Page 126 of Dirty Chorus

Silence settles over us, thick and suffocating. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. Ryder sniffles and straightens himself out. The main door opens and Payton walks out. I watch him turn his face back to being stoic and emotionless.

“Are you ready to head out?” she asks Ryder, and he clears his throat nodding his head. I say my goodbyes, as his words stick inside my brain.

She was asking for me? I grasp the notebook I took from the dorm room flipping through the pages again looking at anything that might spark some sort of inspiration. A revenge song.

My heartbeat is hard to forget

My voice ringing in your ears

You’re drowning because he’s the stranger in my bed

You can’t cover it up now

The bruises you left

And you dealt the cards and put the gun to my head

Chapter 58

Charlie

College football plays on the small screen mounted in the corner, and the old man in the bed beside me is really into it. It’s rubbing off on me that he's a die hard fan of football and I want to gag. He yells at the referees like they can hear him, spits curses at a team called the Falcons every time they fumble.

“Throw the damn ball!” he hollers.

Each time a commercial comes on, he grumbles about how there are too many damn ads, and takes another sip of his Sprite. When he leans forward, the back of his hospital gown slips open just enough to expose his flat, wrinkled ass. There are even some moles there too, but I try to pretend I didn’t get a glimpse of them. I’ve seen it half a dozen times now, and it never gets less horrifying.

I asked the nurses for a private room three days ago, and begged them, actually. But of course they keep telling me the same thing. There aren’t enough beds and since the seasons are starting to change, everyone has been getting sick. So I’m stuck here with him.

I try to focus on the ceiling, on the steady beep of the heart monitor, on anything but the sound of him losing his mind over a bunch of college kids chasing a football. Then, somewhere between plays, I hear it.

Music. It’s on the television. I didn’t think they showed anything other than the football stuff. I figured some anchor men would go over all the plays and who sucks, and who is winning. All the lingo I don’t understand. But no, this is something different, it’s like a cute little half time show. But with rock music.

The camera pans to the field, and my heart starts hammering before I even understand why. The first few notes echo from the speakers, and something inside me jolts awake. I know this song. I sit up straight in my bed.

“I don’t wanna watch this!” The man grabs the remote with his fat fingers, changing the channel.

“No go back!” I point at the television.

“I wanna see the other scores.”

I use my hands to scoot off the bed, snatching the remote from his hands. “I’ve been listening to you bitch all afternoon about football! I wanna hear the music!”

I press down on the buttons real hard, harder than I’m biting my tongue right now until I find the channel again. There they are, playing on a stage. A guy with long hair. Really long hair. Are those tattoos? He looks nice and he’s got a nice voice. I know it, something about it I recognize. The sound of the guitar, the rhythm, his voice – it all tugs at my heart strings. My pulse races. I think real hard, my brain going into overdrive as I scream at it to remember, to tell me what it is that’s making me feel all warm and gooey.

It hits me without warning.

The singer on television. His mouth was on mine, and I can feel the way he breathed into our kiss. His hands cradled over my cheeks as his lips brushed over mine. His palms were warm, and rough, carving into my hair. I’m not wearing anything, he’s underneath me. I realize what I’m doing with him. I’m sleeping with him, and I can feel it in my legs, the burning desire running all over me, and into my chest. His eyes were so focused on me, so tangled into me as if I was the only one in the world he’d give that look to.

My brain snaps out of it. I stare as the screen flickers. The broadcast cuts out for half a second, and when it comes back, there’s a picture... It’s a picture of me.

“Oh...” The guy next to me says and the bed squeaks as he sits up. My stomach drops.

It’s quick, maybe a glitch or a flash of static, but I see my own face on the screen. “I think that’s you...” he points. But I'm not bruised up or pale. It’s just a pretty little picture of me. It’s one of those school pictures you take yearly that your mother wants to buy and give away to family at Christmas.

The old man grunts. “What the hell is going on?” He bangs his can of Sprite on the tray.

But I’m frozen, staring at the TV, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. I’m sure the damn thing is about to quit on me at any waking second.