“No police?” I ask.
Gemma pauses to look at me. “Do you want police involved? It’s entirely your decision. If you want it on record, the evidence logged… if you want…” She swallows hard. “If you want a kit done—”
“No,” I answer quickly. “No, I want…”
I want something to clear the noise.
Gemma’s hand wraps around mine, the touch breaking me out of my stupor.
“Do you think you can walk?” she asks.
“I… I have no idea, honestly.”
Walking could be good. Getting out of this room could be good.
“Come on,” she says, shifting to a squat. “Let’s get you to your trailer.”
As Gemma wraps her arms around me and helps me to my trailer, I begin to feel the walls closing in. The thought of being alone after this, of wondering if every noise outside is someone trying to get inside or biding their time… It’s torture. All I want is to say I’m fine, to pretend that this isn’t getting to me, that the attack didn’t nearly undo years of blood, sweat, and tears, and unlock glimpses of a night I’ve only ever felt fear from.
Five minutes.
Five minutes was all it took.
Five minutes and my brain became unwired, my safety was ripped away, and my heart finished breaking for the girl who couldn’t move on that bathroom floor.
I know I’m allowed to grieve for her.
I know I’m allowed to feel like this—like I should have fought harder, like I should have checked my surroundings, like I didn’t do enough to protect myself.
But fuck, nothing giveshimor anyone the right to make me feel this way.
He shouldn’t get to feel this satisfaction; to think he owns my power or my body.
I shouldn’t have to do all of those things just to fuckinglive.
The thoughts make me want to hurl, to rage.
And in that same breath, I want to curl into a ball and sob in silence.
However, most of all… Most of all, I just want to be numb, for my body to become void of feeling altogether so I can go back to nothing more than blurred memories and foggy sights. Maybe then, I could protect the fraction of myself that isn’t completely torn apart, the innocent little girl who once clung to her mother’s leg and begged her to buy the toy drum set for her fifth birthday.
A lot of people remain outside their trailers—many more than I expected. I straighten as best as I can, attempting to appear as if Gemma is casually walking with her arm around my shoulders.
“Why are there so many people?” I ask. “Didn’t we just have a shooter?”
Gemma gives me a solemn look. “That was hours ago,” she says.
“I was out for hours?” I ask.
She nods. “Once they let people back in, they haven’t quieted down. Everyone has a story to tell their friends.”
“Hey, Bon!” a friend calls out.
I wince at my name, at Jarrod from another band who comes up to me then, asking about the set, curious if I saw something from the platform. I pause to chat, though after a couple of minutes, I’m grateful when Gemma tells them thatshe’s requiring I go lay down, and that I’m still in shock after all the commotion.
Thankfully, none of them seem to notice the blood on my hands.
My trailer is too quiet. I’ve always hated silence, yet this is something else entirely. It’s so overwhelming that my eardrums begin to throb. My gaze narrows on my bag that I know I had actually put away for once on my bed.
