So string up the little Wisdoms and wrap them ‘round my neck, I’ll strangle myself with your Pearls of Wisdom and die a wreck.
The lyrics ring a bell. I repeat them in my head. Reap, reap, reap, you don’t even know…
Misha and I put those lyrics together. The entire fucking song is Misha’s. I remember it, and something terrible and hard curls through me as I stop breathing and read the short bio at the bottom.
Cipher Core is an American rock band based out of Thunder Bay.
A band in Thunder Bay. No… I swallow, acid bile rising in my throat.
Members:
Dane Lewis—guitars and backing vocals
Lotus Maynard—bass
Malcolm Weinburg—drums
Misha Lare—lead vocals, guitars
“Oh, my God.” I crumble, sinking out of my chair and to the floor, sobbing and shaking my head. “Oh, my God,” I cry.
I run my fingers through my hair, holding my head and my chest growing heavy. I suck in short, shallow breaths. I can’t breathe.
Masen is Misha. “What the fuck?!” I yell.
The whole time. All this time I’ve been missing him, worried about him, wondering where the fuck he is and why he hasn’t written, and he’s been right in front of me the whole time!
I scream, slamming my hands down on the floor and curling my fingers into the carpet.
I can’t believe it. He wouldn’t do this to me. He wouldn’t make a fool out of me and play with me like that.
Shooting up, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and glare at him on the screen. He finishes the final note, long and languorous, into the microphone, and from the distance in the crowd, I can see him dip his head as if still lost in the song after it’s over. People cheer, the last chords of the guitar ringing out, and I hear a couple girls call out for him.
Calling for Misha.
Everything is shaking, and the room is spinning as my mind races.
Masen. Mysterious, quiet Masen who no one knows anything about and who came out of nowhere. The guy who knew I’d loved Twilight, where I lived, and exactly what to get out of my backpack when I had my asthma attack without me telling him.
Oh, my God, how did I not know? I close my eyes, angry tears streaming down my face.
Misha, my best friend who got me into bed and fucked me with a lie.
You have a friend, he’d said earlier.
“No,” I whisper to myself, rage building as I slam my laptop closed and leave the room to get my sister’s car keys.
I have no friends.
Everything is dark, not a single light shining through any of the windows. My dad has to be home, though. It’s pretty late.
I slip my key into the lock, always nervous that I’ll find it doesn’t work. Of course, my father wouldn’t have any reason to keep me out—he never told me to leave, after all—but I’m not really sure he wants me here, either.
Stepping inside, I close the door behind me and stick my keys back in my pocket. A pungent odor hits my nostrils, and I wince, gazing around.
Trepidation creeps in. The house is a mess. My dad was always a neat freak, and with my sister and me helping with chores, we kept a nice house.
But I look around, seeing mail and newspapers on the floor, some laundry on the stairs, and I smell something that’s a mixture of old food and dirty clothes.
Walking past the sitting room, I notice a light coming from the living room and peer in, seeing the TV playing. The sound is low, and my father is lying on the recliner in his pajamas and robe. A table full of coffee cups, napkins, and a barely-eaten plate of food stands next to his chair.
I walk over and gaze down at his sleeping form, guilt weighing on me. Dane was right. My dad is an active guy. Even after Annie, he still took care of things around here. But I can see the sallow tint to his cheeks and how rumpled his clothes are, like he’s worn them for more than a day.
My eyes start to burn, and I suddenly want Ryen.
I need her. I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do right now.
I couldn’t get back what I needed from Falcon’s Well, but I’m not sure I care anymore.
But I don’t want to leave yet, either. I want Ryen, but I also feel like if I walked out now and left my father for good, Annie would truly be gone. Any semblance of the life we had before would be a memory.
I lower myself to the ottoman, watching him. His head is turned to the side, and I spy a pill bottle on the table.
I don’t have to look to know it’s Xanax. My dad’s kept it around for years, something to take the edge off when raising two kids by himself got stressful. Honestly, though, I think he started taking it because my mother left. He’d loved her, and she skipped out. No notes, no calls, no contact. She left her kids and never looked back.