The next day crept by like a half-dead sloth on a bad caffeine withdrawal. Dom slouched in her desk at school, the dull hum of the teacher’s voice barely registering as she doodled absently in the margins of her notebook. The edges of the paper were already a jungle of swirling patterns and angular shapes that vaguely mirrored the designs on the puzzle box. Her pencil moved automatically, sketching out lines that twisted and overlapped, as though her subconscious was solving problems her waking mind refused to confront.
Her eyes flicked up occasionally, scanning the classroom as if it might yield some shred of interest. It didn’t. Instead, she focused on avoiding Nile and Ash, who were, predictably, seated together across the room.
Lovey-dovey didn’t even begin to cover it. Ash leaned into Nile like he was her personal sun, basking in his warmth with that radiant, toothpaste-commercial smile. Nile wasn’t much better, offering her that easy grin of his, the one Dom knew could melt icebergs.
Dom’s stomach twisted, a knot of irritation and something she refused to name. It wasn’t like she cared. Why should she? They were happy. Good for them. Great, even. Fantastic. But every time Ash giggled at one of Nile’s dumb jokes or leaned in to whisper something in his ear, Dom felt an itch under her skin, like her body wanted to crawl out of itself and escape.
When the lunch bell rang, Dom bolted from her seat, stuffing her sketchbook into her bag and ignoring Nicky’s attempt to flag her down. She wasn’t in the mood for gossip or sly questions about her plans for her birthday. She wasn’t even in the mood for fries, and that was saying something.
Instead, she slipped away to her usual hiding spot: the art room. It was blissfully empty, the faint smell of paint and clay lingering in the air. Dom dropped her bag onto a stool and pulled out her sketchbook, flipping to a blank page.
For the rest of the lunch period, she lost herself in the lines and curves of her pencil, sketching with a ferocity that matched the storm brewing inside her. The patterns grew more intricate, spiraling outward like the puzzle box’s endless designs. She didn’t know what she was drawing anymore -something ancient and alive, like a whisper from her own subconscious.
The rest of the school day passed in a haze. Dom barely noticed her classes or the teachers’ droning voices. The only thing that kept her grounded was the thought of tomorrow night.
Birthday Laser Tag.
It was the one constant she could count on -the one thing that wouldn’t change, no matter how many problems, or awkward love triangles loomed in the background. It was her and Nile, like always, no complications.
She clung to that thought like a lifeline as the final bell rang. By the time her shift at work ended, she was running on autopilot, her mind already halfway to the battlefield.
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
∞
“Hey, Dad, I’m home!”
Dom burst into the house like a whirlwind, her boots thudding against the hardwood floor as the door slammed shut behind her. Her voice carried a palpable excitement that ricocheted off the walls, infusing the otherwise quiet house with energy.
Jacque’s voice floated back from the kitchen, warm and tinged with amusement. “Hey, honey! Are you and Nile doing your annual tournament tonight?”
“Tournament?!” Dom called down from upstairs, already two steps ahead in her rush to get ready. “I wouldn’t really call it a tournament. ‘Execution’ feels more accurate. Nile doesn’t stand a chance.”
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Jacque chuckled softly to himself as he poured a glass of Coke, the fizzing bubbles catching the light, swirling like miniature galaxies in his glass. He leaned against the counter, listening to the sounds of Dom’s chaos echoing from above. “Well, sweetie, when you have a chance, there’s something for you on the living room table.”
“Thanks, Dad! I’ll check it out when I’m ready.”
Jacque shook his head with a knowing smile. He could already picture the storm brewing upstairs, a familiar scene he’d witnessed countless times before.
Meanwhile, Dom’s room was a warzone where fashion and functionality had collided in spectacular fashion -and both had lost. Her queen-sized bed was buried under a kaleidoscope of textures and colors: leather jackets, ripped jeans, camo skirts, and band T-shirts fought for dominance in a heap of fabric. The Navajo rug on the floor had all but disappeared beneath a scatter of shoes, their positioning so haphazard it looked like a tornado had handpicked and tossed them.
“Where’s my backup combat skirt?” Dom muttered, flinging a sequined scarf over her shoulder as though it had personally offended her.
Her computer desk stood untouched, an island of sanity in the surrounding sea of chaos. Even amidst the sartorial apocalypse, Dom had her boundaries -certain sacred spaces remained inviolable.
Both Peanut and Charlie were entertained as they watched in amusement as the flurry of motion that was Dom raced to and fro in a frenetic dance of pandemonium. When the artillery was really flying, a random shirt landed on Peanut’s head, causing Charlie to chuckle -a sound which quickly turned into a gagging hiss, as a pair of stray underwear landed atop her face. She batted them away, throwing a scowl towards Peanut, which caused him to let loose a huffing bark of a laugh in response.
After what felt like a pitched battle, Dom stood victorious in front of her full-length mirror, her chosen ensemble a masterpiece of calculated chaos. Black, calf-high, skin-tight heeled boots with metal studs encased her legs, paired with stockings patterned with barbed wire. A short, dark camo skirt flirted with rebellion, and her loose-fitting Dead Sara T-shirt boldly proclaimed her allegiance to rock ‘n’ roll. The look was anchored by a fitted leather jacket that radiated an understated menace.
Her makeup completed the vibe: smoky eyeliner framed her sharp eyes, a touch of blush added warmth, and her deep crimson lipstick whispered danger with every smirk. Her hair, gelled and swept into a messy faux hawk, crowned her look with spikes that seemed to defy gravity -a crowning achievement of controlled chaos that Dom took immense pride in.
Tilting her head, she struck a pose: one hand on her hip, the other holding her pièce de resistance -a custom-modded Psi-Ops laser tag gun adorned with a Gothic Hello Kitty decal in black, white, and red, perfectly positioned just above the trigger.
She smirked at her reflection, an unspoken challenge gleaming in her eyes. As she turned away, her reflection winked back at her -an eerie, fleeting motion that Dom missed entirely in her hurry to escape the disaster zone and head downstairs.
Carefully, she navigated her minefield of a room, her boots clicking sharply on the hardwood as she descended the stairs with purpose.
In the living room, Jacque leaned casually against the table, his posture relaxed but his eyes lighting up as Dom entered.
“Wow, honey,” he said, letting out a low whistle of appreciation. “You look amazing! That boy doesn’t stand a chance.”
Dom rolled her eyes, but the faintest smile tugged at her lips. “Yeah, yeah, keep it coming.”
Jacque shifted awkwardly, his half-empty glass of Coke suddenly looking very guilty under the open pages of a National Geographic. He made a valiant but doomed attempt to slide it out of view, but Dom’s eagle eyes caught it instantly.
“Dad,” she said, her voice dripping with mock disappointment, “that better be iced tea and not Coke.”
Jacque froze mid-motion, his sheepish grin as endearing as it was incriminating. “Come on, honey. It was just one can.”
“You know what that stuff does to you,” Dom chided, her hands on her hips now, her voice taking on the cadence of a well-practiced lecture. “The doctor said no sugar spikes, remember? You’re supposed to be taking care of yourself.”
“I know, I know.” Jacque avoided her gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner. “It won’t happen again. Promise.”
Dom raised an eyebrow, her expression equal parts skeptical and amused. “Oh, sure it won’t. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Dad. Just... ease up, okay? I know where your stash is, and I’m not above counting cans.”
Jacque’s grin widened as he raised his hand in a mock Boy Scout salute. “Scout’s honor.”
Dom rolled her eyes, laughing despite herself. “You’re impossible.”
Jacque took the opportunity to change the subject, patting the couch cushion next to him. “Come sit for a second, sweetheart. I want to show you something before you head out.”