Page 3 of Severance

“You’re horrible.” I almost cover my face with my palms to hide my flaming cheeks, but I don’t want to ruin my makeup. Although what I’ve done with my eyes and lips can hardly be called makeup. My mother has always taught me to keep things simple and only use enough to bring out my natural beauty, but right now, I secretly wish I’d agreed to Jess’s earlier offer to give me smoky eyes. Unlike me, my girlfriend was born to rock the sexy glam look. Over-the-top suits her in a way it doesn’t normally suit other people. She isn’t tall, but she wears short skirts and high heels like a model, even in winter. Something I tried once but failed.

“Ohmigod!” Jess says in a breathy voice, fanning herself with her hand. “He’s looking at you.” Her excitement is palpable.

“No, he’s not,” I cut in, my knees weakening. My gaze is still trained on the empty stage, specifically on the lonely microphone that’s set up at the center. I remind myself that I’m here to see the band I adore, but my heart leaps into my throat at the thought of the cute guy checking me out.

Jess and her stupid boyfriend quest.

Guys don’t ever have this effect on me. This is possibly the first time in my life I’ve felt flustered because a specimen of the male persuasion, who happens to look like a dark gothic prince with questionable intentions from a forbidden novel, may or may not be glancing in my direction.

“Yes, he is. Throw him a bone, girl.” Jess murmurs and nudges my shoulder again.

“You seriously need to stop it.” I rub the sore spot right above my elbow that she’s been assaulting all evening. But the truth is, I really do want to see his face. I want to know what his eyes and his mouth are like. Are they just as dreamy and perfect as his back?

My heart’s racing when I finally summon all my courage and glance at the group. Jess is wrong. He’s not simply looking at me—he’s turned my way, full frontal. The black fabric of his t-shirt is stretched across his chest, showing off his nearly perfect body. Or, at least, it looks perfect to me.

“Flirt,” Jess orders, slapping my ass playfully.

“This is about to become a case of domestic abuse.” I giggle, intercepting her hand before the dark prince in the leather jacket decides that she and I are an item and scratches us off his list.

“Some bimbo’s going to claim him before you know it.” Jess rolls her eyes, seemingly irritated.

The lights in the club go out before my brain can form another witty comeback. The crowd gasps.

“Ohmigod!” Jess grabs my elbow and yells like a maniac, “Pinch me, girl! Are we finally seeing fucking Black Rose?”

“Yes, we are.” I nod, my eyes glued to the stage. And the dark prince is long forgotten.

2. After

I force my eyelids open and stare through the blurry veil. The indistinct forms on the corner of my nightstand begin to take shape. There’s a clock—an old one with the alarms on top, actual hands, and a pretty swirly silver finish. It’s sitting by the lamp, and I’m wondering why it’s there. I’ve been using my cell phone to check the time ever since my father bought it for me when I was fourteen.

The downstairs has been buzzing. People have been coming and going ever since I got home from the hospital. A couple of them may have been reporters—I heard my parents arguing with someone a few times—but for the most part, everything since the attack has been a huge cavern of distorted voices and unfamiliar faces.

Dakota is dead.

The thought blasts through my mind like a cannonball, obliterating any semblance of peace still left in me.

I try to focus to determine what’s hiding behind the clock. After several seconds of fighting with my stubborn vision, I realize that it’s pill bottles. I vaguely remember a doctor giving my mother prescriptions for me.

I move my hands, and my palms feel like they’ve been skinned. Then when I try to take a deep breath, there’s a strange burning in my chest that starts spreading to my throat, lungs, and stomach.

A tiny fraction of me, the part that’s still processing the events at the club, wants to cry, but the rest of me is so numb that I can’t even move a finger, let alone experience something as complex as a human emotion. Besides, it seems somewhat unnecessary since tears aren’t going to bring Dakota back.

There’s a knock on my door, and then I hear my mother. She sounds small and defeated, nothing like herself.

“Alana?” she calls out and waits.

Go away.

“Honey?” The door makes a squeaking noise when my mother steps inside, the faint aroma of cinnamon trailing behind her as she walks to my bed and carefully sits on the edge. The scent is a sweet, invisible hug, full of forgotten childhood memories that are happy and bright. I want to grab it and wrap it around me like a blanket, but my arms won’t wake up.

“Did you get any sleep, sweetheart?” she asks, resting her hand on my shoulder.

I blink through the haze in my eyes. “Some.” It’s a lie. I don’t know if I slept. My head is all sorts of messed up. My ears are still ringing.

“Mikah Bennett is here to see you,” my mother says softly. “But if you’re not feeling up for it, that’s okay. Your father doesn’t think it’s a good idea that you two talk right now.”

“What’s Mikah doing here?”

---