by Lauryn Dyan
I switch to a cross-legged position on the bed and unfold it gingerly, worried I might rip it. The paper barely survived being smashed in my hand the last time I held it. I can’t throw it away now that I realize my mind can’t be trusted even with this.
One fold open. Two. As I pull open the final flap, I drop the sheet like it’s electrocuted me. Scrolled across the paper in big, bold, red letters it reads “OBLITERATE YOUR MIND” with a large, disproportionate, hollow star below it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The image of the mangled star, etched onto my lyrics, is burned into my retinas, piercing the darkness beneath my closed eyelids. I can see the two longer sides stretching towards the edges of the paper like an octopus reaching for its prey. Two others are short and stumpy like trees cut down in their prime. Only one point is perfectly sized for the hollow body. I imagine that perfectly angled side wonders what the fuck it did to get stuck with the other four freaks–kind of like I felt when I first got here. Now I worry I might be one of the messed up ones after all.
I’m curled in the fetal position on my bed fighting off the shock, my song stashed back in the bottom of my drawer. Either I did that to my work when I was blacked out, or someone else did. Both ideas are equally terrifying. If it’s the former, perhaps I’ve been the one sabotaging myself all along.
***
“You’re going to make yourself puke from all your worrying,” Sonny warns.
She and I huddle together in my bunk as the bus careens towards Nashville. We’re in the final third of the tour and that thought alone is enough to make me sick. Coupled with the other crap that’s been happening and I’m utterly knotted inside. After my lame dose of Xanax wore off, I was tempted to take another but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. What if it makes me blackout again? I’d have no one to blame but myself.
I was able to fake a smile for the photoshoot but I think the rest of the band could sense my remorse. It was just the band though. Samantha would barely look at me. It was like being the one kid in the family that got an F on her report card.
Regardless of the things the reporter said, after we left, I still felt I owed everyone an apology for fucking up. They all accepted with expressions that betrayed their concern and told me not to worry about it. “We totally covered for you,” Davey admitted, quelling some of my animosity toward him and Sonny. They got put on the spot, what were they supposed to do? What I did was so unprofessional. It would upset me if one of them blew off a publicity opportunity. I wish I could explain how it wasn’t my fault but I don’t have that explanation. Even if I did, it would probably sound like a pathetic lie.
When we got back to the bus, I wanted to be alone but Sonny wouldn’t let me. She said we need to work past this and hiding out won’t help.
“I know worrying accomplishes nothing but I can’t help it,” I admit. “I have this strange feeling in my gut something is up. What happened this morning wasn’t normal.”
“What do you mean? You just overslept after your dirty escapades with Rickly last night, right?” She wiggles her eyebrows, salaciously.
I debate for a second how much to tell her. My heart tells me I can still trust Sonny, but once I say the words out loud, there’s no taking them back. I love Rickly, I do. Yet there’s no denying he’s been there every time I’ve had an incident.
“Maybe, but I woke up dressed and there was a breakfast outside my door I don’t remember eating. It’s like I had this whole morning where I was up and ready and then something happened and I got knocked back out.”
All playfulness is gone in Sonny’s constricted brows.
“You think Rickly had something to do with it?”
“I...I’m not sure,” is the best I can offer. I can’t blame it on him, yet, but I can’t rule him out as a suspect.
“What did he say about it?”
I avert my eyes and pick at some lint on my scarlet comforter.
“I’ve been avoiding him. Honestly, we just got back from the shoot anyhow.”
“Ah. I was surprised he wasn’t on the bus with you.”
“He texted and asked if I wanted him to ride with me but I pretended I didn’t get it till too late. I’m not sure how to ask him about this without sounding accusing.”
“You have to,” she says, with conviction. “If you believe something is happening to you, especially if you think he’s involved, avoidance isn’t a solution.”
I sigh and flop my head down on the now lint free covers. “This sucks! I’ve got everything I ever wanted. I don’t understand why this shit is happening.”
Sonny goes quiet and I peer at her from over my arm, refusing to raise my head more than a couple inches off my bed. She bites at her nails until she catches me watching her and drops her hand, and turns her gaze upward. She catches sight of the horror on my ceiling. I haven’t bothered to do anything about it, mostly because I’m embarrassed to ask Sam to have it fixed. She is like a second, more judgmental mom. She wants me to have it all together all the time. The gaping hole of disgrace is the opposite of together.
“That’s lovely,” Sonny comments, sarcastically. “I can’t believe Rickly would do that.”
“Well, we know for a fact he did at least fifty percent of it.” Like, the hand-sized puncture wound. “We just don’t know about the rest.” Like, the lyrics about hating me.
“It is pretty damning for him,” she adds, quietly.
I can’t bring myself to nod in agreement, but I do.
***
I walk the sterile asylum halls as though nothing happened. As if I didn’t find a deeply disturbing message left in my nightstand from a deranged me or a deranged someone else. I’m proud of myself for finding the fight to keep going. I want this to end, so I’m going to end it. Only one way to do that: keep functioning and searching for the truth.
I pass patient door after patient door, some open, some closed, as I head to the rec room to meet my mom. She’s not here as much as I’d like since she has to spend most of her time in Arizona with my adolescent sister. It’s been a while between visits and I’m looking forward to spending time with her, though I’ll still need to have my guard up. I don’t want her to see through my carefully crafted façade to the basket case underneath freaking out about night stalkers and scary notes. I’ve worried her enough the past few years.
Entering the room, I find her already at a vacant table waiting with her hands clasped as if in prayer. Other than a few patients huddled around the TV, we are the only ones here this morning. As my mom spots me, her warm expression causes me to falter. It’d be so easy to break down and cry in her arms. To let her soothe me as only mothers can do. But I won’t. I’ve decided that if someone is messing with me, I won’t give them the satisfaction of another public meltdown. They must be watching me. How else would they have known where I stashed that song? Or I’d even written it? Paranoia is a real bitch, but I won’t let it get the best of me.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she greets me. I give her a quick hug, careful not to linger. I take the chair beside her and offer a small smile. “Craig told me you’re doing well. I’m so happy to hear that.”
“I’m making progress, or at least I think so,” I confirm. “But I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of why I’m losing parts of my memory.”
Her brow creases with worry, but her smile doesn’t waver.
“All in God’s time, honey. You’re trying and that’s what matters. It’ll come to you.”
“I hope so.”
There’s a bloated pause so I quickly change the subject eager not to dwell on my problems for fear I’ll crack.
“How are things back home?”
“Good. Helena is busy with school and all her extracurriculars. I’m constantly mixing up where I need to be, she’s got so many meetings and games. I wish I could have brought my phone in to show you pictures of her last soccer scrimmage.” My sister is college bound. She’s determined to get a scholarship someway, somehow. Unlike me, I�
�m positive she’ll go.
“That’s awesome. Glad to hear she’s still on track.”
“She is. I’ll bring you an issue of the school paper. She’s been writing some interesting articles.” Helena inherited the writing gene, too. It’s not her passion, but she does a good job covering current events for her high school newspaper.
“That’d be cool. I was actually going to ask you to bring, or send me, some stuff to read. This place doesn’t offer a lot of entertainment.” I wave at the plain room that seems extra dreary today without the usual flurry of patients.
“Oh honey, that’s great!” She sounds almost as proud as she did talking about my overachieving sister. “I tried to bring you some things when you first got here, but you weren’t interested and Craig said it wasn’t a good idea to push. You must be getting better if you’re showing an interest in the outside world.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not as big a deal as it sounds. I’ve still got a whole slew of issues a newspaper or book won’t erase.
“Thanks. I’m sure there’s a limit on how much I can have, but maybe I can swap stuff out as I finish it.”
She nods.
“Yes, I can give you two books and two magazines. They just have to be inspected by the staff before they pass them to you. I’m not sure where a newspaper falls within that, but I’ll check.” She hesitates. “Do you want to read anything about the band?”
I try to keep my face neutral at the unexpected mention of Tracing Stars.
“Maybe. What do you have?” I’m not sure I want to read anything about them sans-Kennedy.
“There’s this great article, in some music magazine, which came out not long after you got here. It was one of the first things I tried to bring. I thought reading all the nice things they wrote about you would do you some good.”
I attempt to remember what article that would be based on her vague reference to ‘some music magazine.’ Is it our last magazine interview in Atlanta? All the interviews on the tour kind of blur together but that one was a standout nightmare.
“Okay,” I reply, tentatively. I’m torn. A part of me is worried reading about my glory days might be like pouring salt in a wound. Another part is eager to get my hands on it in the hopes it helps pry another memory loose. That part wins. “Okay,” I say again with more conviction. An article all about us is sure to kick that pear from dinner’s ass that couldn’t drum up one lost image.
“Wonderful. I’ll send it as soon as I can,” she replies.
***
Rickly: “Bert isn’t as good at being the small spoon as you.”
I smile at the phone I hold above me as the latest late night text from Rickly buzzes. Despite my apprehension over his proximity to my problems, I still miss him. My dark, empty bed makes my heart ache like someone is chipping away at it with a pick ax. I hope and pray he’s not to blame for what’s happening.
Me: “Um, because he’s bigger than you.”
Rickly: “By like an inch. Besides, size doesn’t matter right?”
Me: “Well, if you were any bigger we couldn’t do it in my bunk, so yeah, it does.”
Rickly: Funny GIF of a kid making a shocked face. “So you only date me because I’m the right size for sex in your tiny bed!”
Me: “Sorry you had to find out like this.” Frowny emoji.
Rickly: “That’s all right. I’m happy to be used by Kennedy the badass.”
I chuckle and start to tap out “used and loved,” but the little bubble pops up signaling he’s typing again and I quickly erase it.
Rickly: “So why didn’t I really stay over tonight?”
My thumbs freeze over the keyboard. I’m not sure what to tell him. I don’t want to talk about this morning at the hotel yet. Partially because I want to see his face when I do so I can read his reaction better. I also don’t want to lie to him, so I go with a simplified version of the truth.
Me: “Had a rough interview. Needed some time alone with the band. Will fill you in tomorrow.”
I hold my breath waiting for him to reply.
Rickly: “That sucks. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.”
Me: Frowny face with single tear emoji. Doesn’t seem quite impactful enough. They need a version of the poop emoji crying. Why is that shit always smiling?
Rickly: “Well, babe, gotta get to bed. I’ll miss my appropriately-sized, small spoon. Love you.”
I laugh a little and then close out our conversation: “Love you, too.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thump, thump, thump. I opted to hang out for Sheltered’s soundcheck today so I could talk to Rickly without a lot of other people about. We’re perched on stools in the small balcony overlooking Bert alone on stage pounding away on his drums as the sound engineer works to get the acoustics right.
Rickly and I both had busy mornings so this is the first time we’ve gotten to spend any alone time together. I’d had a relatively ordinary breakfast with the band. Jack was the only one who seemed grumpy, but he also hadn’t had his coffee yet. I’m not going to read too much into that one. Then all three bands had an appearance at a record store opening where Rickly and I shared a brief hello and smooch before we got pulled apart again. If recent events didn’t have me so rattled, I’d swear things were back to normal.
“So, how was your snuggle time with the guys?” I lead in. I’m not quite ready to potentially accuse my boyfriend of being a sneaky douche bag yet.
“What you’d expect. Stinky feet in my face, Aaron snoring in my ear. I haven’t slept there in so long I couldn’t block him out as well as I used to.” He says it like it’s a point of pride. Like forgetting how to ignore the hell of the shitty van is a worthy sacrifice for every cozy night we’ve had together. How can someone who treats me like a precious commodity also want to terrorize me? Every time I come near Rickly, all the fears I have about him messing with me dwindle. Sonny’s voice in my head telling me I need to rule him out snaps me back to focus.
“I’m sure it was horribly uncomfortable compared to our hotel stay.” I try not to let an edge slip into my words, but I do. He seems not to notice.
“Hell yes and much less thrilling.” He reaches over and takes my hand, giving it a quick kiss before setting our intertwined fingers down on the metal guardrail in front of us. He taps his foot along to the beat of Bert’s bass drum.
“Thrilling...that’s one way to put it,” I offer, slowly.
His foot stops tapping as he turns to look at me.
“What?”
The pained expression that crosses his face and tightens his jaw makes me pause. I suck at confronting him. Normally, being straight-forward isn’t an issue for me, but the more deeply I fall for him, the harder it becomes. I have to barrel on before I lose my nerve.
“I’m talking about the morning after. That night we had was amazing. I still get chills remembering you carrying me out of the hot shower over to the cold top of the desk,” and as I say it, a shiver of pleasure runs up my spine.
He smirks pleased and his jaw relaxes a hair, but he still presses for more.
“What happened in the morning?”
“It was rough, to say the least. I was hoping you could tell me what happened before I woke up.” I want to say “before you left” but if I did interact with him that morning, I don’t want to tip him off I blacked out. There’s a good chance I might have, and it’s becoming a hot-button issue between us.
“Not much of anything.” I watch his eyes trail Trent as he walks to the stage to layer in the bass. “We were sleeping. I woke up first and I, um...” he sputters.
“What?” My heart rate accelerates at his hesitation. Is this where the lie or awful truth comes out?
“It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“What is? Tell me,” I plead.
He sighs.
“We fell asleep naked and, when I woke up, you looked so gorgeous lying on your stomach tangled in the white sheet, your hair all str
ewn about. I totally zoned out watching you for at least ten minutes. If I hadn’t hit snooze on my alarm, I might have had to skip a morning shower to avoid being late to meet the guys to practice before our record store set.”
“Oh.” I flush at his sweet admission. I wish I could erase the parts that happened after that and use this as the last picture of us in the hotel.
“Anyway,” he fidgets, and goes on. “I got up after that. When I came out of the bathroom, you were eating breakfast. You told me not to wait for you to leave.”
I process this information, my stomach knotting as my suspicion I blacked out is confirmed.
“Why did you want to know about that time, anyway?” he asks.
“I don’t remember. Breakfast or any of that, that is.” I squeeze his hand and face him, fighting back tears.
His eyes widen in shock.
“How the hell not?”
“I don’t know.” I want to shout in exasperation, but I don’t want to draw the attention of the rest of his band. Aaron stands by the stage ready to take his emerald guitar up to play. “I thought I overslept but, when I woke up, I was dressed and there was a used room service tray outside our door. I don’t remember seeing you in the morning, eating, getting ready, or going back to sleep, if that’s what happened.”
He lets go of my hand and runs his fingers through his messy, blonde hair.
“Shit, Kennedy. That is not good.” I experience a small twinge of relief that he sounds more frustrated than mad. “Did you take anything the night before?”
“Not at all. I didn’t feel like I needed to.” And I hadn’t. Just being with him was enough.
“I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you need to see someone.”
“Someone? Like a doctor or shrink?”
He shrugs.
“I’m not sure. It seems like this is snowballing out of control and I don’t know how to help you. Only you can fix your head.”
I consider this as one tear slips down my cheek. I want to jam it back in my eye.
“Maybe, or maybe someone is fucking with me,” I blurt, the pain forcing the words out of me.
