiding in my room, thinking the problems would just disappear. If thinking ever got you what you wanted. Hell, it never did for me. I'd wanted to tell her everything about that night. I'd wanted to every day for the past week. What was holding me back? The worst she could do was laugh.

Do it. I forced myself out of the chair and headed for her room.

I gave the door a feeble tap, wondering if I was doing the right thing after all. But before I could turn and make a run for it...

"Come in," her soft voice drifted through my wooden barrier of safety.

What else could I do? I eased the door open and stepped inside.

Her room was a total contrast to mine: the walls painted in a deep cerise pink, makeup and accessories cluttering every available space. All the things you'd expect to see, apart from the dressmaker's dummy standing in the corner. Sam studied fashion and had no problems telling everybody of her ambitions. "I'm going to be the next great designer," she'd say. I saw no need to disagree with her.

She turned her head in my direction. "Eve! I was beginning to worry. Where have you been?"

"Coursework, you know." I walked over to her desk.

"You look tired," she said, seated at her sewing machine, her thoughtful eyes probing mine.

"Do I?" I looked away, focusing my attention on the dress pattern beside her. "That's... interesting."

"Oh that. Just a working copy of a more elaborate design. I'm toying with the idea of adding extra frills to the neck. What do you think?"

"Are you sure you're asking the right person?" I could never be what you would call, fashionable. I glanced up, catching the flicker of amusement play across her lips.

"You never know, grunge could be making a revival. Anyway, I value your opinion."

"Sure you do," I said and snorted.

She let out a gentle laugh. "Okay, I'll let it go. So, why have you honoured me with your presence?" She lifted her foot off the pedal and turned to face me. The room went quiet. Too quiet.

Now I was here, looking into her questioning eyes, the thought of divulging my crazy notions catching in my throat, I knew I'd made a mistake. "Been busy." Come on! Even you can come up with something better than that.

"Busy." She rolled her eyes, adding a brief shake of her head. "Eve, it's me. You can tell me anything."

Not this. Of course she knew about my nightmares, but how could I explain to one of the most normal people in the home—my best friend—that the line separating fantasy from reality had vanished from my world.

"Look, I just came to inform you I'll be holed-up in my room for the next couple of days. I'm behind with my work, and you know Mr. Humphreys."

"Really! You're behind. As if." The sewing machine hummed to life.

I took it as an indicator to leave. "Okay. Well, I guess I'll catch up with you at dinner."

"Whatever you say, Eve."

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