Page 244 of Haunt Me

The coal has gone cold.

The lyrics in my head are silent.

The music has stopped.

I have been performing on autopilot for weeks. The moment I thought I saw Eden so vividly in Paris what the first real thing I’ve felt in weeks. I am holding on to it like a dying man holds on to a mask of oxygen. And two days later, when I have a five-day break, I’m considering following it to Massachusetts. To our woods. You know, like a fool.

In the end, I actually go through with it. I stupidly fly to Boston.

Actually, I might not have gone through with it if both Jude and my brother hadn’t encouraged me to go—but they said I should go. It might help clear my head. I think they are realizing I am at my breaking point. It must be horrible for them, seeing me like that, feeling powerless to help me.

But no one can get me out of this pit of darkness. I need to find my way out of it by myself. There is no way out but through. I need to get my head on straight, so I can survive the rest of the tour, including the five more dates we added in Wembley for next month.

So, I go to Massachusetts, pretending that someone heard my ‘meet me in the woods’ message. Pretendingsheheard it. Pretending there is still hope.

I know it’s nothing more than a fantasy, but I need to keep it alive: It’s all I’ve left.

I drive myself to my old school and get out of the car. The brown and yellow winter colors of the leaves, the gray of the skies, the red bricks of the buildings are etched into my soul. In an instant, it’s almost like I never left. My feet start walking the familiar path down to the trees almost on their own. I follow, lost in memories.

For the millionth time, I wonder why I’m here.

I do not expect to find redemption in these woods. I do not expect to find hope, or anything good.

I do not even expect to find ghosts.

…

It happens in slow motion.

I step on a branch that gets tangled in my boots and sends me sprawling to my knees. I let myself fall, not because of the branch or the matted, slippery, but because there’s nothing left to do but fall.

I sink down to my knees, getting my designer jeans muddy, and I just stay there, powerless, a rag doll.It’s over, I think over and over in my head.

You have to accept it’s over.

I’ll never accept it’s over.

The skies are covered in clouds, and I throw my head back and look at the endless white.

There is no forgiveness to be found there or anywhere.

And then a voice says:

“You could drown like this. If you were a cat and it was raining.”

A chill runs down my spine. Someone said these words to me long ago—years ago. I don’t turn around. I don’t move a muscle. She is not real; she is a creation of my tortured brain. But I do answer her, because when have I been able to resist doing that?

“I am already drowning,” I say. “And I think it’s time to give up.”

“Don’t give up,” her voice answers. I smile. I know that voice so well. I know just by one word, one syllable, whether she’s sad, in pain, or if she needs help. But this voice? There’s a slightly different tint to it.

As if it’s her new voice.

The newhervoice.

The grownup, the healed voice.

As if she’s real.

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