(Charliegh, Part One: unedited)
The room was dim, backlights throwing distorted shadows into the faces surrounding her, rendering the pulsing music electric and vaguely eerie. The throttle of the bass stirred the air falling from her limp ponytail, and the faint bashing of the drums kept tempo to the nervous thudding of her pulse.
Within moments, Sylas would be upon the stage in front of her. The thought was exhilarating and also disheartening – what if she had driven all this way, only to be humiliated?
The Coke can pressed between her palms was sweating droplets that dribbled through her fingers and formed a thick ring on the wooden countertop. Her sweatshirt slumped across her stomach and shoulders, as if the humid air in the café had rendered it as drowsy as she was feeling. For the thousandth time that day, she questioned why she had come. To make a fool of herself? An example of Sylas?
She didn’t want to flaunt her darkening bruises – hidden within the confines of her clothing – or the rings that surrounded her eyes like insomnia itself. And right now, and felt as if she was walking into a situation that could only end in pointed fingers. Regret.
This is what happens to a girl who has been abandoned twice over.
The sting that accompanied her thoughts was sharper than usual, a piercing reminder that even if she was recovering physically, the mental repercussions had not faded. She could not rid herself of Nolan, jeering, slashed shirt revealing his pale, skinny body. Her memories were on a determined loop, replaying the pain and humiliation and nausea of the night at the greenhouse over and over.
Applause began to ring in her ears. Chairs scraped, bodies moving in the dusky multicolored lighting of the coffee shop. People were leaving, coming, carrying drinks across the room, accompanied by belligerent shouts and muted laughter. She watched the band dissemble their equipment, unplugging amps and pushing sweaty hair from their eyes, wondering if Sylas would look as disheveled without the toll of performing.
Was he concerned? Or had that been the reason he walked away – because he was indifferent to her suffering? Sometimes, she felt as if she was imagining her pain. Pulling it out of proportion, morphing it into a nightmare worthy of closet monsters. Maybe that was why he had left.
Dramatic. She was being dramatic about the whole thing. Disgusted with herself, she plunked her soda down and attempted to slide down from the barstool. Her breath caught in her throat; first because of the soreness, tearing across her limbs, and secondly because she had seen Sylas.
He sauntered onto the stage, calm and seemingly unconcerned. His cherry acoustic guitar was slung behind his back. As the remaining members of the band filed onto the stage, he situated himself upon a stool in the center.
The gentle cords of his guitar reverberated around the room. People began to quiet, and Charliegh found herself frozen, still half out of her seat. Would he look up? If he saw her, would he carry on with his performance, completely unaffected? Or – she hoped – would he jump off the stage and come running over?
Neither happened. Or perhaps they all happened at once – looking back, she could never quite pinpoint when things had fallen apart.
The sensation of eyes came before everything else. That, she was sure of. The room was crowded, people stuffed along the walls, but she felt a singular pair of eyes so intent upon her that the back of her neck prickled.
Then, there was a stirring. Sylas had tapped his microphone, murmuring something in his low, slow voice. The swishing of cymbals sounded. The music was starting, but Charliegh was deaf to the noise, silence roaring in her ears as she watched a boy slouch through the sea of customers.
His walk was unmistakable. Shoulders hunched, neck protruding from between the slope of his shoulders. A revolving stage light caught upon the camouflage cap, the downward leer that constituted his smile. And when he pulled his hands from his pockets, fingers round and stubby, she could almost see the excess of her bruises covering his nails; black and purple and rich, navy blue. Columns of agony flowers, ripped from the vine and tattooed upon his conscience.
Oddly enough, the fear came last.
She was almost numb as he slid into the stool beside her, leg brushing against hers. It was too horrific to be real. When he reached out, enormous palm encompassing the width of her thigh, she realized with a jolt that this was a boy who knew every part of her. Intimately.
She couldn’t help but wish that boy had been Sylas, especially as Nolan shifted towards her, grip tightening. His smile was brilliant, features backlit by the faint rainbow glow behind him.
“What a coincidence,” he said quietly, “Charliegh McGowan.”
The background to his rough, cynical voice was Sylas’s crooning, something about black vans and cherry trees and inked lines. It was a song he had written for her – a collage of completely ridiculous things, melded into a beautiful contradiction of white noise.
Lost, remembering the days when he sang for her, the lone cheerleader of his odd indie band, Charliegh winced in pain as Nolan’s jerky movements increased.
She slid to the side of her stool, elbow slamming against the edges of the counter, but his hands followed. “Leave me alone.” She gritted her teeth. Screaming for help was a tempting option, but what about Sylas? If he knew Nolan was here, would he turn his back on her completely?
“You left so suddenly last time.” He poked her side, and grinned when she gasped in pain. “I would have thought you wanted to finish what you started.”
Finish what you started.
The breadth of those words reached far beyond the conventional. More than finishing her lopsided affair with him, it struck her as signifying the whole of her downward spiral. How far she had come – from bemoaning her sister’s futile relationship and pursuing her moral calling – to sitting like a dejected harlot upon a creaky barstool, letting a strange boy push his unwelcome hands over her skin.
“Nolan. Stop.”
“What would I know about stopping things I didn’t start?”
She shoved his arm, but he didn’t budge. For someone so skinny, he was solidly immobile. “You approached me. Because Florence had the misguided idea that I was interested in white trash.”
The fear came in that one swift, fell swoop, when he pushed her from the barstool. Her foot caught upon the rungs and her foot wrenched painfully beneath her, bending at an awkward angle. The room was a dizzying whirl of flashing lights, a coffee shop constellation before her eyes. For a moment all she could do was blink, staring at the twisted face of a boy she had been mistaken to trust.
As he bent down, the smell of liquor rancid on his breath, she realized that he truly meant to finish what he had started. Suddenly, the rage that coursed through her was stronger than the dull throbbing of her ankle. She pulled herself into a sitting position, the tile floor sticking to her fingertips.
“I didn’t force you to come with me.” He said, tone mocking. He squatted down, arms extending to grab hold of her. “I didn’t drive my family away. It was you. All you.”
Her teeth clanked against each other when he grabbed her shoulders, shaking her with such vigor that her hair fell loose from its ponytail and billowed across her shoulders. Fragments of faded greenish-brown stuck to the corners of her eyes, edges sharp upon her inner eyelids and lips.
Even at the greenhouse, she had not felt this vulnerable. There, they had been confined to the privacy of four shambling walls and a dirt floor that smelled like stale beer and cigarettes. The coffee shop was different. They were surrounded by people, every one of which would idly watch as he tore her wide open and pulled the leftover emotion from her rusted heart.
“It was all you, Charliegh! Your fault. Your decision. Your life to screw up whichever way you chose.” He was so close that his features were a kaleidoscope of misery, peering through the windows of her frightened soul. “And guess what? You chose me.”
“Why do you hate me?” She tried to scream as he inched his fingers under the hem of her sweatshirt, but her throat constricted. “I gave you what you wanted. More than once.” It hurt to cry, to acknowledge the power that he held over her. She felt like a child again, curled into a ball in the corner, watching the members of her family rip each other apart.
“You don’t have what I want, Charliegh McGowan. You don’t have anything I want. Not even this.”
“What, then? Exactly what do you want?”
In the moment before he kissed her, he let her go. He just stood idly for a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels. The emptiness in his eyes was frightening – the sheer hatred that played across his features was enough to render her speechless.
“I want my mom back.” He said finally.
It was so juvenile, so unexpected, that she felt a frantic laugh bubble its way up past her lips. His mom? He was lashing out because he wanted his mother? It was as unreal as the tiny voice in the back of her head, murmuring that Sylas was close, that he was coming to save her.
There was a vague commotion buzzing in her ears. Had they noticed? Would anyone bother to rescue her? When Nolan jerked forward to wrap his fingers around her neck, everything dissipated. “Guess what, Charliegh? She isn’t coming back! And you know why?”
She tried to shake her head, terrified, but his fingers were digging into her windpipe, cutting off her circulation. “I’m sorry.”
“Earnest should be sorry! You should be silent!”
“I’m sorry,” she was mumbling, catching the edges of fog as it stole across her vision, when the weight of his hands lifted. It felt like some of her skin had been ripped away with him. Her limbs were free, and limp, and the air was at once warm and cold.
“Hey.” Someone cupped her face, but all she could make out was black indents on a shadowed face. She was screaming, trying to pull back, finally able to cry for help, but the figure slid his palm across her mouth. He leaned closer, and the unmistakable scent of cinnamon slid past her agony to wrap its arms around her.
Someone else was shouting, and feet were stomping across the floor in a frenzy, banging chairs and rattling keys. The noise bubbled in her eardrums, making her light-headed with the force of it.
“Sylas?” She reached up, trying to find his face, but her fingers brushed against a rounded face, edges rough with stubble. As the world began to clear, confusion parting for clarity, she realized that the boy hovering above her was the one who had given her coke. He was been wiping down the countertops when she walked into the coffee shop.
His teeth were crooked. A long, thick swath of dyed hair fell across so much of his face that it was almost undiscernible where his hair ended and his eyelashes began. The cinnamon was emanating from the apron wrapped around his waist, canvas fabric covered in spill splotches.
“Hey,” he said, pulling his arm away, “who was that?”
She blinked. “Sylas?”
“That kid pawing you.”
Oh. “Nolan,” she whispered. This seemed to happen to her, over and over and over – pulled from person to person, place to place. The disorientation of her circumstances hit her, and a fresh burst of dizziness exploded behind her eyes.
“Okay, so, Nolan. They took him out, so you can sit up now. He isn’t going to attack.” The boy looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s a Sylas up on stage, I think.”
“On stage? Singing? He’s still just sitting there?” She grabbed his arm, trying to haul herself to her feet. Suddenly it was of the utmost important that she saw Sylas. She wanted to clear her head of all these people – the boy beside her, the gathering behind him – and tuck their murmured reassurances into her pocket.
The boy slid his arm around her shoulders as she lurched forward. He tried to tug her towards one of the barstools. “Maybe you should sit. If you pass out, I’m not –”
“You don’t have to do anything.” She said. “I’m fine.”
“Right.”
“I’m fine,” she repeated. “I’m going to be fine.”
“Okay, okay.” The boy pulled his hands away and stuffed them into the pockets of his apron. He shook the hair out of his eyes, revealing features twisted with disbelief. “You want coffee?”
It was the most insignificant of things, but she felt her heart twist a little. How could a complete stranger, who had just scooped her off the floor, care more about her well-being than the boy she had known her entire life? He asked if she wanted coffee. Meanwhile, she could still hear Sylas singing, voice strong and rasping through the speakers.
It hurt to say, “Sure,” and watch him shuffle towards the coffee maker like his life depended upon prevented her from hitting the floor again.
Someone touched her elbow. It was a woman, who had been waiting behind the boy. She licked her lips and gave Charliegh a weak smile. “You good?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m sure, I’m sure. Listen, someone wanted to see you. They seemed worried about this little…accident.” The woman seemed to remember that she was still holding Charliegh’s elbow and jerked away, lacing her bony fingers together in front of her body.
Charliegh peered over her shoulder. She had missed any opportunity to see Sylas, now – the stage was empty, lights dimmed. The instruments were sitting steadily in his place, physical remnants of a one-sided disaster. It was impossible that he would want to see her – his actions, or lack of, had proven that. “Who was it?”
“One of the musicians.” The woman said the word carefully, as it were a bitter thing nestling on her tongue. “Kale, I think. Like the vegetable?”
“Cale?”
“Yeah, a Cale.” She twisted her hands, lips pressed into a thin line. It was as if the mere mention of a musician was enough to make her stomach turn. Clearly, even relaying a message about one was beyond her. “Really slouched. His hair looks orange, but it’s probably some kind of unknown red. And, ah, he was playing the guitar.”
Charliegh turned away and sat, legs folded beneath her. The imprint from her coke was still engraved upon the counter, deep as the scars upon her forearms. Cale. Of all people, why Cale? Why not Sylas? Why couldn’t it have been Sylas?
The boy behind the counter slid her drink in front of her. He retracted his hand quickly, as if she would take her rising frustration out on him. Yet all she could think was Cale, not Sylas, but Cale. Even the faint aroma of hazelnut rising from the Styrofoam mug failed to register. She felt crumpled, like a tissue, used and then discarded. Useless. Objectified.
It took all of her remaining willpower not to weep.
“What should I tell him?” The woman was still behind her, buzzing with nervous energy. “Coming? Not coming?”
Charliegh reached out slowly and wrapped her fingers around the cup. Warmth soaked through her fingertips, thawing her uncertainty. “Where is he?”
“Parking lot? I think they were packing up, or something. I was just, ah, out for a smoke.” She cleared her throat, almost defensive. As if Charliegh was in any position to judge. “And he saw my shirt – I work here – and told me to find the girl who was on the floor.”
Charming. The girl who was on the floor. Charliegh took a careful sip, relishing the sensation of liquid filling her stomach, coaxing her frozen insides back to life. She seemed to be landing herself in these situation too often, surrounded by people seemingly immune to hardship. Did they merely worry about their musicians, and coffee shops, and tidy lifestyles, uncluttered by things like heartbreak and isolation?
The woman sniffed. “You want me to say anything back? I mean, I don’t get paid enough to play messenger, but –”
“No, I'll go.” Charliegh stood, legs screaming with the effort it took to adjust her equilibrium. She cast a cursory glance over her shoulder at the boy, wrapping up her loose ends with a tiny, hollow smile. “Thanks.”
***
Dedicated to mckenzierrobison because her novel, "If I Matter", is perhaps one of the best I have read dealing with sensitive subject matter. Most writers render conflict a fashion statement; this book makes it a nightmare. A must-read.