Page 121 of Severance

“No, they’re not.” Mikah puts out his cigarette, pats the front pocket of his jacket, and holds up a small piece of paper. “I found it in the bathroom when I was getting ready to leave this morning.” He pauses, and then he sounds bitter and broken. “It was just sitting there next to your toothbrush.”

I move closer and realize it’s the business card C.J. Barnes gave me. Horror and panic grip at my gut. I must have slipped it into my makeup kit by accident while packing.

“Do you feel better now?” Mikah asks, his harsh tone sifting through me like a river of acid. “What newspaper am I going to read about my brother’s dick size in, huh?”

The accusation cuts me open. “I-I…didn’t talk to him.” I trip over my words; my tongue feels thick and heavy in my mouth and doesn’t want to collaborate with my brain. “I only met him once, and I didn’t say anything. I changed my mind.” Heat hits my face and angry tears begin to pool in my eyes.

“Why did you keep it then?” He tosses the card in the air and watches it spiral down along the breeze.

“I don’t know.” My breath comes out in fast, shallow bursts.

“Why?” Mikah’s voice grows louder. He shifts on the ledge and looks at me over his shoulder, and I can’t tell whether he’s going to come down or jump. His face is blank and his eyes are void of emotion. “Why did you keep it, Alana?”

My heart almost flips out of my chest. “I don’t know…because you didn’t want to talk about him.”

“So you decided to go talk to some fucking reporter instead? There are support groups, you know. To talk to about this shit. Jess runs one, for starters. You don’t have to go tell the whole fucking world how good of a person my brother was and what cupcakes were his favorite.”

“That was before.” I shake my head.

“Before what?” Mikah resumes staring at the sidewalk beneath him.

“Before last night! You never wanted to talk before last night!” I’m screaming in hopes that it’ll make him believe me.

“So you just expected me to fuck you and then discuss my brother afterward?”

“No, for God’s sake!”

Mikah’s body begins to shudder and I realize he’s crying. “Yesterday, I sat on that stage and I looked at all those people and I was fucking terrified someone would start shooting. I don’t remember a single song I played. It was just darkness. Miles and miles of it. I just wanted to get out of there. And now I’m not sure if I can do it without him. Not after the way he died.”

There’s a long pause and I watch the wind blowing through Mikah’s hair as he tosses his head back and covers his face with his palms.

“My dad got me a guitar when I was eight,” he says quietly, but I can hear his sobs. “I sucked, but I wanted to learn so badly. One time, I came home from school and found DK playing with my guitar, and the next day, our mom took him to the shop and bought him his own.”

I don’t dare move. I just listen.

“It’s funny”—Mikah reaches for another cigarette and flicks his lighter—“we both played. She never took me anywhere, but she signed him up for every single talent show within a hundred-mile radius, and I hated him for taking all the attention. I hated him so much it hurt.” The smoke dances in the air around him like a tease. “And then when he was fourteen, he won this big ass state competition and they gave him an award, and he came up to me and asked if I wanted to be in a band with him. He was better and he was going to be a fucking superstar, but he wanted to play his weird music with me. His loser brother.”

“You’re not a loser,” I choke out. “People loved your show last night. I loved it too. You’re really talented.”

“Do you think this is a coincidence the label got in touch with me after The Crystal Room?”

Moisture hits my eyes.

“You know when I saw you that night in the dressing room, I wanted you for myself, but he was first. He was always first.”

Tears begin to fall down my cheeks.

“I told him if he was going to fuck it up, I was going to beat the shit out of him, but he didn’t. He was like a puppy and I hated him for not failing at being so fucking good for you.”

A sick flash of relief bursts through my horror.

“He had to fucking die so that I could get a record deal and you. And it feels like shit that I ever wished he didn’t exist. It feels like shit to be alive, because I don’t fucking deserve it.”

Mikah’s words hit me hard, like a punch in the gut. “Can you please come down?” I say breathlessly, my body shaking.

Mikah shifts in his spot and swings one leg over to the inside of the ledge. The sight of his tearstained face breaks me a little more. I’ve only seen him cry this much once. At Dakota’s funeral. But they were shy, skimpy tears, and they made me believe he wasn’t the type to get overly sentimental.

Mikah puts out his cigarette and takes a swallow of his beer.

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