Where The Dandelions Grow

05 - Dreamy

Echo's POV

Sweating.

There's so much sweat that I can feel the material of my shirt sticking to my back. It's like my shirt is swallowing me whole, stitching itself into my skin as if it owns me.

The tears on my face are just as worst as they stream down my cheeks. I got work in three hours and I can't manage to sleep. Not when I feel like the walls of my room are caving in on me, not when I can't stand the material of my clothes, or the hair on my head sticking to my forehead.

I can't stand it all and I can't bring in a full breath of air for shit. The oxygen in here is depleting, it feels so thin, so fragile, like I'm only a few breaths away from sucking the life out of it.

Why can't I have one good night? Why do they have to be filled with so much struggle? I can't just fall asleep like a normal person, no, I must have the pain that I carry around carelessly throughout the day hit me all at once when the sun goes down. When all I'm left with is me, my thoughts, and I. And it's then that I began to feel it come crashing.

I began to think of something to calm me down. I've never been good at it—defusing the situation. I either fall asleep with eyes full of tears, or I never sleep at all. There is never an in-between. There's no better outcome. There never has been for over five years. I'm just horrible at this crap.

You're not horrible. You just need to realize how great you can be.

Brandon's voice swarms my head. The softness of his words, even after I had just finished dumping a bunch of shit on him for really no reason at all.

He was so patient with me. Something I can't say for many I've met over the years. Besides Hailey, of course. She was the most patient person I've ever met. There wasn't a moment when she couldn't sit down and listen to my problems. Even her silence was enough.

Brandon is coming in a close second.

I find myself with a frown on my face as I think of our interaction yesterday. How did he not get up and walk out on me? Better question, why didn't he get up and walk out on me? He doesn't know me, and he certainly didn't have to take a blow to the chest. If he said something about what happened in the bathroom, I could've gotten fired. Especially with how angry Greg was with me when I got back from the bathroom.

I roll off to my side and sigh, staring at the faint sight of my wall across the room.

***

"You look like absolute shit, kid," Greg mutters as I tie my apron around my waist. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

No, my eyes became dry from the hours I spent staring at nothing. My mouth as well, considering I couldn't bring myself to get a glass of water that would only take only a few steps into the kitchen to get. Those few steps felt like life or death. For some reason I find myself strung on small decisions that would be so simple to others but take an immense amount of effort for me. Why? Who the hell knows?

I smile bitterly. "You're lucky I came into work today."

He chuckles. "Oh, am I? You do know I own this place, right? I can just hire someone else."

I grabbed a rag and the spray bottle full of soap. "Yeah... but then who else would make you want to rip your hair out—" I gasp, like forgetting something, "Oh wait, what hair?" I point to the shiny bald spot at the top of Greg's head, and he whacks a rag my way. I dodge it, smiling.

"Get outta here, girl. Go set them tables before I send you walkin' through the door."

***

My curls are a blessing and a curse sometimes. I love being mixed, don't get me wrong, but when I'm baking in a bar filled with men who reek of cigarettes and booze, I feel like the scent lives on each strand of hair, hiding in my coils. I need to shower.