Page 119 of Dirty Chorus

They’re finally letting me walk around the room. My legs shake when I stand. The floor feels cold, the IV tugs slightly at my arm as I move. I hate how the needle pulls at my skin with each step.

I make it to the bathroom, gripping the wall for balance. The light flickers on without warning. Guess they must be motion censored. For a second, I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. The girl in the mirror looks like she’s been through a war. There’s a thick bandage on the side of her head, the edges stained faintly pink. Her face is pale except for the deep bruises blossoming along her cheek and jaw. One of her lips is split. Her eyes are ringed with purple shadows and, gosh, they are so swollen and puffy. She must have been pretty before. It takes me a second to realize that it’s me.

My stomach turns. I reach up, fingers trembling, and touch the bandage. Pain blooms instantly. I flinch, gripping the counter for balance.

Flashes come quickly inside my head and are disjointed. The strobe lights flash as I’m within a crowd. I hear the guitars and there are voices shouting over music. I’m watching someone sing but I don’t see him. I just feel my heart breaking. You’re my dirty chorus, but I wouldn’t change your lines. Even when we’re falling flat, your heart still beats with mine.

It vanishes as I’m staring in the mirror with tears streaming down my face. I’m nauseous reaching the sink, grabbing it to hold my weight. I close my eyes, digging for more. I can hear myself screaming for someone in a car. We are driving, and I’m kicking the seats, asking someone to let me out. I wanted someone. I wanted someone so badly. I can’t recall who. It’s distorted, but I hear a guy’s voice yelling at me. Calling out my name, but I can’t make out the syllables.

The door creaks behind me, and I jump. A nurse steps in, smiling gently.

“Hey there. Are you doing okay?”

I nod, and say, “Yeah.”

“Good. Let’s check those vitals, huh?”

I follow her out of the bathroom and back to the bed. She wheels in a little monitor, wrapping a cuff around my arm. The machine makes this strange sound as it squeezes my arm to death.

“How’s your head feeling today?”

“Sore.”

She nods as if that’s expected. “That’s normal. You took quite a hit. You’ve been doing really well though, counting, walking, remembering little things.”

“I... I don’t remember much,” I admit, staring down at my hands.

She hesitates for a moment before answering. “That’s okay. Sometimes the brain protects us from the hard stuff until we’re ready. It will come back. Maybe watching television or listening to music might help.”

She glances at the chart on her clipboard, then looks at me again. “Do you remember your name yet?”

I shake my head slowly.

Her expression softens. “That’s all right. We’re working with the police to see if we can figure it out. It might take a little time, but someone out there's looking for you.”

Someone? I’ve been here for almost two weeks. I think I’ve been asleep for most of the time too. When she leaves, this sudden dread plummets to my stomach and I feel so alone. The hum of the machines fills the silence again. I crawl back into bed, staring at the ceiling. If someone is looking for me, I’m hoping that someone doesn’t want to hurt me, because I know someone did.

Chapter 55

Noah

I’ve called Payton six times. Texted her more times than that. Nothing. Not even a read receipt. I need to keep my brain occupied. I can’t sing. I can’t listen to music. I can barely breathe. Omen and the gang are on my ass. For Christ’s sake, my grandfather just passed away, and Charlie is gone, and they will not let me breathe.

By the time the sun starts to go down, I can’t sit still anymore. I lock up the record store and drive toward campus. I still remember the dorm building number. It takes me a good five minutes to navigate the building and find the floor number. I knock on the door. Nothing. I try again, louder.

“Payton, it’s me,” I call out. “Open up.”

Still nothing.

I start pounding harder until I hear movement inside, slow and heavy. The door creaks open a few inches. She stands there in an oversized sweatshirt, her eyes red and puffy, hair tangled. The air that drifts out smells like she hasn’t left the room in days.

“Jesus,” I say softly. “You okay?”

She shakes her head. “No,” then the tears came. A full-blown waterfall of tears where it looks like it’s made her entire cheeks raw and sore. The room behind her is dark except for the glow from her laptop screen. Clothes are scattered on the floor, with an untouched cup of noodles on the desk. I step inside.

“When’s the last time you showered?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I can’t even get up to go to class.”