“Lunar, are you ashamed you brought the band into disrepute?”
“Lunar, have you left Danger for good?”
“Will you return to the Satan’s Savages to be their club whore again?”
My body flinches at the last question, and I turn to the man who voiced it, glaring at him even though he can’t see that action through my glasses. “I won’teverbe returning to the club. My days there are over. If you bothered to ask, you would know they have been for a while. I’m not that girl anymore, and you would do well to remember that,” I snap.
I spot my mother and brother. Stuart is wearing his earmuffs, but I’m concerned that the paparazzi and flashing cameras might frighten him. He can be sensitive not only to crowds but also to light and noise.
“Mom, get Stuart out of here,” I call out to her.
She nods, but one paparazzi spins around, catching my mother’s attention as she grabs Stuart, who’s looking in my direction. His eyes light up, and he rushes forward awkwardly while I shake my head in dismay.
“Stuart, no,” I call out as Mom rushes up behind him.
His arms reach out for me, so I hurry to Stuart, enveloping him tightly, attempting to shield his eyes from the inevitable camera flashes.
“Alise, you home. I miss you, sissy,” he chimes, so happy to see me.
My chest tightens, and I can’t stop the tears from cascading down my cheeks while the cameras flash like crazy lunatics.
“No, stop!” I scream. Stuart moans, grabbing hold of me tightly. “Please stop! He’s autistic. This is frightening him,” I beg.
He screams and starts lashing out. I quickly grab his hands, trying to hold him back. Mom joins me, and together, we try to restrain him while he yells and screams, tears streaming down his face, while the cameras are forced into his face.
“You fools, can’t you see you’re scaring him!” Mom yells.
Stuart drops to the floor, kicking and screaming, while clawing at his eyes and ears as the paparazzi continue snapping photographs and yelling at us.
“This is gold! Your brother is just as crazy as you are, Lunar,” one of the assholes says.
I look at Mom, and she shakes her head, glaring at me in a warning while she comforts Stuart, but my rage is too far gone. I stand, clenching my fist, and throw it forward, connecting with his jaw. He slumps to the side, dropping his camera, and I stomp on it, venting my frustration, my foot smashing into it forcefully until it’s nothing but a mangled mess.
“You fucking psycho bitch. I’m going to have you charged for assault!” he blasts.
“I don’t care! Think about the psychological damage you’ve inflicted on my little brother, and then see if I care about facing charges. All I’m concerned about is getting him out of here, away from you invasive terrorist, and calming him down after you’ve put him into this state, you despicable arseholes. I hope you’re proud of yourselves. How aboutIwill seeyouin court? He’s autistic, not fucking crazy.”
They glance down at Stuart, who’s on the floor, rocking back and forth, crying into Mom’s chest. His earmuffs are broken, and his ears are bleeding. He has scratches on his face, and I can’t help but release a small sob while looking at him.
“Fucking animals,” I murmur.
They slowly lower their cameras, and security finally decides to intervene. They pull the paparazzi away from us as another man helps Mom lift Stuart, who is inconsolable.
“I’m so sorry.” I wipe the tears from my cheeks as I help Mom.
She pats my shoulder. “Not your fault, honey. Let’s grab your bag and get him home.”
I swiftly reach the carousel and hurry outside with Mom and the kind man carrying Stuart. Luckily, he’s sturdy becauseStuart, despite his small stature, is not lacking in height, considering he’s sixteen. We settle Stuart in the car, and he’s calmed down enough to be in the tired phase of his meltdown. Buckling him in, his head falls to the side, and I can finally relax.
Mom turns to the good Samaritan. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here to help us,” Mom says to the kind man.
“My pleasure. My five-year-old daughter is autistic, so I know all about it. When I saw what was happening, I knew how to help.”
“Well, thank you again. Can I give you some money or something for your trouble?” Mom asks, and I smile at her.
“No, of course not. He’s had a hard day, poor kid. Just get him home and look after him. That’s payment enough.” He smiles, grips Mom’s shoulder in support, then turns and walks away.
After Mom and I slide into the car, I glance back at Stuart, whose mouth is slightly open, and he’s softly snoring. Turning back, Mom starts the car, and I slide down in my seat, feeling the weight of the world drowning me.
