Chapter 1
Felix
My body bolts upright in bed, calling out for my mother. I look around, trying to find her—heart thumping in my chest as I gasp for air.
The room is dark, and I can’t see.
Where is she?
My eyes adjust, and I realize…
I’m in my bedroom—another nightmare.
Tears want to fall, but I stop them by rubbing the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to scrub away the image of her lifeless body. A glass of water next to my bed shimmers in the moonlight, which cuts across the absurdly redecorated room styled like an 18th-century French chateau.
I catch a glimpse of the chandelier hanging above me, remembering when Mother said it looked like something a hooker would keep on her keychain for good luck.
I reach for the glass of water, hoping it’ll soothe the dry, sandy feeling in my throat, as the sound of her favorite song—the song that was playing when I found her—echoes in my mind.
Nothing like a little musical trauma to add to the experience.
Now, I wait for the haunting melody ofDream a Little Dream of Mesung by Momma Cass to finally end. I’ve woken up like this every night for the last five months, and the music always stops.
So I wait…
And wait some more…
What the hell?
I close my eyes and massage my temples, hoping to God that I haven’t lost it again.
It’ll stop in a minute. Just focus, Felix. Focus.
It doesn’t stop.
In fact, it sounds like it’s coming from downstairs.
My father couldn’t be listening to that song, could he? No, it can’t be him. He’s too mean for sentimentality. The only time he cracks a smile is when a donor is signing a check.
Well, fuck him and every donor who ever wrote him a check with a red-hot poker.
The song continues, and now I’m just pissed off. Why would someone playthissong in the middle of the night? Are they trying to make me have another nervous breakdown?
I throw the covers off and stomp to my bedroom door. When I open it, a chilly breeze makes me shudder.
I rub my arms, trying to warm myself, as I creep through the hallway and descend the stairs. Ornate lighting fixtures and grand portraits of my father’s various political achievements adorn the walls. There isn’t a single picture of us, his family.
Pictures of his wife and faggy son? Wouldn’t want to ruin the aesthetic of power and pretend morality.
I follow the music to the sitting room, where flames roar in the fireplace, but the room is so cold I can see my breath. Oneof the large, antique sitting chairs sits in front of the glowing fire, and the song plays again as if it’s on a loop.
“Hello?”
My heart stutters.
She peeks from behind the chair, blonde hair falling to the side. Tears fill her eyes, and then my mother, my dead mother, says, “Felix, darling.”
My jaw drops. The impulse to run to her is almost unstoppable, but I seal myself to the floor.
