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Another fight that ends with me needing stitches.
* * *
A third week.
I can see Mom wasting away as each hour passes.
Dad is trying to hold it together. He’s on the phone every day.
But no one has news.
I have a cracked rib from last night. And a black eye that my parents are too distant to notice.
My feet scuff along the sidewalk as I near the line for Comet.
I’ve been here every night when I haven’t been starting fights that I keep losing.
I know she isn’t going to be here, but what’s left of my soul just wants to be close to her. Close to her last known location.
The line moves forward, and I think about that night.
I think about what we said to each other.
She didn’t straight out ask me to go with her, but the invitation was there. And I didn’t go.
I could’ve gone.
If only I’d have gone.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t go with Freya, and the last words I ever said to her weregood luck.
The bouncer sighs when he sees me, but we’ve done this routine. I hand him a couple hundred dollars, and he lets me in.
It’s not like I’ll be trying to get a drink at the bar. I’m going to do what I always do—stand against the wall, staring into the crowd, willing the darkness inside me to hold off just a little longer. Just long enough for me to find her.
* * *
My mother’sscreams wake me up.
They’re unending.
They’re agony.
And I know.
I know they found my sister.
And I know she’s dead.
I scramble out of bed, but my legs don’t hold me.
I crash to the floor.
I can’t breathe.
My lungs won’t fill.
