#satmm

Chapter 17: Confessions

Once it's out of my mouth, I know I can’t take it back. The silence that falls between us nearly rips me in two. The confusion that was on his face just a few seconds ago is replaced with sheer shock and horror. I don't know what to say, so I don't even try. Instead, I turn away, my fingers drumming against the table.

"What?" His voice is low, a hint of disbelief swirling around. I feel sick and keep my mouth closed. Slowly, he walks over to me. Not wanting him to get to close, I quickly shake my head and he abruptly stops.

"Shadow," he says, "what did you just say?"

I don't answer him. I don't know how to answer him. All I know it that, right before I had said it, it had felt right to say it, but now that it's out in the open, I want to take it back. Even worse, I wish I didn't want to take it back.

I swallow hard. Pretending that I never even said anything, I go back to the cards. I furiously rip back the envelopes. And though I take the time to read each one, I quickly forget what I've just read. My mind is on my confession, completely aware that Wyatt is watching me.

"This is so nice. All of these flowers and cards." In my voice, I'm begging for him to leave it be, for him to not ask.

My luck doesn't work like that.

Wyatt sits at the table. "Shadow." I don't look at him. "Shadow."

"I'll have to send thank you notes to all of these people."

"Shadow!"

His voice is so loud and powerful that I stiffen. The card I’m holding shakes, my hand quivering. I feel his gaze on me, and it makes my stomach hurt more and my heart race faster. Sitting there beside him, I know:

I'm fucked.

Slowly, he reaches for the pile of cards I've already gone through. He sifts through them. I know he's looking for signatures. Eventually, he lifts one up. Holding it up by the corner, he asks, "Him?"

At first, I don't move. When I glance over, it's with hesitation. Only when my eyes fall to my lap do I nod.

"There's no way." I don't say anything. "Shadow, there's--" He looks back at the card. I can't tell if he's doubting me or if he's just in disbelief, but, after a couple of seconds, he says,

"You were always alone with him."

When I hear how faint and hollow his voice is, I realize which one it is: disbelief.

"Oh my God. He--You--Why the fuck did you never tell anyone? He's twice your age!" More than twice my age, actually. "And you weren’t even eighteen.” He pauses. “Oh my God."

Abruptly, he stands up and rushes over to the sink. He doesn't say anything, but a couple of seconds later, I hear him gagging, followed by the sound of something splashing against the sink.

It's during this time that I actually look at him. He's hunched over, back towards me. I grip the back of my chair. I haven't felt this anxious in a long time. My stomach and head are spinning, and I feel like I'm having a heart attack. My heart is desperate to break through whatever invisible weight is on my chest; my hands are so wet that I can barely keep them in position.

When the gagging stops and after he's rinsed out the sink, Wyatt pours himself a glass of water. He takes a huge gulp, and, when he turns back around, he doesn't look at me. "Does anyone else know?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Fuck. How could you not say something?"

It's a question I don't know the answer to. Back then, I was so desperate to make it on my own. He had told me he could make me famous without my dad; I'd went along with it. It was gross and creepy, and I'd always been so scared, but I'd done what I had to do. And if anyone knew... I just didn’t want it getting out.

"I'm sorry that I'm so picky about our producers," I say. "But maybe now you understand why."

His head shoots up. "Are you kidding me? That's what you have to say?"

He sounds angry, and it frightens me.

"You were raped." Hearing him say it makes me wince. "Forget the band for a second, forget your career for a second. Someone violated you in the worse way possible, and you never said anything."

I'm not sure if he's mad at me or the situation. "No one would have believed me."

"That's not the point! I would have believed you!"

"This isn't how I wanted you to find out..." Actually, I didn't want him to find out at all. "I want people to think the music I create is good in its own right."

"Seriously, fuck the band. I don't give a damn about the band right now."

I feel like I'm about to cry, and I probably look like it, too. Wyatt sighs. He comes over to the table but doesn't sit. Once again, I find myself unable to look at him. My throat feels dry, and I'm half-tempted to take his water. But I stay perfectly in place, afraid to move. After a moment, he says,

"Out of all of the things." He pauses. "I can't fix this."

Confused, I look up. I didn’t ask him to fix this. I’ve never asked him to fix anything.

"Like, your drinking and drug use, I can at least watch that. But this... I can't do anything about this." He collapses in the chair beside me. "You never wanted to work with any other girls. Shit, I should have noticed something."

He's running his hands through his hair. His legs are shaking, and though I can't read his mind, I can probably guess what he's thinking. Whatever he was expecting for today, this was definitely not it. Expecting me to be grouchy or in a bad mood? Yeah, sure. But this... It's nothing that he ever could have predicted.

And it makes me feel bad. Not just for myself--I'd stop feeling bad for myself a long time ago--but because I'd blurted it out. I don't know what had possessed me to do it; I'd just said it before I could stop myself. What's going on with me?

I stand up. He looks up at me unexpectantly, and I try to ignore the look in his eyes. "I, um, need to-- need to go call someone." He asks me who. I hesitate before saying, "Dr. Norris." Then, not wanting him to think it has anything to do with this, I add, "She'll probably want to talk to me after being in the hospital."

He nods, and I start to walk away. I pause, though, before fully leaving the kitchen. I turn back around. "Wyatt," I say, "please, please don't tell anyone this." He starts to say something, but I interrupt him. "No. I mean it. I don't--I can't have--" I sigh. "It's not yours to tell."

It sounds harsh and I wish I didn't have to put it that way, but he understands. He nods then turns to the window.

Once I'm out in the hall, take out my phone. I dial Garver and wait. It's the last place I want to be seen at, but it's also the one place I need to be. As soon as someone picks up, I don't waste any time.

Chapter 16: Flowers

"I hope it's okay that I brought some of your stuff in. There was a lot of it just sitting around and I didn't want it just out in the open."

Turning away from the window, I look over at Wyatt. He's driving, eyes fixed firmly on the road. He seems relaxed, more relaxed than I expect him to be. Back at the hospital, he’d been awkward; he hadn't known way to say and hadn’t known what to do. It was like he hadn’t know how close he could get to me without it being too close. But now that we're in his car, he seems to have relaxed. Maybe he's just focused on the road.

"What stuff?" I'm surprised to hear that he's already been to my house. They'd brought me some clothes, but I'd assumed they'd packed that bag while waiting on the ambulance.

"A few people sent some things--flowers and that sort of thing."

Flowers?

"Do you know who they're from?"

He shakes his head. "Didn't really look at them. One of the boxes looked like chocolate, and I may have gotten into that one, though."

I giggle. It's weird. We're acting like nothing is wrong, like everything is back to normal. We're both fooling ourselves and doing it so well that it doesn't matter that we're acting. I'll take a few minutes of fake bliss.

When we get to my house, Wyatt gets out of the car first. He tells me that he'll grab my stuff and that I can go ahead. I follow his advice, and, key in hand, I go up to the front door and unlock it.

I step inside as he grabs my bags. I don't get too far in, though, before I freeze, staring at the steps. I have an out of body experience where all of my memories come rushing back. I can see me arguing with the boys. I see myself hit the stairs; I see them freak out. I witness it all as a spectator, but with none of it directly in front of me. As I stand there, I pray that this incident won't ruin this house for me. I don't want to have to move.

I sniff. The fresh scent of flowers hits my nose and I follow it. Like Wyatt had promised, there are several vases of flowers, all of them sitting on the kitchen table. I walk over and examine them.

They look like they've been recently watered, and I wonder if it had been Wyatt. He's not exactly the type, though, so I tell myself to thank him once he comes in. Beside the flowers are a pile of cards; I'll have to read through those later. I start taking the little white cards out of the bouquets and sit down. I don't know why all of this just didn't go to the hospital, but I start reading.

The first one is from the label. There are a bunch of names that have been signed the card, but something tells me the execs had their assistants do it. Still, it's a nice gesture. The second set of flowers, dark orange lilies, is from Dean. There's no real note. Only his name. It makes me squirm, thinking to myself,

'I really need to call him.'

As I move onto the third card, Wyatt walks in. He says something, but, as soon as I see the handwriting, I tune him out.

Hope all is well, it says, hope you're back on your feet soon and looking forward to the next album.

Everything falls silent. Wyatt is still talking, but I can't really hear him. There's plenty of light in the room, but everything is blurry, everything except the name at the bottom of the card. The last person I'd ever want to get flowers from--the last person I'd ever want to reach out to me--and here he is, talking about my next album.

It's disgusting.

"Shadow. Shadow?"

Before I can stop myself, I stand back up. Calmly, I grab the flowers. I look down at the vase, cheap, blue, and plastic. "These are nice," I say. "Don't you think so?"

"Yeah, are those from--"

Smash.

Before he can even say a name, I hurl the flowers towards the floor. The plastic cracks and shatters, water spilling onto the floor. The flowers fall out, and, out of the corner of my eye, I see Wyatt look at me in horror, but all I can do is laugh.

"Hey, what was that for?"

"Ooops," I say, "it slipped." Calmly, I sit back down, and he comes rushing over. He starts to pick up the flowers, but I kick the pieces of plastic across the room.

"What's your problem?" he asks. I tell him it was an accident, but we both know it’s not the truth. He's frowning as he looks up at me, a confused look on his face. "Seriously, what gives? Are you going to make a mess with all of them?"

"No. I just don't want those."

"Well why not?" Flowers and plastic in his hands, he stands back up. To my disgust, he pulls a glass out of the cabinet and sticks the flowers in it. As he fills it with water, I ask,

Can you just throw those away?"

"Why? You're not allergic to them, are you?"

I close my eyes. A knot forms in the dead center of my stomach. Both my hands and my jaw clench as I force myself to take deep breaths. 'Suppress it,' I tell myself, 'just suppress it.'

I open my eyes to find Wyatt staring at me in confusion. One of his eyebrows is raised, his head is titled to the side, and his mouth is slightly open. I could easy lie to him, make up some excuse, but, as quickly as my fear comes, it goes. I'm left with white hot anger, and I decide:

I can't keep bottling this up.

When I say it, it's like ripping off the Band-Aid: fast, and with disregard to the pain.

"Because," I say, my breath already catching, "I don't want flowers from the asshole that forced me to have sex with him for three years."

~~~

Thoughts on how Wyatt is going to react? Leave me a note, and let me know what you think. See you in the next one!

Chapter 15: Hospital Visits

I hear whispers but don't open my eyes. I keep my body still, trying to understand what's going on. Everything feels strange, and I don't know where I am. I could be awake, but it’s just as likely that I could be dreaming.

If it is a dream, it's not a very good one. Part of my body aches, and I feel like I haven't had water in years. My throat is dry and scratchy, and there's a slightly metallic taste in my mouth. And yet I also feel like I’m floating, surrounded by a soft cloud.

My body is almost weightless. I assume I can move, but I don't really want to. I'm content to stay where I am. There's a slight motion underneath me but I can’t tell if it's actually there. Whatever it is, it makes me feel calm.

"She's probably going to be in and out. Don't feel like you have to be here all the time. You're more than welcome to, of course, but the most you're probably going to get from her is five minutes at a time. It's gonna be hard for her to stay awake on all of this."

Are they talking about... me? I open my eyes, but it seems to take a long time. I have to mentally tell myself several times over to fully open them, and, when I finally do, I look around, cautious.

Wherever I'm at, it’s bright. So bright, in fact, that I squint to get my eyes adjusted. I'm in a bed but not fully on my back. My upper body is a bit chilly, but there's a blanket wrapped around my lower half. Without moving my head, I look down at my arms. There are... wires?

"She has so many IVs,” I hear someone say.

"One's just fluids. Makes sure she stays hydrated." With my eyes fully adjusted, tilted my head to see the person above me. I'm greeted my someone in blue scrubs. "Ah," she says, "somebody’s awake. How are you feeling, Shadow?"

I don’t know what to say. Why is she asking that? Confused, I blink several times, trying to piece it together. Am I in a hospital?

"She's awake?" I feel a slight breeze as someone comes to my other side. I look over to see who it is.

Ethan. It's Ethan. Ah, I remember him.

He's smiling but looks at me like there's something wrong. I feel him grab my hand, careful not to bump one of the IVs. "How are you?"

There's that question again.

I don't know how I feel because I feel everything and nothing all at the same time. Is there something specific I'm supposed to say?

Ethan turns to the nurse. "Why isn't she speaking?" He sounds panicked, but the woman says,

"It's okay. It's just the pain medication we gave her. She's going to be a bit loopy."

Pain medication? I'm achy but I'm not really in pain--Oh. That would be why.

"How long is she going to be like this?”

"We're keeping her monitored. She's probably going to thrash about once the meds start to wear off, but it's nothing to worry about, okay? It's all completely normal."

He nods. The woman leaves, and it's just the two of us.

At least, I think it's just the two of us. When I hear another voice behind him, I realize that we actually aren’t alone.

Eventually Dave comes into sight. I fight to keep my eyes open as he walks over, hands in his pockets. He looks down at me. "Not feelin' so hot, huh, kid?"

"Hmm."

Ethan manages a laugh, saying, "That's more of a response than I got."

"You scared us," continues Dave. "Glad we got you here on time."

How did I end up here? My brain is foggy, and I still don't know what's going on.

"She's still tired, huh?"

Ethan nods. "Don’t think she's going to be able to stay awake until Wyatt gets back."

My eyes scan the room. Where is Wyatt? Not that I need him or anything, but it's odd for these two to be here and not him. Isn't he wondering what's going on? Doesn't he care?

I want to ask them so many questions but, ultimately, I can't. My eyes keep fluttering and, though I try my best to stay awake, eventually, I give into my body's demands and fall back asleep.

-

The next time I wake up--rather, the next time I wake up for more than a couple minutes--I'm more aware of the pain I'm in. As I try to sit up, a sharp pain shoots up my arm and over my shoulder. I wince, completely frozen.

It takes me some doing, but after some effort, I'm able to sit up. Only then do I look at my body.

There are bruises on my arms--at lot of them. Most of them are in large, irregular patterns, but the one around my wrist is different than the others. It goes all the way around, three small ovals overlapping.

My eyes move away from my body; as I look over to the window, it dawns on me that I’m not alone. Asleep by the window, looking impossible uncomfortable in a tiny chair, is Wyatt. He's snoring softly, and I debate whether to leave him be or wake him up.

A few seconds later, I decide to call out to him.

"Wyatt." He continues sleeping. "Wyatt."

He wakes up, his body spasming from the sudden interruption. He looks around, bewildered. It's only when his eyes meet mine that he freezes, fulling understanding what's going on.

He rushes to my side. He looks down at me. As if afraid to touch me, he stuffs his hands into his pockets. He doesn't say anything, and I don't prompt him to, but I really need an explanation.

He drags the chair over so that he can sit down beside me. Once he's seated, he says,

"I'm glad you're okay."

I don't feel okay. I feel like I got hit by a truck, but maybe he means he's happy I'm alive. "What happened?”

"You don't remember?" I shake my head. I'm starting to recall bits and pieces, but it's still mostly a blur. "You hit your head. Hard. You mostly hit your shoulder, but your head sort of... bounced against the stairs."

He doesn't look at me when he speaks, making me think there's more.

"I tried to grab you, but, uh. Couldn't."

The stairs. An argument. Me being completely shit faced. Suddenly it all comes back, and I groan, ashamed of my behavior. "My throat hurts."

"They had to pump your stomach."

I don't believe him. I hadn't been that bad. I mean, yeah, I'd been slinging back vodka like it was water and I was in the middle of the desert, but I can take my alcohol. Pumped stomachs are for people who can't.

"I didn't see it, but apparently it was pretty easy because you were knocked out. Not much resisting at that point." He rubbed the back of his head. He looks so uncomfortable--so distraught--that I wish I had something to say to him. "Shadow, I didn't mean for this to happen."

Does he mean he didn't mean for me to be hospitalized?

"I was just trying to calm you down and..." He takes a deep breath. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

His voice is shaking. His right leg jiggles, and his eyes are trained to the floor. His hair obscures his face, but even without seeing, I know he’s trying not to cry.

"I shouldn't have touched you. I should have just let you go." He finally looks at me, and it's to glance at my arm. "That once should not be there."

My eyes follow his, and I see what he’s focused on: my wrist. Using my other hand, I quickly cover it up. "It's fine."

But he doesn't accept my dismissal. "I wasn't trying to--I just meant to--" He sighs. He struggles with his words, and I decide to put him out of his misery. Changing the subject, I ask,

"Where's Ethan and Dave?"

"They had to go give statements."

Puzzled, I ask, "Statements?"

"Never mind." He finally looks at me fully. "You're okay, and that's what matters." He pauses. "Shadow, don't get pissed at me for asking, but why would an article make you fly off the handle like that? You've had worse shit written about you--we all have."

He's right. The number of times I've had people write crap about the band, about me personally... It's nothing new. I’m pretty much used to it by now, but there's just something about Larissa's piece that made me furious.

"I don't know," I tell him, shrugging. "I guess I just didn't want the world to find out that I was forced to see a doctor." I frown. "But I guess I shouldn’t be thinking about that now.” I look around the room. “Guess I’m about to be locked away again.”

He sighs. “I wish you’d understand that we really were worried about you. And that article would have pissed off anyone, of if they’re in your condition.”

I don’t like how he’s calling it a “condition” but let it go. Instead, I tell him, “Well, either way, I’m not as sober as I’m supposed to be, right?”

"Falling off the wagon happens."

"I'm not trying to give up drinking forever."

"I get that but cutting back would be nice."

For a few minutes, we sit in silence. Part of it's because my body is in so much fucking pain that I can't think straight, but an even bigger part of it is that, painkillers or no painkillers, I just don't know what to say. Wyatt also looks lost for words. But as awkward as it is, I'll take it. I'd rather have dead silence over arguing. I'm tired of all the arguments, especially the ones with Wyatt. They’ve been so catastrophic on the band.

Shit. The band.

"I take it the, uh, label’s been informed about all of this?" He nods. "And?" He asks me what I mean. "Does this mean I'm officially out?"

A confused expression appears on his face. "What do you mean?"

"You guys said the label supports kicking me out. They still want me gone?"

Wyatt exhales loudly before leaning back in his chair. He closes his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "It's not like that Shadow. I get how you could see it that way, but there's more to it. The label supports us disbanding for a bit if you're getting treatment--not getting rid of you permanently."

Wait. What? That's not what they told me before--why didn't they tell me that before?! As calmly as possible, I tell him, "You let me think that I was going to be kicked out of the band."

"I know, and we shouldn't have done that but--" he sighs "--you were practically out the door, and we were going to tell you eventually. We just didn’t know when."

I'm furious. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. "I was thinking about leaving you guys. Becoming a solo artist." I open my eyes and look him dead in the eye. "All because I thought my bandmates didn't want me."

"Sorry."

That's it? That's all he can say? After lying to me, the only thing he can think to say is “sorry”?

I want to yell at him right now. I want to yell at him so badly. I shake my head, crossing my arms. I start to open my mouth to say something… but then stop. Looking him over, I realize: now is not the right time.

"So, were you working on the album without me or not?"

"Mostly just a couple of things here and there. Nothing we haven't done before; it's not like we have everything planned out. Just some bridges and stuff that might be useful down the road." When I look away from him, he adds, "But we can scrap it--all of it."

That's not what I want, though. What I want is to have been at those rehearsals. It's a shitty feeling, knowing they were going on without me. It's like they were planning for the worst.

"I don't know if I have a lot to contribute," I confess.

"Fuck the band." Shocked by his words, I look back up at him. "What I mean is, stop thinking about it right now. You have other things to focus on."

What he doesn't realize, though, is that everything goes back to the band. He's talking about me getting my own life straightened out; why would I do that if it doesn't help me in the band in some way? Though I don't say it, most of the lyrics I've been writing lately haven't been that good. Getting back to writing means fixing all of this. If that's not there to motivate me, what is?

"Listen, it might not be the best time to ask, but we need to come up with a plan: what statement do you want us to make? We don't have to make one! It's just..."

"That people are asking."

He nods. "Yeah."

I sigh. Leaning back on the pillows, I look up at the ceiling. I don't even know what I should say, but I hate keeping our fans in the dark. I don't give a rat's ass about the press having something to write, but if I were to go online right now, I’d bet that any of my profiles are swamped with questions and concerns from fans.

"Can you just use your best judgement? Don't say anything to any media outlets, but if someone asks... I don't know. Do what you want." He asks me if there's anything he shouldn't say, and I shrug. "I bet the label's probably given you some suggestions. Just go with that."

Facing him, I can tell he isn't convinced. Still, he nods, promising that he will.

"How long do I have to be here for?" I ask. I want to go walk around, not be checked on by a nurse every two hours while being hooked to machines.

"I can ask. Also, Dr. Norris stopped by. You were asleep and she didn't want to wake you, but she sends her regards."

I groan. Of course Dr. Norris stopped by. Not that I'm ungrateful or anything--actually, I think it's nice that she came to check on me--but it doesn't exactly help my case, having a therapist come visit. And while I'm sure that all the doctors here are discreet, I thought the same thing about Garver, and look where that got me.

"Hey Wyatt?"

"Hmm?"

"Did anyone reach out to Larissa or the website?"

“Maybe the label. I haven't."

"I wonder what it would take for them to reveal their source?" I know it's unlikely that they'll tell me, but I want to know. Maybe with the right bribes or threats they'll be willing to talk.

"I'll see what I can do." Turning away, he looks up at the clock. "You should probably get some sleep," he says, turning back to me.

"But I'm not tired."

"You will be. I want to go figure out when you can go home. Are you okay with me driving you home, whenever that is?"

I nod. It's a weird question to ask.

"Or are you going to call an Uber? Like you did the last time, you remember?"

My eyes narrow. "Oh, haha. Yes, you can drive me home."

"Good. At least I know you'll agree to it this time." He stands. For a moment, he looks down at me awkwardly, as if he's not sure what to do say or do. Eventually, he leans forward and kisses my forehead. "Take care of yourself, okay? I promise to get you out of here as soon as possible."

For once, I actually believe him.

I watch him go. Once he's at the door, he turns to look back. He smiles and I put my hand up to wave. Then, he's gone.

~~~

Talk to ya later!

Chapter 12. Arguments

"Shadow, you're here!"

Coffee in hand and sunglasses covering my face, I lightly smile. Wyatt, Dave, and Ethan. They’re all standing outside waiting for me. Out of all of them, Ethan is the only one who looks excited. The other two already seem annoyed at me, even though I’ve only been here for less than ten seconds.

I’m exhausted. The rest of my night had been terrible. After trying for a couple of hours, I had finally drifted off to sleep. It hadn’t been a good rest, though; I’d tossed and turned all night, dancing with my demons. Though I’m pretending that everything is fine, I’m barely awake and only half aware of what’s going on, so I hope none of them give me any bullshit today.

As we go inside, I tell Ethan, "Of course I'm here." Over my shoulder, I add, "Somebody had to open the door."

If Wyatt hears me, he doesn't say anything.

Once I've unlocked the door, I make a beeline for the studio. Not really in the mood to deal with any of them, I immediately start to set up. Initially, I keep my sunglasses on--I didn't have time to do my makeup this morning and don't want them to see how tired I am--but it’s making it difficult for me to see. I stare down at my notebook and pull them off, dropping them into my bag.

Dave enters the room first. Without even turning, I can feel him staring at me. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing." He sits down on the couch. "It's just long time no see."

I roll my eyes but refuse to bite. Swiveling the chair so that I'm facing away from him, I curl up and continue reading.

"What's our plan for today?"

When Wyatt enters the room, I don't respond to him. After all, he's the one who called this rehearsal; he should know what we're doing today.

For a few minutes, the three of them talk amongst themselves. I don’t want to get involved, so I don’t. Not having the energy to fight with them, I keep to myself. All I want is my bed and several interrupted hours of sleep, and the sooner we can get through this, the sooner that's going to happen.

"You ready to go?"

"Hmm?" I look up at Dave.

"Are you ready?" He asks. I nod but barely. Dave gives me a look over before saying, "Late night?"

There's skepticism and sarcasm in his voice but I ignore it. "You could say that," I tell him.

"What were you doing?"

I sigh. I know where he's heading, and now's not the time for it. "Nothing. I was home all night." I look back at my notebook. I flip a few pages, hoping nothing else is going to be said.

Of course, nothing ever goes according to plan, and Wyatt asks, "How's therapy?"

Jeez, I really just want to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. "It's fine."

"Yeah? Helping you stay centered throughout the day?"

"Sure."

A small silence sweeps through the room, and, out of the corner of my eye, I see them exchanging looks. Honestly, I don't know what they want from me. Do they expect me to blow up at them? Is that what they’re trying to make me do? Because if it is, it’s just not going to happen. Right now, all I want to have as little contact with people as possible, arguments included.

"You okay, Shadow?" I nod at Ethan.

"Probably just going through withdrawals," said Wyatt.

I huff. Withdrawal would only happen if I had an addiction, which I don't.

"We've been working on some stuff to show you. Not that we've been working a lot without you or anything. It's just that..." Ethan clears his throat before continuing. "Well, we just all had some downtime when you were at Garver, so..."

I understand what he's trying to say. "Sure." I wave my hand. "Let me hear it."

They get set up. As they start to play, I close my eyes. I'm somewhat drifting off, yes, but I'm also listening. I wonder if they'll be expecting me to put lyrics to this or if they were just screwing around when they came up with it. It's not half bad, but it's definitely missing something.

"Stop, stop, stop." My eyes open at Wyatt's voice. I look at him; he's staring at me. "Are you seriously trying to sleep right now?"

"No."

"Are you high right now?"

Resenting the accusation, I frown. "No."

"Then what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Wyatt, I'm here." My voice is calm as I speak. "I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you to be a functioning member of this band!" he yells. "I want you to stop being so erratic!"

His shouting makes my ears ring. I groan but don't argue. I should be defending myself, but maybe he's right. I get where he's coming from. And though I could easily tell him that, without me, there wouldn't even be a band for me to function in, I don't. Instead, I close my eyes again, saying, "Fine."

"'Fine'?" I hear him scoff. "'Fine'? What the fuck is your problem?"

"Everything is my problem, but every time I try to tell you that I get shit on." Realizing that we aren't going to get much done, I close my notebook. "So that's that."

"You're not supposed to be on drugs right now," he says.

"I'm not." Discounting the joint that I'd smoked last night.

"You act like you are."

"And you're acting like a crazy person. If you're not careful I'll have Dave and Ethan scheme behind your back to get you committed."

Ethan says, "That's not funny."

"I guess I just have a weird sense of humor." I look back over at Wyatt. "Look, I don't know what you want. I'm here, I'm on time, I'm listening to you play." I wonder if they can hear how tired I am. "Can't you tell I'm trying my best?"

He doesn't say anything--none of them do, actually. Instead, they just stand there, not moving. I don’t know if they’re holding back, or if they’re finally ready to get off my back, but, a few moments later, I find out:

Clearing his throat, Dave says, "Well... I guess we'll get started then?"

With that, they drop it, and we finally get going.

-

So excited to be back on track with my updates. Thanks for reading; come say hi here. See you in chapter 13!

Chapter 9: Reaching Out

The clock on the wall is loud. Each tick reverberates throughout my body, putting me on edge. I cross and uncross my legs, staring down at my faded denim jeans. My nails, which I'd painted a few days ago, are chipped. I need to get them professionally done.

"Shadow?"

"Hmm?" I look up. Seated across from me, Dr. Norris is staring. I believe she's just asked me something, but I don't know what it was about. “Sorry. What did you just say?”

I’ve only been in her office for five minutes, and I’m already having trouble concentrating. I’ve uncomfortable, and it’s just because I’m still new to this whole therapy thing. No, I’m uncomfortable because I know she’s going to have us about the missed appointment.

As if reading my mind, Dr. Norris says, "You know, I was a bit disappointed when you didn't show up for your last appointment. Not just because I believe you need help--we agreed you need help--but also because your time slot could have been given to someone else."

Now I really feel bad. I squirm around uncomfortably. "I forgot," I mutter, looking away from her.

"Didn't we call you and leave a message?"

I sigh. She can tell I’m lying. Note to self: do not try to bullshit Dr. Norris. "Okay, I did have other things going on, but I also just didn't want to come."

"Then why didn't you just cancel?"

I shrug. I don’t say it was because I was afraid to do so, instead, I say, "Just got caught up. My band just got a new studio, so we've been focused on that."

Actually, I've been focused on it--not them. I've been the one busy moving everything and setting up the equipment. Sure, I hadn't actually tried to reach out to them, but that was because Wyatt had made it very clear that he doesn't want anything to do with me. I assume they feel the same way.

"That's exciting. What else have you been up to?"

"Nothing." Mostly, I’ve been trying to stay away from Dean. I want to hang out with him, but I know it would be a disaster. Whenever we’re together, we’re always drinking and doing drugs, and, right now—more than ever—I need to avoid that.

But I miss him.

"You look sad."

"Hmm?" I look at Dr. Norris. I didn't realize I'd been staring at the wall.

"What else is on your mind?"

"Oh." Again, I fidget. There's a lot on my mind, none of which I want to bring to the surface. Lately, my brain's been working overtime to repress things I'd spent years trying to forget. Most of the time I don't have any trouble, but this whole "sober living" thing is making it hard. "There's just a lot of band stuff."

"I bet it’s hard sometimes,” she says, “being so well-known and easily recognizable.”

I shrug. "It's nothing I can’t handle, and I know how to lay low. Besides, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.”

"How is the journaling going?" When I don't answer, she frowns. "Shadow, we had a deal. Keeping a daily journal is going to be key to your success."

I know she's right but don't want to admit it.

"Have you at least made an attempt?"

Though it’s been hard, I tell her that I have. Taking fifteen minutes a day to write down my thoughts and feelings? Boring. There are so many other things I’d rather do. At most, I write three to four sentences before giving up. It’s an absolute pain.

“But you don't see yourself doing it long term?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Not really."

"I thought you enjoyed writing."

Yeah, I enjoy writing music. Lyrics are different from a journal. With lyrics, I can go back to redo them, warp them into whatever reality I choose. That's not something I can do with a diary. Once it's on the page, it's on the page. Do people even go back and ready their diaries? I would cringe.

"It's different," I tell her. "Lyrics are just easier." I pause. "Well, they're easy to get out on a first attempt."

"So, you're expecting your recovery to be easy, then?"

"No, I--" She's trapped me, and we both know it. I sigh. "I never expect anything to be easy," I say, "but I also don't want to spend every single evening pouring my heart into some diary that's going to be completely useless once I'm done with it."

"So, what you're saying is that you don't like to do anything that doesn't have an immediate value?"

"No? Maybe? She's confusing me.

"What I'm saying is that there are other things that are a better use of my time."

It's just like this therapy session. Do I think I need to be here? Hell no. I'm perfectly fine, but everyone else is acting like they don’t want anything to do with me until I get some sort of professional “help.”

"If you don't think keeping a journal will help you, what will?" I tilt my head to the side, not quite sure what to say. "The whole point of the journal is to give you dedicated a few minutes each and every day to reflect. The words that you put down matter, yes, but it's even more important to get in the habit of self-reflection. That's what this exercise it all about. So what can you do instead?"

I don't answer. I sort of get where she's coming from, but I also think it just seems like so much effort, having to do something every single day at the exact same time. If I'd wanted a schedule, I would have picked a normal job and work nine to five.

"Shadow, I'm happy to discuss alternatives, but you need to bring them to the table first. I can't just have you forget daily self-reflection without giving you something to put in its place." She pauses for a moment. "Would you consider yourself spiritual or religious?"

"Nope. Not really." Prayer's not my thing, if that's what she's asking.

"Do you do any meditation or yoga?"

Again, I shake my head. Being alone with my own thoughts is an absolute nightmare, and I don't even have half the flexibility required for yoga. I went through a phase where I did kickboxing regularly, but that was a long time ago.

"Would you be open to doing either? Meditation can be tough when you first start out, but there are benefits to being able to calm your mind."

"How is that supposed to help get me off drugs and alcohol?"

"The drugs and alcohol are a symptom. They're the effect, not the cause. That means there's an underlying condition that we need to treat."

An ‘underlying condition’? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

"I've still been smoking." I don't know what possesses me to tell her that, and the words slip passed my lips before I can stop them. My body grows hot, and I don't know if it's from my stupidity or embarrassment.

"I appreciate you telling me that. Have you noticed if you do it under certain circumstances?" When I don't say anything, she asks, "Are you upset before you do it? Happy? What are you doing when the urges come on?" I still don't say anything. "Have you been giving yourself the ten minutes to think before you do it?"

I groan. "Fine! I haven't been doing that, either."

"Shadow, that's okay. Try not to feel guilty or beat yourself up over it. But if you do feel guilty, know that it's because, even subconsciously, you're admitting to yourself there's something you'd like to change. Maybe it's something about yourself, how you treat others, or even something as simple as how you structure your day, but there's something that you want to change. Can you think of anything you wish were different?"

There are a lot of things I wish were different in my life. There are a lot of things in my past that I wish hadn’t happened, but I'm not ready to talk about those things. I'm not about to spill the beans to someone I've just met because they have "doctor" in front of their name.

So, instead of confessing, I shrug, saying, "Maybe it would be nice if I didn't drink so much." Mostly because the hangovers can be an absolute nightmare.

"That's a really good place to start, and I'm proud of you for admitting that. Have you been drinking?"

"I haven't been hanging out with my friends, so no." She frowns, making me say, "What?"

"Do you think your friends would only hang out with you if you're drinking?"

"No--I mean... It's not like it's all we do." I think back to the morning after the party at Lynn's place. Dean had offered to make me breakfast, helped me hunt for my purse, and had gotten me some clothes to wear. They're all small things, but they stick out so clearly. Dean actually is a good person; maybe he’ll still want to hang out with me if I tell him the truth?

"I think you should continue with the journal," she says, pulling me from my thoughts. "If it's still not working during our next meeting, we can come up with something else. Group therapy, for example."

As she types, I gag. I physically gag. Group therapy? As in sitting in a circle and discussing my feelings with a group of strangers who are probably more fucked up than I am? No thank you. If it's a choice between the journal and sharing my feelings with a bunch of random people I don't know, I'll gladly take the journal.

For the rest of the session, Dr. Norris just lets me talk. I don’t have a lot to say, but she doesn't seem to mind. Mostly, we sit in silence, the only noise coming from the clacking of her fingertips on the keyboard. When it comes time for me to leave, she gives me plans for over the following week.

"I have some homework for you," she says. She looks excited, and it worries me. "Keep up the journaling. Even if it's a headache, I promise you it will get easier. I want you to think about exercising, too."

"Exercising?" I look down at my stomach, confused. "Do I need to lose weight?"

"Not at all." I look back up at her. "But it will make you feel better overall. It doesn't have to be anything intense, and just dedicating ten minutes a day to stretching and moving your body will have profound effects. Make sense?" I nod.

"How would you say your relationships are with your friends right now?"

"Nonexistent with the band." It's brutal and blunt but also the truth.

"Okay, maybe this week you can work on reaching out to them. I'm sure you've had some conversations with them since we last spoke." Yeah, but none of them have been positive. "So reach out again.”

"What if they don't want to talk to me, though?"

"Then at least you can say you tried. Can you do that?"

Though I don’t really see the point, I agree.

"After all, they're probably wondering what's going on in your world, as well."

They're probably wondering when is the earliest they can kick me out of the band, but I don't tell her that. Instead, I force a smile and say,

"Yeah, no problem."

She returns my smile, probably not even realizing mine is fake.

After we finish up, I swing by the front desk to schedule my next appointment. After that's done, I leave and walk out to my car. I get in, buckle up, and turn the key in the ignition, but instead of immediately leaving, I sit there, my hands gripping the steering wheel. As if expecting something, I look out the rearview mirror, but nothing every comes.

I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. I start to type a text but, shaking my head, tell myself not to. Not because I shouldn't reach out, but because I should actually call.

I dial Dean's number and wait. Not going to bed until three or four in the morning most nights, it’s probably a bit early for him right now. I don't expect him to answer, so, when he does, my stomach immediately knots up.

"Yo." It's like it's the first time I'm hearing his voice in years. "'Bout time you gave me a call. I was beginning to think you switched your number or something."

I laugh, but it makes me sound nervous. Ignoring his last several texts wasn't nice, but it had been the only option I'd had.

Until now.

"What's going on?" he asks. "What have you been up to?"

"You wouldn't believe if I told you."

"Try me."

I star down at the floor. I need to vacuum, I realize.

I look back outside. "Wanna meet up later today?" I ask. He agrees, offering dinner. "But can you not bring Lynn along? Just wanna talk to you."

“Uh-oh. Sounds serious." I know he's joking, but he has absolutely no idea how right he is.

"Seven?" I ask.

"Sure. Lemme know where you want to meet up."

We say our goodbyes and hang up the phone. I didn't realize it before, but I'm shaking. My hands tremble as I stick my phone in the cup holder. I adjust my mirror; I turn my wipers on and off. I'm doing everything to keep myself from driving. It's like I don't trust myself to.

I don't know what I'm going to tell him-- only that I have to tell him something. Part of me wants to call him back--to say, "actually, never mind"-- but I grip the steering wheel, forcing myself to not reach for my phone.

I look at the time.

Well, I have five hours to figure it out.

-

Chapter 7: Studio Time

The guitar in my lap feels heavier than usual. I lean over it to read the words in front of me, the pick wedged between my lips. I hum to myself, coming up with a pattern before I test it out.

I haven't been in the studio that long. I need the time, though, which is why I'm by myself. Eventually, I'll have to meet up with the guys, but, right now, I still don't want anything to do with them.

I'm still shocked that they had the nerve to all show up at Garver. I understand that one of them had to sign my release papers, but all of them? Did they expected me to be excited to see them, like they weren’t the ones who’d thrown me in there in the first place? If that’s what they’d thought, they’d been delusional.

They'd tried to get a hold of me. I'd ignored them, of course. I'm not even ready to text them. I want them to sweat it out a bit, to realize what a stupid mistake they’d made. They need more than I need them, and they need to learn that.

Sighing, I place my guitar to the side. Realistically, I need to finish these lyrics before I even think about putting them to music. Under normal circumstances, I'd get input from the guys, but, since that isn't an option right now, I'm on my own. I skim the lyrics, trying to figure out what I'm missing.

Word-wise, the chorus is good. Even the intro is fine. There's just something about the end that I don't like, and I don't know why.

I stare down at the guitar. I need to have something put together in a few days. Not just because I want to have something to rub in their faces, but also because of the interview.

It was supposed to be last week while I’d been at Garver. Being locked up, I hadn’t been able to call and reschedule it, but luckily someone at the label had. I don’t know what lie had been told—I highly doubt, “Hi, Shadow is currently in a three-day detox” had been used—but I’m glad it had gotten done. I love interviewing with the band, but I always take full advantage of the solo ones, especially if they involve new music.

This interviewer probably isn't expecting anything full-length, but she'll probably want a couple of soundbites for Instagram or whatever. I'd look like an idiot if I don't have anything, especially because The Midnight Misery has been "ever so diligently working on new music."

At least, that's what we've been telling everyone.

I groan. With my lower back hurting, I decide to take a break. I stand up, stretch, then look around. When I find my bag, I reach for it and head for the door. It's only when I'm outside that I pull out a joint.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. I'm not supposed to be smoking. But I'm also not supposed to be drinking or doing coke. That's a lot of stuff to try to quit all at once. I figure the weed is the least harmful, so it's the one I'll stick with for now. I'm not partying so I'm not tempted on the other two, but it's been a bit challenging.

Even since I went AWOL on Dean, he's wanted to hang out. I haven’t told him what happened; instead, I’d made up some dumb excuse about losing my charger. Coming up with new excuses as to why I can’t hang out is getting harder and harder to do.

I take a long deep breath. I let the smoke expand in my lungs, the buzz going straight to my brain. To hell with Dr. Norris' ten-minute rule. One drag of a joint makes me feel better than thinking for ten minutes ever will.

Once I finish up, I go back into the studio. My head feels more clear and relaxed, but, as I sit down to write, I realize that it’s just not going to happen. I reach for the guitar and strum a few chords. I hum along as the strings vibrate, feeling it in my soul. I'm by no means an expert on guitar, but I can at least get by.

I lean my head back and close my eyes. I wonder why the guys are up to. They like to hang out even when it doesn’t involve band stuff, and I wouldn't be surprised if they were together right now. Probably trash-talking me. Probably still thinking about how to get rid of me.

I can’t believe the label had actually okay’ed everything. It’s so crazy that it makes me wonder if they even actually went to the label. For all I know, they could be lying. Sure, The Midnight Misery may not be the label’s biggest band, but we get a lot of publicity—a lot of publicity because of me. If you combined that with all the other bands that have joined the label because of me, it’d be stupid to get rid of me.

Why don’t any of them realize that?

I'm so focused on my own thoughts that I don't even notice the door open. I continue to strum. The longer I think about it, the more violent my strumming becomes. It's only when I hear someone say my name that I finally snap out of it.

I stare at my dad as he closes the door behind him. It's the first time we've seen each other since almost a week ago, and to be honest, I’m not complaining. I don’t have anything to say to him. Ever since I was released from Garver, I haven’t heard from him. No call. No text. If he doesn’t want to speak to me then I don’t want to speak to him.

I tightly grasp the neck of the guitar. As my eyes trail down to the floor, I spot my notebook, opened on the couch. I reach forward and close it. For several moments, we’re both silent, each more stubborn than the other.

Eventually, I become tired of the awkward silence and ask,

"Do you need the studio?"

He looks at me sadly, and, for the first time I realize: he hasn't said anything because he hasn't wanted to. He hasn't said anything because he doesn't know how to. I almost feel bad for him, but then I remember that he had been complicit.

The band had probably planned everything, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t known about it. They definitely told him about it. How else would he have known to show up the same time as Dr. Dorian? And in my eyes, that makes him just as guilty.

"I uh." He clears his throat. "No. I mean, I have some editing to do, but you're fine." He pauses. "Lucille told me you were here."

I roll my eyes. The cleaning lady. Of course. I'd tried to pass through the house quietly, but evidently, I hadn't been quiet enough.

"I should go." Without looking at him, I kick open my guitar case and place the guitar inside. As I'm locking it up, he says,

"Don't have to rush out on my account. Stay as long as you want to."

But that's the problem: I don’t want to stay. Yes, I want to work on my music, but I want to work on my music alone. If he stays, I won’t be able to concentrate.

"Next time I'll check to see if you'll need the studio."

"Shadow, take all the time you need. The episode is all recorded, so it's really just a matter of chopping out some stuff."

He's referring to his podcast. I've only listened to a few episodes because most of them are too, um, raunchy for me, but whenever he talks about it, I can’t help but be proud. I know that he's happy that he’s managed to stay relevant beyond his music career, I think, but right now, I just don't care.

I lift up the guitar case. "See ya around." I start to walk past him, but he puts out his arm to stop me. Sighing, I say, “What?"

"How was Garver?"

I roll my eyes. Oh, now he cares? "Fine. I got everything I needed and more."

He nods once. He looks like he’s choosing his words carefully, but I don’t have time for this. "You know, there's nothing wrong with getting help. You wouldn’t be the first in the family who..." He rubs the back of his neck. "Well, you just wouldn’t be the first."

I know that. I’ve read enough Wiki pages and listened to enough interviews to know I'm not the only one. Back in the mid-90s he'd gone to rehab, too. The only difference is that his stint was a couple of months, not just a few days. His had also been for drugs but not the same ones I'm on. He'd been into the heavy stuff; all of The Nixers had. To this day, he still doesn’t really like to talk about it.

"So, you don't have to feel bad. That's what I'm trying to say."

“I don't feel bad.” I really don’t. If anything, I’m pissed. If I felt bad, it would mean I felt guilty, and I have nothing to feel guilty about.

"I think they were just worried about you. Wyatt mentioned that you missed a couple of rehearsals?"

"No. I was late to a couple of rehearsals."

"Maybe you don't remember the ones you missed."

My eyebrows shoot up. "So you're going to trust someone you've only known for a couple of years over your own daughter?"

He sighs. "That's not what this is about, and you know it. I trust you. But Wyatt has a good head on his shoulders; he's the type of person you want to be in a band with."

He's going on and on and on and all I'm getting is disgusted. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I say, "he's talented and reliable and all of that. But he, just like you, went behind my back and had me locked up." I pause. "Imagine how that makes me feel."

A silence falls between us. Neither looks at the other, and I start to become restless. I can’t get enough air to my lungs, and I take several deep breaths to stop my sudden dizziness.

"I understand what you're going through."

No, he doesn't. He doesn't understand jack shit. Just because he did his own stint in rehab, he thinks he knows what the last few days have been like for me. And maybe he does know about the last few days. But the last few years--the whole reason I am the way I am--he has no idea what that’s like at all.

I look around the studio. Though I don't say it, I realize something: I can't come back here. I can't use this studio anymore. As nice as it is to be able to drop into whenever I want, if I come back here, I'm never going to get anything done.

I sniffle just thinking about it. This won't be the first time that a studio has been tainted for me, but this is just... It's different.

I glance over to the couch. I think about sitting between Wyatt and Dave. I picture Dr. Dorian sitting across from me. All of those words that had stung then cut deeper now. The wounds are raw and new, and I realize something:

This place is absolutely ruined for me.

I clear my throat. "I need to go." He opens his mouth to say something, but I shake my head, saying, "No, I can't be here right now." Head bowed, I walked to the door. "Or ever."

I need to find a new studio, one that's completely different than this one. One with space and light and that won't make me feel suffocated as I go inside.