Heels over tile. The door slams. Quiet comes down, takes me in, tries to comfort me, but I don’t know if I actually want to be comforted, to be honest, I have no idea what it is Iwant at all. It’s as though the quiet wanted to send me a silent whisper, the answer on its lips, word after word, but I can’t hear it. I could, but I don’t want to. And that’s the thing, right? The reason I can’t help myself. Why no one can help me. Because I’m not interested. Because on the day, on that fucking day that I learned death was real, that it laughs in your face while it poisons your heart, on that day I felt sogoddamn muchthat, afterward, I started not to feel anything at all. And I was okay with that. It was better for me that way.
But ever since Paisley—ever since this girl with the protruding ears and the soft smile, whose dark past I want to kiss away until the sun can shine in her and bring her to shine—I want to feel again. Toliveagain.
And that fucking terrifies me because it’s been a really long time since I’ve known how that even goes.
22
Sad Birds Still Sing
Knox
I’m drunk. And off my ass tripping. After that thing with Amanda, nothing mattered, and I went to the party with Wyatt. I must have looked pretty bad because it wasn’t too long before some creepy dude with half his face tattooed offered me some Molly. Actually, after Paisley’s announcement from the last party, I swore I’d leave this shit alone, but I felt so bad that I just couldn’t do anything else. Strangely, I had to think of Trevor, who I was just recently telling how shitty drugs were. I’m a terrible example.
Wyatt hasn’t taken anything, but he’s been drinking. I hate that he always drives afterward anyway. And I hate that I get in, but, unfortunately, I’m too fucked up to make any long-sighted decisions. Sooner or later, he’s going to have an accident. I tell him over and over, but he doesn’t seem to care. It’s the dumbest thing he could possibly do. And me going along with it is, too. I plan on giving him a lecture as soon as I’m straight, but I doubt it’ll have any effect.
It’s been hours since the party ended. No idea how many. Five? Eight? In any event, it’s dark by the time Wyatt reaches our driveway. There’s light inside, and I can see shadows in the living room. Thesponsor evening isn’t over yet. For a moment, I simply stare at the window and make a face.
Wyatt seems to be reading my thoughts because he erupts into laughter. “Your father’s going to murder you.”
“Take my head off. Abuse me. Curse me. Ship me off to the military.”
My buddy leans his head against the window and runs a hand over his dark stubble with a drunk smile. After a few seconds, his smile collapses and his glance drifts over to the recessed floor lighting in front of the door. The light illuminates the left half of his face, while the right remains dark. “I’m tired, Knox.”
“Then sleep.”
“No, you don’t understand.”
“I think I do.” I look at him. “My head seems to have this particular talent for finding the darkness and driving myself crazy.”
Wyatt stretches his fingers and runs them over the steering wheel absentmindedly. “I can’t sleep. I’m afraid of my dreams.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Me too.”
“Do you think it’ll ever stop?”
“No idea. Maybe someday. Maybe never. Maybe we’ll nosedive, and the nosedive is what we call flying. Who knows.”
Wyatt looks at me. “I don’t think I want to nosedive.”
“I want to fly.” My eyes dart to a blackbird that’s leaving fresh tracks in the snow. Then it flies off. My eyes follow it until it is nothing but a distant, small point, swallowed up by the dark. “Like a bird.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt says. “They always sing. Even when they’re in pain. Did you know that? Even sad birds still sing.”
I am quiet for a moment. Then a soft laugh escapes, one that couldn’t be more joyless. “Shit, we’re messed up.”
“Nothing new, right?”
“I’m going in.”
“Yeah. And, Knox…” He looks at me. “Stop blaming Paisley for everything. It’s not her fault that you’re so broken.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not.” Then I get out and tramp through the heavy snow toward the front door.
I’m having some trouble with the key. I only manage to get it in the lock on the third try. The ecstasy is slowly wearing off, but the keyhole still seems to be moving back and forth a bit.
Stepping inside, I am greeted by the sound of silverware. Then all of a sudden it stops.
“Sorry,” I mumble without looking up, while trying to undo the laces of my boots. Attempting to step out of them, I stumble a few steps forward. I almost fall over but manage to save myself at the last minute with the sideboard. Unfortunately, this causes the vase Aunt Harriet gave us last Christmas to hit the ground. “Oops,” I say slowly and heavily. Somehow everything is dippy. My finger lands on a shard, which I start to observe with interest. It’s just white, but suddenly it seems like it’s some kind of museum piece or other. I push it back and forth, back and forth. I like the sound. It’s scratchy and makes me giggle.
