Chapter 12
chapter
twelve
“Some truths don’t scream. They whisper from the pages we never meant anyone to read.” – Haven
CYRUS
Haven’s Journal Entry – Age 15
To The Small, Fat Fuck Of A Fairy…
Yeah, Cupid. I’m talking to you, asshole.
I don’t know when you shot me with your traitorous arrow, but you can kindly take it back. And the effects, too. I don’t want them. I don’t want him.
Here I am, minding my own damn business, and there he is. Cyrus-Asshole-Johnson-Fucking-Vale. I actually like that he used the firt initial of each band member to make his stage name of Vale, but that is totally besides the point.
He has his tongue down the throat of his newest conquest like it’s a sport and he’s trying to win a medal. There’ve been so many that I don’t even bother learning their names anymore. Blonde #37. Redhead #92. Brunette with the laugh like a hyena? I’ve lost count.
But this time… this time something is different.
It’s not annoyance. It’s not even a surprise. It’s jealousy so sharp it makes my stomach twist. And that scares the hell out of me.
I skipped Mrs. DeGroot’s class after that.
But let’s face it, that’s not really a hardship.
She smells like boiled cabbage and hates teenagers.
I hid out in the library, tried to talk myself out of what I felt.
Told myself it wasn’t real. It was a brain glitch.
A virus infecting my common sense. Or a case of the body snatchers.
It had to be. Because how else do I explain wanting Cyrus?
So I rationalized it. Buried it in the graveyard portion of my brain so it could rest in peace.
Then I walked outside, and there he was again…again. This time, he had her pressed up against his car like the world was his playground, and he’d decided to fuck on the monkey bars. Same girl. Same damn kiss. But this time?
I wanted to rip her away from him and then pull her hair out. That’s when I knew...
Cupid, you dick. Get your arrow. Return to sender. Preferably, shoot yourself next time.
I hate him. I hate the way he smiles like he owns the world. The way he laughs at me, the way he calls me fat or stupid or both. I hate the way he takes up every inch of space. I hate his stupid voice and his goddamn guitar and his perfect fucking smirk.
But mostly? I hate that I don’t hate him enough.
– H
The bus is quiet, except for the hum of the tires on the pavement. Everyone else is asleep or pretending to be. Headphones in, lights off, emotionally exhausted, and recharging to do it all over again in a few hours.
I sit alone in the corner booth, one of the reading lamps above me dimmed to its lowest setting. The world outside the small window is a blur of desert black and neon streaks. Vegas shrinks behind us. Another venue. Another show. Another city I won’t remember.
Haven is following behind us in her car, but in my hands…her journal.
It fell out of her tote bag earlier when she was helping load all of our crap into the bus.
I watched it hit the ground, and no one else noticed, so…
I picked it up. The spine is cracked, the cover is soft with age, and some of the pages are stained, like she tried to give each one a scent.
Chocolate, coffee, and strawberry juice.
Part of me knows I shouldn’t have opened it.
Despite the bombshell she dropped on me, these are private thoughts, and I should give it back.
The other part of me? The selfish, angry, and resentful side?
Well, that is the part of me that still wakes up thinking about the sound of her laugh and the way she says my name.
The part of me that remembers how she tasted on my tongue and how she felt in my arms that one night when she was mine.
But most of all, I recall the anger and pain that took over when she fucking left.
So yeah…that fucking side can’t help but turn the pages.
Every word is a stab. Every goddamn confession cuts my heart open further. She is just like me. Misunderstood and trying to get through a fucking day. And I’m the ass who made her feel that way.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Every day brings a new torture, and from the moment I open my eyes, I hate. I hate Cyrus. It feels like no one sees what Cyrus is doing to me, and those who do…don’t care. My body trembles at just the thought of leaving my room.
I snap the journal shut, jaw tight, throat clogged with pain no one can ever see or understand. My hands tremble slightly as I hold the leather bound book, my knuckles bone-white as I squeeze it, and ignore the throbbing pain that permanently lives under my skin.
I already blame myself for Patrick, and if something had happened to Haven because of me…because I pushed too hard…because…
Closing my eyes, I fight back the tears and pinch the bridge of my nose as it all washes over me, through me, and consumes me. Fuck.
The bus slows as we pull into a driveway, and I look out the window to see a glowing sign of a gas station.
I need air, or a fistfight. Or…fuck me, I’ll take both. Shoving the journal into my hoodie, I stalk off the bus, ignoring the driver’s question about snacks or waiting for the bodyguards. Instead, I march for the bathroom.
The door is open—probably to air out the stench—and a lone fluorescent light hums like it’s mocking me. I lock myself inside the dingy walls with the rank scent of stale piss and poor choices. Leaning over the sink, I stare into the cracked mirror.
My reflection looks like hell. Like I’m nothing more than the living dead. The black circles under my eyes are from lack of sleep and never seeing the sun.
Taking a deep breath, I stand up straight, and that’s when I see her through the narrow window. Haven’s car idles at the edge of the lot with her headlights still on, like she is ready to bolt at any moment. Her silhouette is barely visible, but her face is lit by the glow of her dashboard.
Why is she here?
Following us? Following me?
Why the fuck is she engaged?
Who the fuck is this guy? Why did no one tell me?
The pressure behind my ribs is so intense that without thinking, my arm is on the move.
The impact is immediate, and the cheap mirror shatters under my fist. For just a moment, I stare at the cracks and tiny splinters, then with a yell, I strike it again.
Not the mirror but the distorted version of myself staring back.
The me that I loathe and yet know I can never change.
Again and again, my fist hits the surface until my knuckles split and red mixes with the grime on the yellowed porcelain.
Blood runs from my fingers. I don’t flinch, I don’t even really care because nothing hurts as much as the thought of losing Haven forever.
Lifting my head, I can only see half of my face in what’s left of the mirror, and one thing is clear…I will never let Haven leave again.
Whoever this fucker is…I’m going to destroy him.