Page 67 of Severance

The anxiety rocking through me starts to ease up after I take a drag. I turn up the music and inhale the smoke as deeply as my lungs will allow. This is the first time since the attack I’ve listened to Dakota sing and it feels heavenly. His voice is a fine blend of tender and rough and it washes through me like water, filling me with the memories and sensations I’ve almost forgotten.

I close my eyes and tilt my head up toward the sun, its warmth caressing my skin like a mother would her child. Somewhere amidst all this darkness and chaos, there’s a glimpse of the peace I’m trying to catch. I need it to last me at least a few days. At least until the madness of the hearing stops popping up at me from every internet page.

The song is on the second chorus when I feel an earbud falling out of my ear and the music suddenly disappears.

“I’m not going to repeat myself,” my father says, holding out his hand in front of me. “If I see you smoking again, I’m sending you to a rehabilitation center.” His eyes burn with annoyance.

“It’s not cocaine, Dad,” I mutter, grabbing at my earbud that’s dangling over my chest. “It’s just a cigarette.”

“You need to stop this nonsense, young lady.” His hand jerks impatiently near my face.

“If you hit me again, I’ll go to the police.” I jump up from the bench, grabbing my phone, the cigarette still in my hands. The hurt begins to choke me.

“I’m tired of putting up with your behavior,” my father says, his tone flat.

“What behavior?” I toss both hands in the air, my eyes are filling with moisture.

“You’re skipping your therapy sessions and you’re not taking your medications as instructed. You’re out at night with some questionable characters! I have no idea where you are and what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with”—he pauses for a second to catch his breath—“like some slut! I didn’t raise you to sleep around!”

His words are like razor blades, cutting me into thousands of pieces.

“Guess what, Dad?” I throw the cigarette on the ground. “People fuck before they get married. They fuck until they’re tired of each other and then they fuck someone else until they meet the one person they think they won’t get tired of fucking for the rest of their lives.”

My father’s face twists with shock, his jaw hanging open.

“And you know what else?” I say, swallowing the emotions that clog my throat. “You’re not going to hell for that. You know why? Because this is hell. We live in fucking hell already.”

I don’t hear or see anything on my way back into the house. My heart’s beating itself into oblivion and my mind is a black hole.

* * *

I don’t remember how I ended up in front of Mikah’s apartment. I left my house hours ago and drove around town aimlessly until my rage became desperation and the bitter aftertaste of defeat lessened. Now the tears are gone and what remains is just the fog in my brain.

I ring the doorbell several times and concentrate on the chirping of the crickets in an attempt to block out the noise in the apartment. What if Mikah’s home but doesn’t want to see me? If that’s the case, then I’d rather not hear him.

The sound of his footsteps breaks through the haze in my head and stirs something inside me.

There’s surprise on his face when the door opens. It’s one of those rare times I’ve seen him show emotion. His broad frame fills the width of the entrance and the fresh scent of his aftershave sneaks up my nose.

“I’m sorry. I know I should have called, but you weren’t answering my texts,” I say, clenching my fists, and I almost expect rejection.

“I was out of town. Went to see family,” he mutters, his eyes running up and down my body.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He steps aside and I brush past him into the living room, my gaze darting to the mountain of boxes. The idea of him leaving burns my heart.

The door slams behind me and Mikah goes into the kitchen. He grabs two beers from the fridge and brings me one, as if he’s just read my mind and knows I feel like shit.

“Thanks,” I say, walking over to the window. The view isn’t the best—just the tips of the bushes crowding the ground floor of the building and the dark, star-studded sky, but it’s different from the one at my house, so it’s a nice change.

“Did you hear the defense is asking for more time to review the evidence?” I ask, taking a small sip of my beer. It tingles and bites against my tongue.

“I heard.”

“Don’t you think it’s funny how the law works?”

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