Chase’s sister.
This was what he was working on.
This was the bleed out.
My body trembles when I push the tips of my fingers to the concrete, feeling the chill drag across the back of my thighs as I shuffle toward Chase.
I don’t stop until my arm presses to his.
And with tears rolling down my cheeks, I reach for Chase’s hand, the one closest to mine. It’s draped over his jean-clad knee, and he lets me take it.
I guide it back toward me, placing it on top of the open notepad on my lap.
Chase shivers at my touch, and the jolt travels through his palm, leaching onto me, dispersing through every bone in my body.
Closing my eyes, I let the strike settle before croaking, “Chase…”
“Mmm,” he hums.
“Can I…can you,” I correct myself, voice trembling. “Show me what it’s supposed to sound like.”
Chase slides his hand out from beneath mine, placing his on top and curling his fingers with mine. His knuckles turn white and I feel my bones shift slightly beneath his hold.
He leaves them there in my lap when he reaches across his body with the other, taking the notebook, squeezing my hand again, drawing back what I can only hope is some sort of strength.
He clears his throat, licks his lips, pinches at his nose with his free hand. He does everything he can before he realizes all he needs to do is…let go.
I draw our fisted hands to my mouth, touching his fingers gently to my lips and I keep them there, never shifting when he bleeds for me.
His tone is crisp and sharp, yet smooth and delicate, the blend is so unique and raw that every vulnerable note has a way of hitting differently.
Chase was talented, in a way that was rare.
A lot of people could sing.
A lot of people could find some kind of melody.
But Chase…he was different. He didn’t just sing, he bled.
That’s what made him vulnerable.
That’s what made him real.
Chase could be a rock star if he wanted to be.
I bite my pain into the back of his hand, my teeth sinking into his flesh, and Chase drives the added ache I offload to him into every last note. And when his voice echoes away, all I can think to do next is to squeeze him tighter, hold him the same way he held me all those years ago.
Tears pour down my cheeks in streams, grief and pain stiff in my throat. I place his hand onto my thigh, and he pinches into my flesh.
Shaking, I lean forward, slipping the notebook out of his trembling hand, not knowing why or what I think I’m doing.
“Do you have…” I begin to ask, but Chase is already reaching into his front pocket, reading my mind, dragging out the red ink pen.
I had written before, mostly journal entries, my thoughts, my feelings, my pain, though I’d never penned lyrics.
I draw in a deep breath, and center into the darkest parts of myself—the way Chase had—and I open the door to my trauma, stepping through the splintered hole, hoping that he’d catch me when I fall.
My fingers touch his when I wrap them around the barrel of ink.
