Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Tom
It’s past midnight and Arcadia has gone quiet. It’s just the wind, the crickets and the rustle of palm leaves behind me.
Two tiny lizards dart across the ledge of the terrace, quick and jittery. I follow them with my eyes, watching the way their little bodies flicker, chasing each other. They disappear behind a prickly cactus.
The smart thing to do is go to bed and sleep, but the scenes from today’s sit down with rookie are performing a danse macabre in my head.
It took everything I had to tell him about the silence. The nights where I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, suffocating under something I can’t even fucking identify.
But he didn’t look at me like I was mad. He listened.
And that was… refreshing. Because for years, white coats kept calling me unstable and blaming it all on the pills and the booze. After a while, I started to believe them. That I’d broken myself too many times, and my body reacting like this was the price.
The way Yosh spoke to me had felt like a bandage pressed over an open wound. I’ve never had someone make me feel like my fears weren’t something to be ashamed of.
And I get it, it's his job. He’s probably heard a hundred versions of my story. To him, I’m just another patient, another lost cause looking for answers.
But if that’s true, why did it feel so real?
Why did his words hit so fucking deep?
You can’t fake that, right?
He’s good at what he does. Plus he’s kind when I’m a prick. I shouldn't call him rookie anymore. He's proved himself not to be a rookie at all.
I rest my elbows on my knees and peek down at the beach. It’s way below me, a skinny strip of sand between the cliffs and the sea.
The dark mahogany Fender in my lap isn’t cooperating. I’ve been tuning it for at least half an hour now. Twisting pegs, adjusting, testing.
I’ve done it hundreds of times before. It’s more or less routine work, so why does it sound so fucking out of tune?
I sigh and push myself up. I know why. I’m out of tune. For nearly three months now.
I clench my fists. This is so frustrating. Will it ever get any better?
I squeeze my eyes shut as I feel the black, smoky claws of the silence creep over my spine, wrapping like a noose around my neck, whispering.
Why the hell did you say so much?
You’ve gone too far. He’s not supposed to know. No one is supposed to know.
My chest locks up. No, please. Not now. Please.
I rub my face in an attempt to scrub the feeling off. But it stays. The panic. The restlessness. The craving.
I need a drink.
God, I need it. I fucking need it.
Except, there’s none. No bottle. No burning sensation on my tongue. No escape. Just me, trapped in this fucking place.
My hands shake. My teeth clench. I feel pressure building inside me until a raw, guttural scream tears out of my chest, echoing into the night.
It’s not enough.
I hit the wall, my knuckles slamming into the stone, a sharp pain exploding up my arm.
I hit it again. Harder.
Blood smears the limestone as I won't stop. I can’t.
I keep going, fists slamming until everything blurs together in a mess of red and white.
My chest heaves and my whole body feels like it’s on fire.
I see my guitar.
My beautiful, stupid fucking guitar. The one I spent half an hour tuning like I actually believed music could fix me.
I grab it by the neck and lift it off the chair. It feels warm in my hands.
Not for much long.
I swing it over the terrace wall, right off the cliff.
My hands are stinging, knuckles slick with red.
I climb onto the wall, my bare feet on the rough stones.
The ocean is dark and endless, waves crashing against the rocks far below. The shattered pieces of my guitar are down there, disappearing into the water with each new wave.
I watch them go.
My knees threaten to buckle, toes curling harder into the stone as my fingers twitch uselessly at my sides, sticky with my own blood.
What the hell am I doing?
Fuck, I don’t even know why I’m up here. One wrong move and I’ll be flying after my Fender.
Before I can get myself down, strong hands catch my waist and haul me back.