12. Chapter 12
The bus creaks when the wind shifts, metal sighing like it’s tired of holding itself together.
Same, Bus. Same.
I’m curled up on the narrow bench that doubles as a couch, legs tucked under me, notebook open on the little fold-out table I welded myself last year. The heater hums in the corner, fighting a losing battle against February cold, and my breath fogs faintly when I exhale too close to the window.
Valentine’s Day hangover without the hangover.
It’s lovely.
My boss Donny had shoved me out of the bar this morning with a grin and a pointed finger. ‘You sang your ass off last night. Go home. Sleep. I don’t want to hear a word of protest.’
So here I am.
Certainly not asleep, but doing my homework.
The bracelet on my wrist clinks softly when I move my hand, the silver chain cool against my skin.
I still haven’t taken it off, and I don’t really know why.
It’s not like it goes with everything, and it definitely doesn’t scream well-adjusted woman with her shit together.
It screams something else, and I’m so not going to look into that at the moment.
I’ve got mommy issues to sort through.
I rest my pen against the paper and stare at the first line I wrote half an hour ago.
Write a letter to your mother, it will be easy they said.
I could stab him with my pen for coming up with the idea, because I can’t think of anything halfway decent to write that won’t have me come across as a raging bitch.
I chew on the pen cap and glance around the bus, grounding myself in the familiar clutter.
Paintings are staged against the far wall with jars of brushes, and a chipped mug still rests on the counter from the last time Imogen had drank whiskey out of it.
The little string of warm lights I hung along the ceiling blink at me, I’d done it because bare bulbs make me feel like I’m in an interrogation room. The warmth of them was far better.
I chose everything around me—remodeled bus included—because it was quiet. Because I could lock the door and no one could come in unless I let them.
That should tell me something.
Groaning, I drop my gaze back to the page and force myself to start again.
Mom,
The word alone tightens my throat. I let out a breath and keep going before I can think too hard about it.
I don’t know if you’d recognize me if you saw me now. I don’t know if you’d even care.
The pen presses harder than it needs to, ink darkening the page, but I don’t stop.
I used to think you didn’t notice what was happening. That you didn’t see how scared I was or how much I needed you. But the older I get, the harder it is to pretend you didn’t know.
My chest aches with the familiar, dull pressure of something I’ve never fully named.
You knew. You just didn’t choose me.
There it is.
I swallow and keep writing, hand moving faster now, like if I stop I’ll lose the nerve.
You chose the drugs. You chose the men. You chose whatever made things easier for you in the moment, and you left me to figure out how to survive in the space you should have filled.
I learned early that if I was quiet enough, useful enough, invisible enough, I might not make things worse.
I learned that wanting anything was dangerous, and that needing you was pointless.
I pause, breath hitching, and stare at the words until they begin to blur. That’s the part that hurts the most. Not what she did, but what she wouldn’t.
I needed a mother and protection. I needed someone to choose me, and you didn’t.
My pen stops moving and silence settles heavy in the bus, broken only by the heater’s hum and the distant sound of Chicago’s traffic.
I sit there for a long time, staring at the page with eyes that burn but are dry.
Crying has never come easily to me, not when it feels like it belongs to people who believe someone will come running when they do.
Eventually, I set the pen down.
“That’s enough for today,” I murmur to no one.
I close the notebook and shove it under the bench, like it might bite me if I leave it out.
My thoughts don’t quiet, though. They skitter and loop, tugged in directions I don’t like.
Back to the mirror room. Back to the way Plague’s voice had pressed questions into me like bruises.
Back to the wolf-guy saying you survived him like it meant something more than luck.
I rub at my wrist, fingers brushing the plague doctor charm. It swings once, then settles.
I don’t know why my brain keeps circling it and him—that night even. The fact that it could have gone so wrong and somehow didn’t.
Or maybe it did, just not in the way I expected.
“Clear your head,” I mutter, grabbing my phone. Because I’m apparently crazy enough now that I need to start talking to myself.
I tell myself that I’m just curious and that it’s a part of processing it all. That therapy doesn’t come with rules but what you’re allowed to think about as I dive in. Deeper and deeper.
The internet, predictable, is useless at first.
I search vague phrases; Pitch event, masked immersive experience, silver charm bracelet. Most of what comes up is absolute nonsense. It’s deleted posts and cryptic captions on private accounts, blurry photos of wrists with chains and charms and no context.
No names.
No locations.
No explanations.
It’s like the entire thing exists in negative space. Defined more by what people don’t say than what they do.
I scroll through a forum thread where someone asks if Pitch is “worth it.” The replies range from best night of my life to don’t go if you value your sanity. There aren’t real details or any follow-up worth chasing down.
My thumb is swiping to another thread when I see it.
A photo, half-hidden between two posts of empty bracelets and vague captions. One of a man’s wrist, pale and tense, veins standing out beneath the skin, and upon it sits a silver charm that is unmistakable.
It’s the same that hangs from my own.
The little beaked mask gleams dull silver in the photo, angled just enough that the shape is clear. The background itself is blurry, but it looks like a bar top if I had to guess. A drink just barely out of frame.
I stare at it for a long moment, pulse thudding in my ears. This man survived too, or maybe endured is the better word. Had he also fucked Plague? Is that the only way one passes his strange test?
I tap onto his profile and curse quietly when I find that it’s private, however… Chicago is listed right there as his place of residence.
My stomach flips and I sit for a solid minute, arguing with myself. Messaging him is a bad idea, and kind of reckless. But this is exactly the kind of thing I do when something crawls under my skin and refuses to let go.
“Fuck it,” I whisper.
I hit message.
The cursor blinks, waiting for me and I type each word next deliberately.
Hey. I know this is random, but I saw your bracelet photo. I recognize the charm, because I was at Pitch too. I survived Plague as well. I’m not looking to cause trouble or break any rules, I just… need to understand something.
I delete the last sentence and rewrite.
I’m trying to make sense of my experience, and it looks like yours was different from mine maybe? If you’re willing to talk, I’ll meet you wherever and whenever you’re comfortable. Dinner or drink is on me.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering again.
This could go nowhere and he could ignore me—hell, he could block me or tell me to fuck off and mind my own business. Worse, he could tell me something I don’t want to hear.
I think of the letter tucked beneath my bench, though. Of my mother choosing everything except me and the way I learned to accept silence as an answer. I decide that silence is no longer good enough.
I hit send and the message disappears into the void, marked delivered.
No reply comes immediately, but I don’t expect one. I set my phone face-down on the table and exhale slowly, like I’ve just stepped off the ledge and realized I’m still standing.
The bus feels too quiet again and I pull the notebook back out, flipping it open to a fresh page. The homework isn’t done, not really. And avoiding it won’t make it easier next session.
I write the date at the top and stare at the blank space beneath it.
Alright, let’s see what else you’ve got for me.
The bracelet catches the light as I bend over the page, the plague mask charm tapping against the paper as I write.