But I’m not. I’m scarred, broken, cracked apart, bleeding out, and I don’t know how to make it stop, how to fix myself.
I need to try, though. I have to try to get my life together and fix myself. Starting with my sister. If I can find her and know she’s out of harm’s way, then maybe I can have some peace of mind. Maybe I’ll have hope that getting better is possible. Maybe seeing the images of my past can be just that—my past.
Maybe I can be fixed.
Chapter 7
Lyric
I have never been so scared in all my life as when Ayden fell to the ground. Then he looked up at me with tears in his eyes, and I just about died. My beautiful, sweet friend was crying and in pain. Seeing him like that was heartbreaking.
After we part ways at our houses, I start to wonder what caused the meltdown. Could it have been stress from the police visit, the stress of them insisting he has to try to remember his past? I don’t know for sure, since he still hasn’t told me much about his past. With Ayden, everything is in the present, which is fine—I’m all about seizing the moment—but it makes me wonder exactly what kind of terrible things happened in his past.
Needing to take my mind off stuff, I track down my father in his office to bug him some more about his club opening.
“Knock, knock, knock,” I say, rapping my knuckles on the doorframe as I enter his office. The usually tidy room is a mess. Papers are scattered on his desk, records are strewn carelessly on the floor, and empty energy drinks overflow the trashcan. “Whoa, did a tornado blow through here or something? Or is this just what happens when you hit stress mode?”
“What?” He closes his laptop then blinks around at the room as if he’s just noticing the mess. “Oh, that. Yeah, I haven’t had time to clean up in a few days.”
I raise my brows at the mess that is clearly from more than a few days. “Want me to clean up?”
He shakes his head as he stands up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Nah, I need to get up anyway. I’ve been sitting at the desk all day.” He stretches out his legs and arms. “What are you up to? I thought you were supposed to be at a self-defense class or something.”
“That didn’t work out.” I plop down in a chair in front of his desk.
He starts stacking some papers. “Why? What happened?”
I shrug, spinning around in the chair. “I’m not sure.”
He pauses. “You’re not sure, or you don’t want to tell me?”
“Both,” I say, and he looks at me funny.
“Lyric, you need to go to those classes. With everything going on with Ayden and what happened with William,” his jaw tightens, “you need to know how to protect yourself.”
“Technically, I did protect myself from William. I’m the one who got myself out of that room after kicking the crap out of his balls.”
“I’d still feel better if you took the classes. Ayden needs to take them, too.”
“I was planning on it—we both were—but … I think Ayden had a panic attack or something, and we had to come home.”
“Really?” He doesn’t seem all that shocked.
“Did you know he has them?”
“No, but I’m not surprised with the stressful life he’s had.” He picks up the stack of papers and sets them in the desk drawer. “Your mother used to have them when she was younger.”
I stop spinning in the chair. “Really? Why have I never heard about this?”
He glides the drawer shut then moves to the trash bin to clean up the cans. “Because she hasn’t had them in a long time. And she doesn’t really like to talk about it too much.”
“Is that why you guys worry about my mental stability?”
He drops the can he’s holding. “Why do you think we worry about that?”
I push up from the chair and scoop up the can he dropped. “Because I heard you guys talking about it once. That I was too happy.” I chuck the can in the trash bin. “You guys seemed pretty convinced that was a bad thing.”
He collects another can from the floor and crunches the metal. “You misunderstood us.” He tosses the can into the trash. “Your mom … she just worries.”
I start gathering the records on the floor. “Over what?”
He sighs, scratching the side of his head. “You know about your grandmother, right? Your mom’s mom?”
“I know she committed suicide, if that’s what you’re getting at. But only because Grandpa let it slip out in one of his stories, not because you two told me.”
“Well, she was bipolar.”
“And…?”
He sighs again then takes the records from me and stacks them on the shelf. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes, your grandmother would get in these moods. These really, upbeat, happy moods that almost seemed unnatural.”
I study his uneasy demeanor and a theory develops. “Wait a minute. Do you guys think I’m bipolar?”
“No,” he says quickly, tense and guilty. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
“Then why do you look so guilty?”
His stiff posture loosens. “Lyric Scott, we don’t think you’re bipolar. Yes, we had to worry since it can be hereditary, but that’s it.”
“Well, to stop your worry, I’ll just be blunt with you. I’m overly happy because I’ve had a super good life and I’m happy. That’s it.” I head for the door to leave. “And just so you know, I do get sad sometimes. I just choose not to be mopey for very long because life’s too short to waste my energy on being sad.”
I exit the room, even though I haven’t discussed our band playing for his opening yet. But I’d wanted to cheer up, not sink farther into a bummer mood.
I go up to my room and rock out on the violin for a while, seeking comfort from music. The soft tunes and channeled energy soothe my restless soul. By the time I put the bow down, I feel content enough to jot some lyrics down.
I grab a pen and notebook then flop down on my bed.
Look at the stars, staring upon the souls.
Watching them wander. Little pieces of their own.
Lost in a sea of others. Drowning in pain.
But there are too many to hear all the silent cries.
So we keep drifting, drifting, drifting