Page 20 of A Tragic Melody

It’s an act. I’m not fucking stupid. She is trying to bait me, like I’m just another fish in her pond. If I take a bite, she thinks she can reel me in. Gut me like the rest of the men around her.

They all buy into her act, but I see right through it. She wants to play the slut, play ignorant. She likes that everyone thinks she isn’t capable of anything other than singing and fucking, but I know she is capable of more. The spotlight is something she craves, just like the rest of us. She can brush it off like it’s just a perk, but she wants to be a star like all of us do. Fueled by drugs, she is just dangerous enough to ruin them all. But not me.

“Do you really think I don’t deserve it?” I raise an eyebrow. “You barely know me. For all you know, I could’ve committed horrible crimes I need to atone for.”

“Who am I to judge?” She sighs, wrapping the sleeve of her shirt around her thumb. “I’m obviously not so great myself.”

“Tuesday…” I soften my voice. “Are you asking me to stop the war?”

“Would you?”

“No,” I reply flatly. “Not even if you begged.”

Her eyes light up for just a second, before dropping to the stage again.

“I’m trying, Wyatt. This is me extending an olive branch. You don’t need to be such a dick.” She wipes at her eyes that begin to fill with tears. “Why are guys always such assholes?” Her voice trembles. The urge to comfort her creeps up, but I don’t believe her, not for one second. She is just a good actress.

“They should give you an Oscar.” I laugh. My hand reaches forward, cupping her chin, lifting her head up so our eyes meet. “I see right through you, Tuesday. I’ve been an addict before. You can’t fool me, sweetheart.”

She smiles, her tongue darting out to run over her lips.

“No?” She laughs, licking her lips. “How’s this for faking?” She yanks up the sleeves of her shirt to reveal tiny little cuts across her wrists. I drop her face. “You have no idea how fucking damaged I am. It’s not an act. I’m sorry you don’t believe it, but I’m just trying my best to weather the storm.”

“I’ll believe it when you can sing without being fucked up,” I challenge back. I’m still not convinced she isn’t lying.

“And I’ll believe you aren’t like every other guy when you can make me come.”

“You shouldn’t blame that on the men.” I laugh.

“No? Then who should I blame?”

“The drugs. Or yourself for picking such pathetic men.” I set my guitar down and push myself up. I know the longer this conversation goes on, the more chance I have of losing.

“Are you calling yourself pathetic?” She rises in front of me. I bend to pick up my guitar, and she smiles at me. “Because I’m picking you, you know?” I shrug, walking to the side of the stage. She follows. “Over Derrick. I wanted you the moment I heard you play, but meeting you changed everything. It got me so wet to see the man behind the music.”

The words fall from her mouth quickly. Probably half-truths that are bubbling to the surface as her doped up brain gets heated from the fact I didn’t take her bait.

“Should’ve known you’d be a dick just like the rest of them. Just look at you. You are so up your own ass, you’d rather play for a shitty band than share the stage with someone worthy. Pathetic.” She goes on.

“Yup.” I nod. “That’s me.”

“God,” she groans. “You said I have no heart, but what about you, huh? You are more heartless than me. What, did Mommy and Daddy not love you? Are you a disappointment to them? And now you take it out on everyone around you?”

The girl doesn’t even know she struck a nerve, which makes it hurt more.

I spin around, catching her off guard. She stumbles forward, nearly falling into me.

“No,” I snap back. “They were very supportive of me. They’d probably be more disappointed in my behavior towards you than anything else if they were alive to see it, but sadly for you, they burnt to death with my little sister. Thanks for the reminder though, you evil, self-centered bitch.”

She is stunned for just a moment, but then she is pressing her lips against mine. Now it’s me who is stunned. Too taken back to react. She pulls away quickly, pressing her hands into her face. A sob escapes her mouth before she drops to her knees. Broken sobs come from her tiny frame, and all I can do is stare down at her.

What the hell is happening?

“I’m sorry,” she cries. “I didn’t know. I’m just…I’m such a fucking piece of shit. I’m sorry, Wyatt. God, I hate myself so much sometimes.”

A better man, the man my mom would expect me to be, would drop down beside her and comfort her. Tell her it’s okay. Offer her forgiveness. Even if it is all just an act, compassion is not something you should deny anyone. That’s what my mom used to say. Show compassion to everyone and everything, and you’ll get where you deserve to be in life.

But my mother wasn’t part of this world, and there is just too much at stake for me.