Chapter Thirty-Six
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
BONNIE
Outside sounds are an echo.
Because all I can fucking hear is a flatline.
I’m sitting on the burgundy couch, staring at a mustard yellow spot on the dressing room rug. I think someone’s tried touching my arm, but anytime someone comes close, I flinch.
There’s dried blood on my knuckles, on the shallow cuts on my palms. I can taste the iron tang of blood from my split lip when I bite my mouth. I think there’s skin under my nails? And god, fucking hell, the back of my leg hurts.
Even so, I’m dissociating so hard that the rest of the world is moving like a dream in front of me.
People are arguing. I’ve heard the word hospital a few times. I think the police tried coming in a few minutes ago. I keep hearing the sound of someone sweeping up glass, though I can’t tell if that’s happening right now, or if it happened hours ago.
I’m not okay.
I think someone attacked me.
I think someone hurt me.
I think my brain is blocking a lot of shit that could hurt me right now, and I don’t know if I’m grateful for it.
“—to know who the fuck touched her,” I hear Zeb saying.
“For the fourth time, Gemma and Liam are out looking,” Kade replies. “I don’t know what she thinks she’ll find.”
“Someone has to know something, right?” Reed asks.
Kade sighs. “I don’t know. With the commotion going on and everyone running because of the shooter… it’s likely no one heard a thing, and any injury could be blamed on the pit.”
“Do we think that it was targeted?” Zeb asks. “Like they were specifically after her and not one of us?”
“The only way to know is if Gemma finds them,” Kade replies.
Shooter…
There was a shooter. I remember that. I remember Gemma telling me to go to the dressing room. And in the dressing room, I hid—
My fairy wings catch my eye, and flashes of the attack nearly blind me as they flood in.
Holy fuck.
My body begins to tremble. I can’t lift my hands. I can’t move my feet. I’m numb, in shock. Hot tears roll down my cheeks that seem to burn my skin in their wake.
Someone sits on the coffee table in front of me—barefoot, fishnet tights, a black skirt… I lift my head, finding Andi watching me, holding a cup of water. She doesn’t speak as she holds out the drink, and it’s enough of a gesture to make my muscles move.
Thank fuck there’s a straw in this cup.
I’m shaking so much that I can barely keep the cup still, and Andi keeps her hand around mine to steady me.
Another person sits at my side—Zeb—and when I see the look on his face, notice the others coming around to have their own sad, guilty, and pathetic expressions, I finally find my voice.
“I don’t need any of you looking at me like that,” I say hoarsely.
“Bon…”
“Some jackass tried to break me. I promise he didn’t,” I force out, my gaze lifting to Zeb.
Though, I don’t know that I believe myself.
Because I’m pretty sure it’s the shock talking.
There’s a nagging at the back of my head, an itch to reach for the mini bottle I know is in Zeb’s bag, to sneak in one drink because no one will notice. Enough to take the edge off, to quiet the static in my head…
People like you don’t get an edge.
It’s just a cliff, and you’ll fall into the abyss if you try for anything less.
That reality makes the pain worse.
“Any chance you remember anything?” Zeb asks. “His face? Was he wearing a mask—”
“She is barely conscious,” Andi snaps at him.
“The best time to remember your attacker is directly after the incident—”
“Yeah, and have you been through something like this?” she asks. “Have you been attacked? Raped? Assaulted?”
Zeb grinds his teeth, pain and sadness sweeping over his eyes as he realizes he’s fucked up.
“I have,” Andi says. “I have, and it fucking sucks.”
“It isn’t as easy as just remembering,” a new voice says to my left.
I glance sideways and almost smile when I see that Wren made it to the show.
“Hell of a night for a surprise visit,” I say to her.
She scoffs. “Tell me about it,” she mutters.
Andi squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to talk about it right now. When you’re ready, any of us are here.”
I grip her fingers back and squeeze.
My gaze wanders around the room, noting the three missing persons—one who I want to see more than anything.
“Mads okay?” I ask Andi.
“Yeah, he just…” She sighs heavily. “I think everything just got to him. He had to take a walk.”
I nod, completely understanding. “Where is—”
The door opens, revealing Mads, who appears pissed as hell when he pulls his mask down. Our eyes meet, and we nod at each other, no words needing to be spoken.
Andi kisses my cheek and gets up to talk to him.
“I’m sorry,” Zeb says beside me.
I turn into him, and his expression prompts an ache in my chest.
“I… I mean, you listen and watch all this stuff, right? And then, when it happens in front of you…” He sighs heavily. “I shouldn’t have left you. And I didn't mean to interrogate you.”
“Zeb, I wouldn’t expect any less. I know you mean well, but Wren is right. It isn’t that easy. Right now, I hardly know what’s real and what’s made up by fear or even as a protective mechanism in my head. Just… give me time.”
His jaw tightens again, and he leans over to kiss my forehead. “Okay.”
I sigh and glance around the room again, noting that Liam and Gemma still aren’t there.
“So… is everyone okay? Where is Gemma?” I ask.
“I’m right here.”
Gemma and Kade walk in, and my entire body weakens at the sight of her. I wish I had the strength to jump in her arms. I wish I even had the strength to stand.
Her face softens when our eyes meet, and as she sinks onto the coffee table in front of me, I hear Reed clear his throat.
“We should…” Reed jerks his head toward the door. “Come on.”
A few of them squeeze my shoulder as they pass by, yet each one feels more and more distant as Gemma’s eyes search my face, her thumb pushing some of my hair out of my eyes. I lean into that safe touch, my heart seeming to thaw with her in front of me.
And I wonder if this is what falling for someone feels like. I’ve blocked every memory of falling in love in the past so that I don’t have a baseline. All I feel when I think about it is pain. Still, this… this feels like the kind of hope that I haven’t felt in a really long time.
“You still have mirror in your hair,” she says, picking out a piece.
“I’ll be finding it for weeks,” I say. “Did you… did you find him?”
Her jaw tenses as she shakes her head. “No. Not yet. I have people looking… I’m so sorry, Bonnie,” she whispers. “I should have been here. I should have kept you with Zeb. This is my fault.”
“It’s no one’s fault except the asshole who attacked me,” I argue. “How could you have known? You were dealing with something bigger. Is everyone okay? Was anyone hurt?”
“Liam has a graze on his arm,” she answers, picking out another piece of glass. “We took the guy down before anyone was hurt—I thought the medic said they cleaned you up,” she adds, a twinge of annoyance in her voice.
I almost smile. “I don’t even remember a medic,” I admit.
Gemma’s eyes meet mine. “No, you passed out. God, you… you passed out right when I came in. I thought you were dying with all the blood.”
“I feel like it’s clinging to me,” I say, looking at my fingers.
She pulls a particularly large piece out of my hair and sighs again. “The venue was asking what happened. But out of fear that one of them might report it to the press, Stella is spinning it. The room was like this when you came in, and you fell on the glass. A few people saw you and Zeb stumble down the platform, and the fact that you were running from a gunman helps the case… Unless you want something different.”
“No police?” I ask.
Gemma pauses to look at me. “Do you want police involved? It’s entirely your decision. If you want it on record, the evidence logged… if you want…” She swallows hard. “If you want a kit done—”
“No,” I answer quickly. “No, I want…”
I want something to clear the noise.
Gemma’s hand wraps around mine, the touch breaking me out of my stupor.
“Do you think you can walk?” she asks.
“I… I have no idea, honestly.”
Walking could be good. Getting out of this room could be good.
“Come on,” she says, shifting to a squat. “Let’s get you to your trailer.”
As Gemma wraps her arms around me and helps me to my trailer, I begin to feel the walls closing in. The thought of being alone after this, of wondering if every noise outside is someone trying to get inside or biding their time… It’s torture. All I want is to say I’m fine, to pretend that this isn’t getting to me, that the attack didn’t nearly undo years of blood, sweat, and tears, and unlock glimpses of a night I’ve only ever felt fear from.
Five minutes.
Five minutes was all it took.
Five minutes and my brain became unwired, my safety was ripped away, and my heart finished breaking for the girl who couldn’t move on that bathroom floor.
I know I’m allowed to grieve for her.
I know I’m allowed to feel like this—like I should have fought harder, like I should have checked my surroundings, like I didn’t do enough to protect myself.
But fuck, nothing gives him or anyone the right to make me feel this way.
He shouldn’t get to feel this satisfaction; to think he owns my power or my body.
I shouldn’t have to do all of those things just to fucking live .
The thoughts make me want to hurl, to rage.
And in that same breath, I want to curl into a ball and sob in silence.
However, most of all… Most of all, I just want to be numb, for my body to become void of feeling altogether so I can go back to nothing more than blurred memories and foggy sights. Maybe then, I could protect the fraction of myself that isn’t completely torn apart, the innocent little girl who once clung to her mother’s leg and begged her to buy the toy drum set for her fifth birthday.
A lot of people remain outside their trailers—many more than I expected. I straighten as best as I can, attempting to appear as if Gemma is casually walking with her arm around my shoulders.
“Why are there so many people?” I ask. “Didn’t we just have a shooter?”
Gemma gives me a solemn look. “That was hours ago,” she says.
“I was out for hours?” I ask.
She nods. “Once they let people back in, they haven’t quieted down. Everyone has a story to tell their friends.”
“Hey, Bon!” a friend calls out.
I wince at my name, at Jarrod from another band who comes up to me then, asking about the set, curious if I saw something from the platform. I pause to chat, though after a couple of minutes, I’m grateful when Gemma tells them that she’s requiring I go lay down, and that I’m still in shock after all the commotion.
Thankfully, none of them seem to notice the blood on my hands.
My trailer is too quiet. I’ve always hated silence, yet this is something else entirely. It’s so overwhelming that my eardrums begin to throb. My gaze narrows on my bag that I know I had actually put away for once on my bed.
Gemma follows my gaze. “Security insisted on looking through everyone’s trailers just in case another shooter was lingering behind,” she says.
I nod, even if I’m still a little confused by everything. I turn on the television and the music I was listening to earlier blares through the speakers. The room seems to spin again when I glance around, unsure of what to do or where to start, and one look at Gemma tells me she’s just as unsure.
“Do you want…” Gemma pushes her curly hair back, avoiding my eyes, her hands coming to a rest on her hips. “I’ll just… I’ll be outside. Give you some space so you can—”
“Stay,” I blurt.
I can’t be on my own right now.
I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know what the spiral might look like.
Gemma’s face softens as if that word is the one thing that can bring her to her knees.
“I… I don’t think I want to be alone,” I admit, swallowing, my eyes fluttering to keep away the tears. “And I can’t… I can barely move, and I really want to shower. ”
I don’t know why that one sentence has me ready to sob.
But god, it does.
“Okay.”
I nearly collapse when she agrees.
She sniffs back what sounds like her own emotion and reaches for my face, swiping a tear from my eye. “I have you. Always,” she whispers. “Do you want me to help you? Or do you want me to make sure no one comes in while you get clean?”
“Can you do both?” I ask hoarsely.
A smile flinches at the corner of her lips. “Yeah. I can do both.”
Her touch is delicate as she attempts to peel off my clothes, ending up cutting some of them with scissors so I don’t have to lift my arms or struggle to get out of the tight fabrics.
I want to claw my skin off with it.
Gemma has the shower steaming by the time I’m ready to step under the water. The first hit makes me flinch. I don’t know why I’m trembling, why I can’t seem to take a full breath or get a fucking grip. It’s just water. It shouldn’t feel like a thousand hands groping me without permission.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Gemma holds my arms and helps me breathe through the pressure of the water hitting my shoulders. I keep blowing out breaths, unable to stop the tears mingling in the water. She doesn’t speak, and honestly, I’m grateful for it. The last thing I want right now is someone telling me how strong I am, how I can overcome this, how I just need to breathe, or I’m doing so well for getting up and going on.
Because go fuck yourself.
This sucks . I’m not okay. Every movement is hard. Every thought feels like a bullet in my head. I’m numb and overstimulated all at once. I don’t know if I can take another inhale without the feeling of daggers in my chest, and I don’t know how long this feeling is going to last. Everything feels so fucking hopeless. Life shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be this fucking hard just to go on existing one more day.
Five minutes.
Five fucking minutes.
Pink water stains the bottom of the shower as I eventually find the strength to fully stand under it, my eyes closed. I’m counting the beats of the music sounding outside the open bathroom door, my heel tapping on the floor. It’s the only thing keeping me from a downward spiral—the steady, predictable phrases. The four-counts, the occasional three-counts… the verse-chorus formula, the breakdowns that raise chills over your arms…
And Gemma’s nails scratching my scalp as she washes my hair.
I feel pathetic about this, for the fact that she’s brushed the glass out of the strands and is now washing away the blood. She’s taking her time, moving her hands methodically when she eventually helps me wash. I avoid her gaze the entire time—out of embarrassment, fear… everything .
Yet still, I’m leaning into it because being touched like this... so deliberately, with so much intimate intention, without the expectation of sexy words or performance…
I don’t think I’ve ever been touched like this.
It’s as if she’s cleansing the stains on my soul, massaging the knots tangling my mind. Her touch is entrancing, medicating even.
I didn’t know touch could feel like this.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she says softly. “I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t want you to force yourself through this. If it gets to be too much—”
“Please don’t stop,” I whisper.
And for another few minutes, she doesn’t. She takes her time bending and scrubbing my legs, being careful with the back of my thigh where I now have stitches, and when she stands again, her arms snaking around my waist so she can squeeze the soap over my stomach, I swallow.
“They don’t get to take this away from you,” she whispers in my ear. “They don’t get to take away true touch or intimacy when you want it, from someone who truly cares about you. Because when it’s right…” She sinks her forehead onto my wet hair and pulls my body flush.
“When it’s right, it’s worth it.”
I swallow and brace my hands against her arms as she wraps them fully around me, eyes staying closed for fear that if I open them, these last few minutes would have been a dream.
Fuck, this feels good. Secure . Almost familiar.
For the first time in years, I’m at peace.
I twist in her arms, and she doesn’t release me. I’m held by her stare, the glassiness coating her eyes. I reach up and swipe a stray droplet of water from her face, and more than anything, I want to tell her I’ll be okay.
Though, I don’t know if that’s the truth.