Prologue
Katherine
Don’t Fear the Reaper – Gus Black
Ihave always thought about what it would feel like to die.
Ever since I was a child, I held the belief that it would be the big, white light that everyone talks about, the out-of-body experience where you’re looking down at your corpse and loved ones crying. At the ripe old age of eighty-six, in my own bed…happy. I imagined watching my funeral, seeing all the people I knew in life talk about me as though we were best friends. Bullshit stories about how I was a great person with a great heart who could do no wrong. I imagined seeing my grandmother again, getting to ask Kurt Cobain all the questions I wanted to ask him…
Today is not that day. But I will still die.
I take a deep breath, the crisp morning air burning my lungs as I fist the dew-covered grass beside the lake. Thick fog cascades down the lush green hillside, the same hillside I used to run up and roll down as a kid. My parents screaming at me, “Slow down, Katherine, you’ll hurt yourself!” The same hillside where my grandmother’s ashes are buried—under a sycamore tree at the highest point.
The future feels close enough to touch, but never stays. The future where my husband and I are sat in this very spot hours before our wedding day. We steal a few kisses before the chaos before starting our forever together. And years later, we will bring our children to the lake and teach them to swim. And when the time finally comes, after a long, happy, fulfilled life together, my ashes will join my grandmother at the sycamore tree.
The sting in my eyes brings me back to the present. That life isn’t mine anymore. Maybe it never was. I count my breaths in an attempt to calm my racing heart. I can’t afford to back out now. I slip my phone out of my pocket and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the screen, the sting in my eyes threatens to return. The eyes that used to be soulful are now dull and empty, my jet black hair thick with grease and pulled up into a lazy bun frames my hollow face. I don’t recognize the broken girl staring back at me.
Before I can think, I throw my phone into the lake. The soft plop rings out my funeral bell. I take one final deep breath, inhaling the fresh, earthy air one last time, and then I turn on my heel, tuck a piece of thread into my pocket and leave no trace.
I don’t look back when the screech of tires rings out in the distance.
Katherine Abbott is dead.
One
Kat
Wild Side – Mötley Crüe
Lights blaze, the walls shake, and I can’t hear myself think. Just the way I like it. My body sways carelessly to the music, letting each pounding of the beat reach my soul. My blonde hair clings to the back of my neck as beads of sweat coat my chest. The air tastes like electricity and stale body odor, and in this moment, I can’t imagine anything tasting sweeter.
My arms reach for the ceiling as the climax of the song hits its peak. I whip my hair in every direction without a care for who or what it might touch—but I already know I’ll be washing it the moment I get home.
“Here, girl, take this,” Harper shoves a Jack and coke into my hand.
I take the drink and thank my best friend as she pulls me over to the nearest booth. My thighs stick to the black leather as I scoot over to make room for her.
“I just dropped the CD off with that very handsome bartender,” she says, her gaze wandering back to the bar with a little wink that earns her a slight smirk in return.
Rolling my eyes, I giggle. Classic Harper. She’s always been the more extroverted of the two of us.
“Do you think we’ll get it? The residency?” I ask, mindlessly stirring the small drinking straw around the glass, the dark liquid leaving a ripple in its wake.
Harper takes a long sip of her mojito, her red lipstick leaving a perfect imprint on the glass. “I don’t know. Residencies at Headstone are notoriously difficult to get. I know the last band they had for residency and they stayed for two years. Headstone wouldn’t even look at another band.”
I nod absentmindedly as my eyes roam around the bar that has almost become my second home. I can remember the first time I came to Headstone. At that point, I had spent about two weeks in Bridgeport. I was lost, homeless, and had about three dollars and a tent to my name. I was wandering the streets without purpose, dripping wet from the rain. Music spilled out onto the street from this little bar that seemed to call me inside. I followed the beat of the drum and the screech of a guitar. The smell of stale beer hit me as I took my first step through the chipped wooden doors. What I found inside filled a small void in my soul. A room full of people who were different—just like me. It was the first place ever to offer me a glimpse of the freedom I was so desperately craving. I spent the next few hours sitting at the bar, drinking water and picking at a bowl of nuts the bartender had slid in front of me.
I made a habit of visiting Headstone at least twice a week. Addicted to the music that drowned out my thoughts and made me feel… calm. That was until someone slid into the seat next to me, leaning closer than necessary.
“Hey,” he said, his voice casual, but the lust in his eyes told a different story.
He lingered, ignoring the way I shuffled in my seat, rubbed my sweaty palms against my unintentionally rippedjeans. His eyes just followed the movement hungrily. When his hand grazed my arm, I stiffened. My vision narrowed on the nearest exit. My thighs tensed in preparation. But before I could run, she was there.
“Oh my god, girl, where have you been? I thought you’d left,” Harper shouted over the music as she linked her arm with mine, leading me away from the sleaze at the bar, who was now giving her a deathly stare.
Over the following weeks, we started hanging out almost every day. From walks in the park to movie nights at her apartment, we were rarely without each other. It didn’t take her long to figure out my living situation. She invited me over on a random Tuesday. Her eyes twinkled as she placed my tattered backpack on my new bed and handed me a key. Despite all my protests, I stayed with her for a few months until I got my own apartment thanks to the job at the coffee shop, which she helped me to get—where she also worked.
“Oh my god I love this song!” Harper screams, breaking me out of my reverie.
