Paige
FADE: A gradual adjustment of volume in a song, used to transition sound out of or into silence
Something is biting my foot.
The room around me is pitch black, the darkness thick and heavy like a congealing liquid holding me down. I’m pinned to the floor, flat on my back with my arms splayed at my sides. I can feel the jaws clamped around my foot, shaking so hard the impact travels up my leg and jostles my hip in its socket, but still, I can’t move.
I try to open my mouth instead, ready to scream, but no sound comes out. No air fills my lungs. I’m paralyzed, my body nothing but a shell I’m trapped inside.
“Paige!”
My name.
The sound echoes through the blackness around me before coming again, louder this time, more insistent.
“Paige, wake up!”
The grip on my foot shifts, and realization blooms: it’s not a mouth. It’s a hand. I’m not being bitten; I’m being shaken.
“Paige, wake the fuck up!”
My eyes fly open to take in the sight of my dark bedroom. Someone’s hunched over me, a woman. She’s silhouetted by the light streaming in from the open door behind her. I blink a few times, and her face comes into focus.
Ingrid.
She notices my open eyes and sighs in relief. “Jesus, you sleep like the dead.”
The panic of the dream subsides as sleep loses its hold on me. I’m lying on my bed, flat on my back like I was in the dream. My laptop is sitting a few inches away, the screen black. I lift my hand to rub my eyes, and something clinks on the blanket beside me. I look again and notice all the brushes and containers laid out on my comforter like tiny islands.
Ingrid steps back and looks between me and the stuff on my bed like a detective intent on solving an intricate mystery.
“Were you...puttingmakeupon?”
“Uh...” I push myself up into a seat. My voice is thick and groggy. I pause to clear my throat and to give myself time to assess what the fuck is going on.
It was still light outside when I got the box of makeup out from under my bed. I was feeling all jittery from overloading on caffeine after staying up most of the night working on a new song, and doing my makeup always calms me down. The last thing I remember was pressing play on a smokey eye tutorial from my favourite YouTube channel. I was going to do one video, wash everything off, and then head out to grab dinner with Ingrid before my gig—
Fuck.
My gig.
“Mierda. What time is it?”
I sit bolt upright and start clawing at the blankets as I try to find my phone in the semi-darkness. Ingrid chuckles, which is a very Ingrid reaction to the situation.
“It’s not funny, Ingrid! What time is it?”
“Your set starts in half an hour.”
“Half an hour? Shit.Chó ch?t. Shit shit shit.”
I jump to my feet as Ingrid laugh at my multilingual cursing.
“That one means ‘damn,’ right?” she asks.
One of our primary forms of bonding is swapping swear words with each other: Vietnamese and Spanish from me, Dutch from her.
“Not the time, Ingrid!”
