Chapter Sixteen
PISCES
SIX YEARS AGO
Simon keeps looking at me with such concern in his eyes it makes me want to break down.
It’s been two months, and this is the first time I’ve really gone out to do anything.
Simon wouldn’t take no for an answer anymore.
I understand his reasoning. Sometimes focusing on doing normal things is what one needs to let time heal everything.
But I’m too broken at this point. I can’t help but think I could have all the time in the world and it wouldn’t be enough to mend these wounds.
My cousin is probably the only person I could be around right now. Anyone else either blames me or pities me, and I can’t handle that.
So we went to the cinema, which sucked, but at least it gave me something to focus on, other than replaying the memory of the crash over and over again.
Now we sit at a cafe, waiting for our food, food I’m probably not going to eat.
My appetite is non-existent these days. She’s never going to eat again, so it feels like I shouldn’t enjoy food either.
Simon gives me a soft smile as we sip on our drinks. “Pisces, I know it doesn’t feel like it, but life will get better.”
My eyes snap to his and I can see him flinch a little. He’s been walking on eggshells around me all day. Guilt washes over me and my shoulders slump. “I don’t see how. I don’t see a way forward. And even if I did, I don’t think I deserve one.”
Simon shakes his head. “You don’t deserve any of the blame you’re getting, even the blame you’re putting on yourself.”
I hang my head in silence and shame. “I was driving.”
“That’s not the whole story.”
“But it’s what everyone knows. And even if I didn’t cause it, I am still responsible for what happened.”
“She made a choice, Pisces. One that hurt you too, might I remind you.”
Silence hangs over us for a few moments and lengthens when the server brings the appetizers Simon ordered. He puts a few things on my plate, sliding it over to me.
“Do you know how many times I thought to myself, I should get her some help? I should tell someone—anyone—about what she was doing to herself?”
Simon shakes his head.
“Almost every single day.” I let out a harsh laugh. “But I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone.” I rub the underside of my right arm, feeling the scarred skin, the constant reminder of my failings.
“It still isn’t your fault. If she didn’t want help, it’s possible there was nothing you could have ever done.”
“Maybe that’s true. But maybe not. Maybe I’m the reason. She was happier before she met me. I ruin things, Simon.”
He gives me a questioning look in response and breathes out a sigh, no doubt thinking through his next words carefully.
“I’m not saying you don’t have some things to learn about being in a relationship.
We all probably do. But you can’t completely blame yourself.
It sounds like you two were just not a good match.
You were toxic together. I wasn’t around you two much, but I heard things.
Maybe things could have been better, but you have no idea if that would have changed anything. ”
I nod. I understand what he’s saying, but it doesn’t ease any of the guilt I feel. It’s still my fault what happened. I should have let her go, but I was so desperate to fix things, to keep her.
The image of her grabbing the wheel and yanking it to the left, the car spinning out of control and crashing through the railing, plays through my mind over and over.
I take a few quick gasps, drawing a bit of attention to our table.
Simon reaches out and takes my hand and I let a few tears fall, because I don’t deserve this kindness. I don’t deserve anything good.
“It’s going to be okay,” Simon says, giving my hand a little pat. “Eventually it’s going to be okay.”
I nod, even if I don’t believe him. But it helps me stop the tears before they can become a steady stream. The rest of our food arrives and we wait in silence as the plates are set down. Once the waiter leaves, Simon picks up his fork and dives in. I don’t touch mine.
“What about music? Have you been writing any new songs?” Simon asks between mouthfuls.
I pick up my fork and start pushing the food around on my plate. “No,” I say hesitantly, like I’m admitting a fault. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to even play piano,” I admit. Why do I feel a prick of shame?
Simon’s concern arrives back in his furrowed brow. “I’m no therapist, but wouldn’t music help you? Catharsis and all that, right?”
The corner of my mouth hooks up gently. “I think that’s what I’m afraid of.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I process these emotions, then they’re gone. I could heal and move on. And I don’t deserve that.”
“How enlightened of you,” Simon responds, and I can tell he’s fighting a grin, which only makes me break out into a smile of my own. I chuckle for the first time since the crash. Simon laughs a bit with me. In the break in conversation I take a bite of food.
After a few moments, Simon grows thoughtful. “Maybe you could reframe it.”
“Hmm?”
“Maybe it helps you move on, but what if your music helps others move on? Helps others heal? Use your pain to help others and become worthy of healing yourself. Don’t get me wrong. You’re already worthy, but maybe this will help you feel worthy.”
“That sounds selfish, like I’m doing it for the wrong reasons.”
Simon shrugs. “Does it matter, if the end result is you and a load of other people are healed?”
I pause. I don’t have an answer to that. Maybe it doesn’t. But then another thought pops into my head. “But if I share my music and it helps people, then I’d have their admiration. I don’t deserve that either.”
Simon quirks his lips into a rueful smile. “Now you’re just trying to find reasons not to.”
“Maybe,” I respond with a grin. But it is an actual issue.
Every time I’ve performed in front of an audience, I’ve felt like a fraud.
I was so concerned with how they’d perceive me and what they’d think, that I could tell I wasn’t allowing myself to be real.
And I’d always felt so underserving of their time and attention.
“Find a way to make it about more than just yourself, then.”
He says it like it’s so simple. I nod, but my brain searches for a way to do that and comes up completely blank.
We move on to other topics, but what he was saying lingers with me even after we leave the restaurant and even after I’ve walked Simon to his bus stop before heading home myself.
I take a shortcut through a dimly lit alleyway, unable to stop replaying Simon’s words. Night is setting in earlier these winter days and I pull my hands into my sleeves to ward off the cold, even as lyrics pop out of nowhere into my head.
Maybe it’s because I’m too busy hastily typing the lyrics into my phone that I don’t see him until he steps out into the dim street light filtering down. “Hey there, mate,” the stranger says. His voice has a slight hiss to it.
“Sorry, mate. I’m in a hurry,” I tell him, barely glancing up. This part of town isn’t terrible, but it’s not great. Usually people leave each other alone here.
“Don’t you want my help, though?”
I roll my eyes. The guy is probably on drugs. I don’t respond and keep walking.
“She’s in hell, mate. But I can help. She didn’t deserve what you put her through and even now she’s yelling out at you to help her.
‘Pisces! Pisces!’” My name spills from his lips, but instead of his voice, I hear hers—Leighton’s.
It’s like someone punched me in the stomach.
I whirl around and glare at the stranger.
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask him. “How did you do that?” How did he sound like her?
He waves a hand and the air seems to sizzle and part right in front of me.
A vision of Leighton in what has to be hell itself appears in front of me.
“Pisces! Help me!” she screams out. I lunge forward, trying to get to her, but the air ripples and the vision fades, her screams echoing around the alley.
“What the hell is happening?” I ask, looking back to the man, my eyes as wide as saucers. He stands there looking solemn.
“She went to hell, Pisces. You know why. But you know she didn’t mean it. She wasn’t in her right mind. But you can help her.”
“How?” I ask. My mind is spinning. I’ve always been open to hell as a concept. I went to a Catholic school, so it’s familiar to me, but I’ve never truly believed it exists. And here is this stranger showing me visions of it. But how? Magic isn’t real. Hell and heaven aren’t real, are they?
“I can get her out. I just need your help.”
Something tells me to be wary of this man. But what I saw felt so real. I have to help her.
“You’ll be able to see her whenever you want and she’ll be safe. I just need something from you.”
“What?” I ask. I’ll give anything. I don’t have much, but I’ll give it. I’ll give him everything.
“Sing for me, and it’ll fuel the magic I need to work to save her.”
“Sing?” That’s hardly a steep price. Though I haven’t sung since I woke up in the hospital.
“Song is a very powerful magic.” The man steps closer to me and I look around the deserted alleyway.
“All I have to do is sing?”
“And I’ll do the rest,” he says, giving me a small smile. “Go ahead, sing anything.”
So I do. I sing a version of “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen.
My voice starts off a bit rocky since I haven’t sung in so long, but I quickly find the right pitch and I sing, the sound echoing off the brick walls around us.
The man steps closer to me and before I know it, his hands turn to claws and he sinks them into my chest. Agony radiates out from where his claws have pierced me.
I falter, gasping at the pain, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t stop,” he says, and so I don’t. I sing through the pain, even as blood pours from my chest. The song ends and I open my eyes, tears flowing freely down my face.