Without the Moon, Act One

Prologue

PROLOGUE

SEVEN YEARS AGO

PAIGE

To be haunted will be an awfully fucked adventure.

That’s not the line, but it’s the truth. My truth.

J. M. Barrie lived in a time before disclaimers. The tale of Peter Pan gives zero warning that if you do grow up, if you do pass that age we’ve deemed “adulthood,” you’ll learn that the world is a darker, far more fucked up place than you ever thought imaginable.

This is your warning. Stay in Neverland, kids.

I huff, but there’s no humor—remembering now that in the stage show of Peter Pan, Captain Hook is usually played by the same actor who plays the kids’ dad, so, pretty sure that’s saying something.

Some people are probably lucky enough to not learn the world’s dark realities weeks after they’ve graduated high school. Some people are lucky enough that they might only ever know about it through the safety of their television screen. Cautionary tales. Stories. The newest true-crime obsession.

But not me.

And unlike Peter Pan, I’m not being promised the adventure of death. I’m being forced to live knowing treacherous things exist.

Not in the shadows, not at night. The true darkness, the really sinister shit finds you in life’s most unsuspecting moments, ripping away any semblance of belonging and comfort, shredding it to pieces, and then blowing it back out like confetti to poison the air.

And the haunting begins . . .

My chin dips and my eyes scrunch closed.

I have years of existing ahead of me and . . .

I don’t think I can do it.

Not after this.

My eyes reopen as the plucked melody of the chimes to my music box slowly come to a stop, and the quiet stillness of the night threatens to break through my skin. The cuts and punctures around my wrist pulse, wrapped in bandages, and my fists tighten.

The edges of my vision are framed with the rest of my bedroom, dusted with the dim light from the lamp on my nightstand.

Focusing back on the music box, I see the paper I woke up with in my pocket yesterday morning sitting at the iron ballerina’s feet. A weightless death sentence.

I visualize the words, but I can never make it past:

Dear Pip,

I’m leaving

White hot fury blinds me, and my throat rumbles, my glare deepening at the box.

How fucking dare him.

After what happened, after everything we’ve been through in our lives—

A deep breath pulls through my nose, trying to tame the anger shooting through my veins.

There’s no denying it. It’s his handwriting. I found it when I somehow woke up back in my bed yesterday morning. My wounds on my wrists were cleaned and wrapped, the horror from the night before still stabbing through me. The memory of the way he looked at me —the last look . . .

Dark hazel eyes, bloodshot. Broken. Repulsed.

I wince.

I can’t think about that.

It’s softening the anger —twisting it to despair. And the rage is what I need.

“Rage. Rage against the dying of the light.”

A steady breath lifts my chest at the thought of Gram’s voice, reciting her favorite Dylan Thomas poem. She said it in nearly every distressing life moment. Her affirmation to carry on.

My eyes move to my bedroom door, knowing she’s asleep just across the hall.

I have to keep going. For her.

If nothing else, I have to carry on —rage— for the woman who holds the specks of debris that make up my heart.

But I won’t be the same. The person that existed before, a vital part of her is missing, and a hollowing sensation carves deep into my chest —deep, deep inside.

That’s where I’ll keep it all, I think. I can’t name what it is, but I feel it—a place hidden even deeper than my heart—untouched and unseen by anyone.

I’ll keep it all in here. The despair, the devastation, the anger, the gut-wrenching heartbreak that I’m too afraid to fully feel — our memories. Anything that threatens to break me while I’m still broken—I push it down into that deep place.

But before I tuck away the event that tore my life apart, the one that inspired my best friend —my boyfriend— to leave, I study it one last time.

As my memory blips and stutters to find the disturbing images, my shoulders tighten along with my throat as the sight comes into focus.

Me, him. The Man. The view.

But I’m not floating above us—not watching.

I'm the goddamn walls. I’m the floor. I hold the whole scene and keep it all in the walls of my arms.

It’s fucking mine.

I’ll keep it for years to come.

I’ll examine it like a snowglobe. Shake it up, once, twice—however many times a day. I’ll watch the way the flurries swirl and fall. Admiring the pretty distraction and chaos until the snow finally drops. The swirly patterns will dissipate, and this scene will remain.

And as its keeper, I’ll guard it in my walls, hold it tight to my chest, deep inside. And one day, after this necessary pause —when I’m less fragile— I’ll take it all fucking back.