Devoid [Bruno Mars]

Chapter four

Chapter four

I could hear the woman's muffled voice behind me as I walked. “You can't go out there,” she was saying. “you can't go out there.” Bruno's response was unknown. I was too far away. I stepped inside the thinning crowd and notified my friends, “The light-rail's here.”

They whipped their heads around, cursed, and followed me to the upcoming train. We walked quickly through the gates, making it as soon as the train arrived, a gasping breath emitting from the sliding doors. As we waited for the people to pile out, I asked them, “Who was that anyway?”

“Street performer,” Brook answered. “No one known. But hey,” she held up her red baseball cap she was no longer wearing. There was a signature imprinted on the side. “he may be one day.”

I found it strange that there was such a big crowd for a regular person with talent, because I'm sure that made up ninety-five percent of L.A. We abroaded the train. There were a couple unoccupied seats near the rear. I took a seat to myself, while Michelle and Brook were in a couple seats in front of me. A bell sounded, then a female's robotic voice told the street we were leaving from and headed to. With a whistle, the train pulled away. People, buildings, and trees turned into blurs. I dug in my pocket for my ear buds and stuffed them in my ears, wanting to drown away the train and other noises. The soothing, unique voice of Amy Winehouse entered my ears. I closed my eyes, imagining myself behind the panel of glass and what would have happened if I hadn't walked away.

We would have hugged, the familiarity of him would have made me shut my eyes. . .maybe talked about what happened? And then? Would he have introduced me to his girlfriend sitting at the table while rubbing the back of his neck as I politely greeted her when on the inside I would feel a heavy, painful nothing? Then I would lie, tell him about R.J and how good we're doing. Put on a plastic smile.

“Pick a card, any card,” I heard a voice say, the song had ended. I pulled out my ear buds, angling to my left. An old man was sitting next to me, in a black suit and black top hat. Magician's wear. He was holding playing cards my way. “I don't want to,” I told him out flatly.

“Pick a card, any card,” he repeated. My eyes searched for my friends, spotted them. They were in their own world of conversation. I should have sat with them, the kind of people on a light-rail. I sighed and picked one. It was a Queen of Spades, 8. I slid it in his deck. He shuffled. “Is this your card?” He pulled out the Queen of Spades, 8. 

“That's it,” I said. “Not that I'm stunned or anything. This card game is pretty old, predictable.”

He smiled, his teeth a rotten yellow, most missing. His eye color was the most peculiar shade of blue, almost transparent. I swallowed hard, a slice of fear shooting through me. “I have my own ways of doing things, Missy,” he huffed. “Queen of Spades, someone is wanting you, perhaps watching. No, missing.”

I stared at him, taken aback.

“I advise you to be careful.” He winked, tipped his hat, then left. He held out his deck of cards to other people, spread out like a mini fan. “Pick a card, any card.”

Someone is. . . missing you. Imagining myself behind the glass again, Bruno would wrap his arms around me, kiss me for a long time, then introduce me to his manager, who I would politely shake hands with, while on the inside I would be holding on.

I shook my head, that old guy was just insane. I moved carefully across the car and plopped down in the seat behind Michelle and Brook, sitting next to a boy with dark skin. I tapped on Michelle's shoulder. She angled her body around so she was facing me. Brook did the same. “Adrian! So we were thinking about places to visit when Michelle's daddy called saying we have to attend the charity event they're having for the hotel.” Michelle scowled. Brook continued, “Instead of sight-seeing, we'll be shopping for the event. Sight-seeing is for tomorrow.”

I leaned my elbows on the back of their chairs. “What's the event going to be like?”

“Dad said it's some kind of party,” Michelle answered, scornfully. “But his definition of party is different than the conventional.”

“At least we go shopping,” Brook said. “Mama's in need for some new shoes.”

An hour later, each one of us held a bag in our fists. Shopping was fun. All we did was joke most of the time, which relaxed me.

The train back to the hotel was nice. We were tired from walking around for two hours and were quiet. Until Brook bursted into an R Kelly song, and we couldn't resist mumbling the words with her to Ignition. Once we made it to our suite, we rested for a little while. The event began at ten, somewhere across the street, and it was only eight. “I'm going to get food,” Michelle announced as she walked by me, sprawled out on the bed. The room door slammed. Brook was in the shower.

I leaned across the bed, reaching for my suitcase. I unzipped the front pocket, pulling out the thin, black book. I had found this in the back of my mom's truck. I didn't remember how it got there, how I held on to it while running through Grim that was being swallowed by fire. The paper was thin, parchment, and mostly destroyed by rain, the black ink having bled all over the pages. When I first opened the book to the first page, there was only one name in the front.

Ellen.

It was my mother's journal. I gave it to her. It was rightfully hers. After a few days, I found it on my bed after coming home. She wanted me to have it. Even though it was practically destroyed, I could still make out some of the small paragraphs and sentences. Even dates, like: 

January 26, 1987

All around. . . the eyes. . . dead. . .me alive. . .  aware.  . . thoughts of. . . and escape.

That was my favorite one. I assumed it was the first time my mother had thoughts of liberating herself from Grim. I heard the steady stream of the shower cut off and quickly returned the journal to my suitcase, burrowing myself under the thick, white blankets and unmuting the flat screen television. Brook emerged, a towel around her and her head. Mist trailed behind her. “What are you watching?”

I thought quickly. “The Voice.” A commercial was playing. I had no idea what was actually on. Brook went over to her bed and rummaged through her suitcase. Before having the chance to change the channel, the commercial went off and Dora came on, singing about a map. Brook gave me a funny look. I held the remote, flicking through the channels, laughing a little. “Her singing's so good I thought I was watching The Voice.”

“Right,” Brook laughed. “You're funny.”

There was a red scar, running from Brook's shoulder all the way to her neck. “Oh, my God, Brook, what happened?” I cringed for a second, not meaning to sound so dramatic.

She whirled around, her eyes wide. “What, what?”

“There's a cut, on your back.”

Relief filled her eyes, but she sighed. “I trust you, Adrian.” She came and sat on the corner of my bed. I sat up. Water rolled down her brown skin and unto my blankets. “A few years ago. . . I was sexually abused.” I froze at her words. She continued. “He was my dad's friend. You think rapists are some monsters in dark alleys, but they're not. They can be someone you know. Anyways, he pinned me down on my stomach and held a knife to my neck.”

During her story, I had drawn a hand over my mouth. I spoke quietly through it. “Are you—are you okay?”

“I'm fine, Adrian.” She was smiling softly. “Everyone reacts differently to it—” She was interrupted by Michelle entering the room, two plastic bags in her hands. Michelle dropped a bunch of chips, chocolate bars, and soda cans inbetween me and Brook. We watched them topple on the bed, some rolling onto the floor. When the bags were empty, Michelle let them float to the carpet then brought out a brown paper bag. A bottle of red wine. We looked bewilderedly at Michelle, who was staring at the both of us, blankly. Brook's eyebrows furrowed. “Aren't you only twenty?”

Michelle held a finger to her lips. She wasn't telling us anything. Secrets. I frowned inwardly, because secrets are the murderers of the world. Secrets are the ones that stir curiosity, making it kill the cat.

It made me think of my secrets. How many would I have to bear, or how long would I have to keep them, for it to take a life.

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Thank you guys so much for waiting :*