But I do know a thing about wilting.
I feel like it might be a fate worse than death, you know? It’s a slow, soul-sucking process, where you’re stuck in this limbo between fading away for good and making a comeback, but you can’t quite obtain either. So, you just wilt.
I’ve been wilting for a long time, and it fucking sucks.
Anyway, I hope you found some sunlight and have been watered properly.
Zephyr
My eyes scan over the e-mail a dozen times, soaking up the words, feeling my heart sputter and short-circuit as trails of blood trickle down my arm and saturate the rug beneath me.
A ghastly reminder of my near-fatal choice.
I try to process it, I try to process the letters and sentences and what it all means, but I’m fading, captured by a sky full of stars in the veil of night.
Before I’m fully possessed by darkness, I find the strength to dial those three numbers, to call for help, to save myself from… myself.
And when I finally come to, I’m lying in a new bed in a strange place, blinded by the bright lights overhead.
They singe my eyes.
Harsh and artificial.
But I find myself smiling as I drift away once more, and this time it’s a real smile, a sincere smile, because the ceiling lights manifest into something else, and all I feel is warmth dancing across my face as the clouds scatter.
The sun is looking for me.
—FIVE—
The sole of my shoe taps the linoleum in perfect time with Ms. Katherine’s ballpoint pen.
Ms. Katherine.
Like we’re fucking kindergarteners gathered around the area rug for a riveting rendition of Goodnight Moon.
I wish I could say goodnight.
Goodnight, room. Goodnight to the old lady who smells like mothballs.
Unfortunately, I’m stuck here because the only person in the world I give a shit about wants me to get better.
Yeah. Better.
As if I have an affliction I can cure in a matter of a few months by attending kumbaya classes with a merry band of idiots. Classes that reek of drivel and falsities, packaged neatly in a big ass box of bullshit, tied with glitter-infused ribbon.
As if I’ll suddenly care enough to… care.
The old bat blinks through a thin smile that appears drawn on with a plum-colored pencil. Her pen continues to tap against a leather-bound journal, intensifying my feet to drown it out.
Tap, tap, tap.
It grates me. My jaw tenses, teeth gnashing together until the enamel nearly chips. Eyes narrowed, focused and razor-sharp, I almost miss the sound of my name penetrating the vanilla-scented air.
Vanilla and honeysuckles, to be exact. I saw the empty package of wax melts in the garbage can when I was grabbing a cup of stale, shitty coffee, and I had to scoff.
The fragrance is designed to be calming. Soft and sweet.
Feminine.
Bullshit. The association is equally laughable and infuriating.
“Mr. Denison.”
My scowl is enough to have the portly woman teetering back on her chair legs. Other than the menace in my eyes piercing through the layers of cakey foundation settled between her wrinkles, my face remains expressionless.
This lack of reaction seems to fluster her further. “Mr. Denison,” she repeats, clearing a hitch in her throat that resembles pure terror. “Why don’t you start us off today.”
I try to keep my face stone-cold and stoic, but my left eyebrow arches automatically.
Rebel son-of-a-bitch.
“I can start, Ms. Katherine.”
The timid voice of some emo chick beside me steals my rebuttal. Her hair is black, like a starless sky at midnight. Like mine. Only, mine doesn’t have the ridiculous violet streaks and goofy headband.
Emo Chick scratches at the back of her hand, knuckles red and raw, pinholes of blood dotting the chalky skin around the bones. She is also tapping her feet.
Tap, tap, tap.
“My hamster, Nutmeg.”
Her words are whispered so delicately, I can’t help but fracture them with a mocking huff. I feel the gaze of a dozen horrified eyes on me as I lean against the seatback, arms folded.
A gasp carries over to me. “Parker.”
I’m being scolded by the shrew.
At the beginning of these gag-inducing meetings we’re supposed to go around the room and list off something that matters to us. It’s called a “starting point.”
It’s a reason. A reason to keep us alive another day.
Starting points are intended to be small—trivial, even.
The smell of freshly mowed grass, extra syrup on our pancakes, that first sip of coffee in the morning. Our favorite song.
Things we’d miss if we chose to jump off that building or shove a pistol down our throat.
But a fucking hamster? Hamsters have a three-year lifespan, and they eat their offspring.
This girl is a goner.
See you on the flipside, Emo Chick.
“She’s a good friend,” the raven-haired waif continues, earlobes stretched to a frightening level and decorated with silver skulls. “She makes me happy.”
The shrew returns her attention to my right, her pinched features relaxing as she responds to Emo Chick. “That’s wonderful, Amelia. Animals and pets make great starting points.”
My eye roll is monumental.
But it’s interrupted when the double doors plow open, revealing a disheveled sprite of a woman whose beltless beltloop gets snagged on the door handle, causing her to be yanked backwards, purse falling and dispensing lipstick, coins, and tampons everywhere, while her skinny latte from Starbucks slips from her grip as she tries to catch the fallen purse.
The scene would be amusing if I gave a flying fuck.
Chair legs screech against tile as members rise and jump into action, eager to help the inept stranger. I remain seated, bored, but mostly irritated that I haven’t figured out a way to fast-forward time yet.
I curse my dreadful sister as I wait for the chaos to simmer. She’s my foster sister, technically, but I’ve never been big on titles, and I’ve certainly never put much weight into blood.
Bree is an anomaly. A woman. But it’s different with her—I’ve never really noticed her gender. I only see her heart.
I pull my chin from my chest when I catch a whiff of something girly and citrus. Something like sunshine. The new girl stumbles past me, cheeks stained pink and hair so light it resembles cotton fields. She’s careful not to trip over my outstretched legs as she finds a seat on the opposite side of Emo Chick, then slinks back like she’s hoping it’ll swallow her up.
Looks like we’ve got one thing in common.
Ms. Katherine settles back into her own chair, while the rest of the circus quiets down and we resume circle time. “Let’s welcome our newest survivor,” she says, fisting her journal between knobby fingers. “This is Miss March.”
“Melody,” the woman corrects, voice cracking slightly. “Just Melody.”
Melody.
Yeah, right—a melody she is not.
She is noise, discord.
A sour note.
They all are.
Everyone welcomes her with a warm hello, except for me, and somehow, my silence must be the loudest of all because she turns to me then, seeing me for the first time.
She’s all big green eyes and pale skin. Emerald and ivory. Her frame is petite and willowy, a sundress hanging loose off her modest curves, while a bandage adorns her wrist like a dismal focal point. My gaze shifts from the bandage to her bony collarbone, then skims back up.