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That night Lyric sang, jumping on my lap and touching me, caused me to shrink within myself, because I liked it. Wanted more. And it fucking terrified me as I remembered what more felt like.
I remember the touches that singed my skin.
The way they touched me.
How I begged them to stop.
But my voice was hollow.
Resonating.
A sound no one seemed to hear.
The world was merely a shadow
as they tied me up.
Cuffed me.
Used me.
Drained my soul.
Spilled my blood into the earth.
Then left me for dead.
To rot away with the others.
Rot away with their sins.
“Ayden, did you hear me?”
I focus back on reality as I listen to my band members, trying to figure out a plan that will get our foot in the door of the music industry.
“We should definitely have a talk with Lyric’s dad,” Sage puts in his two cents as he puts away his guitar.
“Wow,” Lyric states, appearing offended. “Sometimes I feel like I’m being used for my dad’s connections.”
Sage swiftly shakes his head. “No. Not at all.” He props his guitar against the wall then faces her. “You have a killer voice, Lyric. Seriously. We’re going to be badass.” He scratches at the corner of his bloodshot eye. “I’m just saying that we shouldn’t waste a good connection like that.”
Lyric unplugs the microphone and winds up the cord. “Well, I’ll bring it up to him, but he won’t do anything until he hears us. We have to be good.”
“We are good,” Sage presses, checking out her ass as she bends over to stick the microphone into a bottom shelf cupboard. When he notices that I catch him, he offers me a tense smile and shrugs, like what are you going to do?
“Yeah, we’ll see.” Lyric stands upright, tugs the elastic out of her hair, and then combs her fingers through her locks as she ponders over something.
Even though I’ve tried not to, I end up zoning in on her every move, the relaxed expression on her face, the way her chest arches the slightest bit, the way her glossy lips part …
“What do you think, Ayden?” Lyric asks me as she gathers her hair back into a messy bun on her head and secures it with the elastic.
I realize I’m staring at her, holding my breath, and clutching the life out of my guitar.
“About what?” I ask her dazedly.
She holds my gaze, silently begging for something I don’t fully understand, nor do I think I can give to her. “About asking my dad for help?”
I shrug as I slide the guitar strap over my head. “If you want to, then do it. I’m sure he’ll be okay with it.” I don’t look at her as I speak. Instead, I concentrate on putting my guitar away, checking my phone, the clock, anything to keep me busy, hyperaware that she’s watching me, like she has every day at practice and at school. Our time has only been filled with formal conversation and polite smiles, and I think it’s starting to get to her. It’s definitely starting to get to me.
“I have to go,” I lie when her stare becomes unbearable. “I have some stuff I’m supposed to do at home.”
I continue to feel her eyes on me as I hurry across the room, grab my jacket, and dart out the door. Only when I step out into the cool night air can I breathe again.
Lyric and I haven’t been driving to band practice or school together, so I make the short drive home by myself, with only my thoughts for company. I’m lonely. Sad. Lost.
On the one hand, I want to remain in my little bubble, because it’s easier to breathe and exist. Then again, my bubble isn’t really giving me the shelter it used to. It was easier being lonely when that was all I knew. Now that I’ve gotten a taste of the other side, where I can coexist with people, putting myself in solitude isn’t as simple.
By the time I arrive home, I’m miserable and sullen. Lila notices my depression the moment I trudge into the house—she has for the last couple of weeks now. Like always, she convinces me to help her out with something to keep me from locking myself into my room.
“Help me bake Everson’s birthday cake,” she tells me when I wander into the kitchen, looking for something to eat.
“I’m not that good at baking,” I point out as I hunt the cupboards for something to fill my appetite. “Remember when I tried to make those cookies?”
She kindly smiles as she pulls out a carton of eggs from the fridge. “I’ll put you on egg duty. It’s hard to mess that up.”
Closing the cupboard, I take a seat on the barstool and do what she asks, breaking and separating eggshells. Something in the process and the way the yolk falls out of the egg strikes up a distant memory.
Thick, like yolk.
I watch the blood drip.
Over and over.
A repeated pattern.
Driving me mad.
The way it splatters.
Across the floor.
The sound is like nails.
Pounding into my skull.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Even when I shut my eyes
the dripping still exists.
Over and over.
Never a miss.
I’d lift my hands.
Cover my ears.
Suffocating the dripping out.
But my wrists are tied.
Weighed to the ground.
So I’m stuck
with the torture
weighing me down.
“Ayden, did you hear me?” Lila asks.
I flinch out of my daze, returning back to reality. What I’m supposed to be doing. The food on the counter. The eggs in front of me.
“Um, no, I didn’t. Sorry.” I pick up an egg and crack the shell against the edge of the bowl while she turns down the heat on the stove.
I’m not sure why I suddenly remembered the sound of the blood dripping, or who the blood even belonged to. I wish I could figure out why I’m having a sudden onset of memories so I could come up with a way to forget again.
“I asked you if you wanted to go help Lyric and her dad work on the car he bought her.” She moves a pan of boiling water to an unheated burner. “I’m sure cooking is getting boring.”
I split the egg apart and let the yolk drip into the bowl. “Nah, I’m cool here.”
Trepidation creases her face. “Are you sure? Because you seem like you’re not having that much fun.”
“I’m fine.” I set the eggshells down on the counter and wipe my fingers on a paper towel.
She dithers, pulling a drawer open to retrieve a spoon. “You and Lyric seem … I don’t know. Did you have a fight or something?”
“No.” It’s technically not a lie. We’re not exactly fighting. I’m just avoiding her. And she’s tried to get me to talk to her. A lot.
“Then why aren’t you two hanging out anymore?”
“I don’t know.”
She’s growing frustrated, her cheeks reddening. “Well, I don’t care what’s going on.” She suddenly goes from kind, caring mom to annoyed, get-your-shit together mom, a side I’ve never seen before. She shoves a plate full of cookies into my hand and shoos me toward the door. “You will go over, and giv
e Lyric and her father some of these cookies.”
She has got to be shitting me.
“But—”
“No buts,” she cuts me off, snapping her fingers as she points toward the doorway. “Either you go over there, or I make you go talk to the therapist. Maybe he can get to the bottom of why you two suddenly aren’t speaking to each other.”
