BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

▬▬ 41

FRIDAY
21.11.1996
DORIAN

               Toying with the drawstring of my joggers, I check the time, then glance at my door again. I've been waiting to get dinner for six hours and the hunger has built up to the point where I'm lightheaded, but the noise down the hall deters me from getting up.

My flatmates have guests over. At first, I thought they'd only be around for an hour (it is Thursday — well, Friday now, it's past midnight) and I could wait them out, (I'm far too exhausted to look presentable or meet new people or smile or do small talk or act human in any way) but they didn't leave and if I go now, they'll all think I'm weird for waiting six hours.

The phone rings. My pulse skyrockets and I snap my head around quick enough to crick my neck. Adrenaline surges down my legs.

It's past midnight; it can't be a telemarketer or formal call. What if my parents found my number? (They've probably had it all along!) Or Elijah? What more do they want from me? What if they've changed their minds about leaving me on my own? What if they've found another conversion programme they want to ship me to? I've heard about parents arranging for their kids to be abducted from their beds and the fact that I'm legally an adult will make no difference: I'll always be their child.

Blood rushes in my ears. My knees nearly give in when I climb off the bed. I drag myself to the phone but still don't answer.

No. Logically speaking, nobody in my family would call me. They haven't tried doing so once in the past six years. If my parents decide to abduct me, they won't give me a warning first. It could be a wrong number. It could be a prank call. It could be something important.

On the last ring, I seize it but I'm slow to raise it to my ear. 'Hello?'

'Dorian?' Isaiah's voice is confused. It's not a question of my identity but of my well-being. What he says is: what's wrong? When I don't respond, he curses under his breath. 'Were you asleep? I'm sorry. It's the middle of the night, I shouldn't've phoned—'

'No!' Just as my heartbeat begins to calm, it spikes again. 'I'm not asleep. I wasn't sleeping. Don't hang up!' When I still hear his breathing and the quiet folk rock in the background, I sigh and my panic settles. 'I'm waiting to get dinner.'

'Dinner? It's one in the morning.'

'There are people in the kitchen.'

I grimace the moment I've said it (what kind of twenty-three-year-old can't eat dinner because there are other people in the shared kitchen? I'm too old for this, I'm way too old to be like this) but all Isaiah responds with is an, 'Okay,' as though it's perfectly normal.

Both of us wait for the other to speak for several seconds until he bites the bullet. 'I'm... outside.' His inflexion turns it into a question. 'Um... Now I think about it, I really should've waited for the morning—'

'I'm on my way.' I go to hang up but jerk the microphone back to my mouth for a rushed, 'See you in a minute.'

I splash some water on my eyes which are dry and red in the mirror. It makes me look like I've been crying. Sliding my trainers on, I grab my keys and leave my room only to halt at the door.

Conversation booms from the kitchen. Do I say hello? Should I wave and smile as I pass? Is that weird? Or is weird not to?

I don't end up getting a choice because the door opens as I pass and someone calls my name. I have to turn to them. In addition to Sam and Justin, there are several others gathered around the round table. They're all holding playing cards with several beverages in front of them. They're all staring at me through the indoor window.