The Contradiction of Solitude(23)

“She?” I asked, strangely lightheaded

George didn’t hear me. Too busy counting his money.

“Can you get the case for this pretty thing out of the back? I’ll put it in the storeroom until it’s picked up. Margie has the receipt at the counter.” George continued talking but my head felt full.

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

I went back to my workbench and sat down. Tate was busy working. Stan and Nathan were out back having a smoke.

I stared down at the wood in front of me, knowing I should work. But I couldn’t. I felt as though I had lost something important.

Something integral.

I should never have let George keep that guitar. I should have killed him for it.

Killed him?

I shook and shuddered at the unwelcome thought.

What was wrong with me?

I picked up the Dremel and started to carve and smooth out the design on the body. Long curves. Careful points.

My mind drifted.



I ran far and I ran fast. I packed my bags, taking only the necessary things and I got the hell out of there.

My dad was dead.

My sister—

I still couldn’t let my mind wrap around the reality of the world I woke up in. It was horrible. It was scary. I wanted nothing to do with it.

I doubted my mother would even realize I was gone. She had stopped caring about anything just after Amelia…

I hitchhiked out of town. I had enough money to catch a bus to Pittsburg. After that, I had no plan. No idea what I was going to do.

I was a fifteen-year-old kid, living in a state of shock that I had yet to recover from. A shock that was three years old. I was paranoid he’d find me. That he’d take me away just like he had taken my sister. It didn’t matter that he was locked away. I was convinced he’d find a way to get me.

The star…

I slept under bridges. I blew old dudes for cash. I didn’t think anything of dirtying my knees if in doing so I had enough money to eat one more meal.

And every day the voices became louder.

They screamed at me to go home.

They screamed at me to run even farther away.

Until that day came when I cut my own neck. Sliced it. Back and forth. Up and down with a rusty knife.

The first drops of blood made everything go quiet.

Blissful solitude.

Alone.

It’s how I liked it.



I stopped working on the guitar and dropped the steel wool. I felt off. But I knew one thing.

I had to see her.

I grabbed my smokes and snatched Tate’s lighter off his bench, ignoring his protests.

I walked out the door and headed across the street. To the place where I knew I could find her.

I lit my cigarette and blew out smoke. It covered me. I wished it would make me invisible.

I saw her through the window. She never knew I was there.

I could watch her and watch her forever.

There was something powerful about observing Layna without her permission. She held all the cards. But right now, I did.

I could notice things she didn’t want me to see.

Like how she curled her lip in disgust at the jerks drinking their coffee and reading Kierkegaard.

Her face would soften when she’d stare off into space. Listening to the words only she could hear.

I leaned my forehead against the glass, not caring that everyone saw me.

Everyone but her.

I was sick. A f*cking nut job. I was essentially stalking some woman I was ridiculously attracted to.

I was losing my ever-loving mind.

And then she looked up.

Our eyes met.

Coal Black.

And it all made sense.

We were perfect in our mad sanity.





I was stuck. Unmoving.

Lost…

I’m not sure how it happened. I was upstairs, sorting through the books that had been misplaced by inconsiderate hands. It was quiet, oh so quiet. The whispered conversations muted by bound pages.

Up here I felt alone. How I liked it. Where I belonged.

And then there was a rush of air. The prickle of goose bumps along my arm.

The wafting of tobacco and spearmint filled my nostrils. Murmurs of forgotten voices, pleading and frantic.

I was there.

I felt the cold. The leather underneath my hands as I fought with the urge to get out and head towards a house sitting off in the distance.

Stern warnings given before slammed doors.

“Stay here, Layna. Don’t move.”

Hissed through bristled hairs and dry lips. Heart pumping, pumping. Wildly beating.

I dropped the books in my hands, somewhere else.

Driving. Driving. Driving.

Long, dark roads. Cold, frigid air seeping through the cracked window.

I wanted ice cream. It’s what he promised.

Then nothing.

I couldn’t remember.

I could remember.

Some but not all.

Details were missing. Where were they?

Bits and pieces trickled in. Violent bursts of memory crashed into the walls of my mind.

Waylon Jennings crooned from the radio. His favorite. It made me smile knowing how he loved music. It played all the time. Just for him.

I hated Waylon Jennings. I hated music. I hated the strains of voices intertwined with instruments, meant to be an escape.

It wasn’t an escape. It was a trap. Holding me under.