Page 37 of Irreversible

I huff out a breathy laugh. “You would think I’d have lost my mind by now, right? Sadly, it’s still fully intact. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t.”

“What else do you have?”

“Hair ties. Barrettes. Makeup. Rings and necklaces. There’s a little polaroid of a beagle sitting in front of an apple tree. It looks like an old picture.” My gaze settles on another item, different from the rest. “That’s not my favorite thing, though.”

“You have a favorite dead-person keepsake?”

I smile softly, already writing a new story. “Yes.”

“What is it?” His tone is cautious.

Music shimmers to life inside my haunted mind. Chords, notes, half-forgotten melodies. I miss so many things in life, but music is at the top of that list. It’s weird to think that every day music is being created, even though I’m not there to hear it.

Sometimes I wonder who I’d be right now if I had new songs to carry with me.

I stare at the sparkling memento, a vibrant cerulean blue.

Shaped like a teardrop.

“A guitar pick.”

8

Aguitar pick.

Fuck.

The room closes in. My chest caves with every excruciating breath; I crack with every heartbeat. Meanwhile, Everly is over there chattering away, as though she didn’t shatter my entire fucking world with a triangular piece of plastic.

Dead people’s things.

My stomach twists, doubling me over where I sit. It’s a volatile edge I’m teetering on, and this time I have none of the usual outlets available to temper it. There’s nowhere to unleash this churning sea of violence. No obsessions to lose myself in, or substances to binge and regret tomorrow.

No way to dull reality.

With every shift of my leg, the chain scrapes over tile, a reminder that I’m literally welded to the floor. I let my headthumpagainst the wall. It doesn’t make me feel better, so I do it again.

And again.

I’m trapped. Imprisoned with my ghosts. My demons.

Myself.

“I know it sounds silly,” she says with a hint of self-deprecating amusement, “but this little pick has anchored me more than once, when I was sure I was losing my mind. Sometimes I imagine entire concerts pouring out of it. Like it has a life of its?—”

“How do you know they’re dead?” The words wrench from my throat, burning like poison.

“What?”

“How do you know?You’restill alive. That woman across the way could have been knocked unconscious. We didn’t hear a gunshot. Maybe they’re just transporting their captives somewhere else. Maybe—” I cut myself off, sickened by the sound of my own desperation. This isn’t me. I’m pragmatic. Realistic. And yet…I just want her to tell me she might be wrong. ThatImight be wrong.

“I’m not really sure what you want me to say.” There’s a fragility in her voice, like she’s back on eggshells. “I thought you wanted honesty.”

“I do.” Usually.

“Well…I held out hope for a long time. Surely, if I’m alive, there could be others like me, right? It makes sense. But then little things added up, and…”

“And what?”

---