Page 2 of The Road to Ruined

He rolls his eyes, then shrugs. "You keep it interesting, I guess. Come on, I'll take you to breakfast. Leave your imaginary friends here."

I sigh and walk toward the door, looking back and adding to the empty room, "Hey guys, sorry. I'll be back later."

Sebastian shakes his head as we make our way down the hall.

"What?"

"Nothing, just…it's very hard to discern if you're actually crazy or not."

"Thank you," I tell him. "That's kind of the point, isn't it?"

He grabs the walkie-talkie from his waistband and brings it to his mouth. "Hey, I'm bringing Townsend down," he says. "Make sure none of the TVs are showing the news."

"Copy that," a woman replies. "Turning them off now."

"You realize when I go home tomorrow, I'm going to be able to watch whatever I want, right?"

He shrugs. "It's the doctor's rules, not mine, Teagan. You're not missing much, anyway."

Part of my treatment includes keeping me away from news stations where I might see the latest maniacal stunt pulled by the bloodsluts or learn something about the investigation into Declan and Luca's crimes or their whereabouts. Or, well, Declan's whereabouts. From what others have told me, everyone has pretty much accepted that Luca is dead.

Even the fans have started to calm down. They don't say his name anymore.

"Do they still write to me?" I ask. "The fans?"

He lowers his voice. "Maybe once a week or so…they'll get something and toss it. Nothing like in the first month."

Sebastian scans his tag and checks me into the cafeteria, leaving me without another word. I take my breakfast burrito and fruit and find a spot in the back corner.

It was hard to be here at first. All I wanted was answers—I wanted to know why they left me, I wanted to know why they lied. What was the point in making me feel the way they did? Was it just for Declan to prove that he could? Was it all part of the mindfuck?

Sometimes, it hurts that same way it did in the early days following their abandonment—like someone is tearing my ribcage apart with their bare hands. On those days, the pain all but cripples me. I go through the motions, I cry for my ghosts. I close my eyes and pretend it didn't happen and that, when I open them next, it'll all be over.

But sometimes, I wake up and all I see is red; I let the rage seep into every crevice, every cell of my body, using it as fuel, and being angry at Declan is the only thing that keeps me going. On those days, I think if I could get my hands on something sharp, I'd slice that letter 'D' clean off my chest. And if I could get myhands on Declan, I'd roll up that fileted chunk of skin, shove it down his throat, and laugh while he chokes on it.

It'd only be fair.

Lost in that scene in my head, I snap my stupid compostable fork in half.

Whoops.

I give up on the fruit and grab my burrito.

It was Alana who talked to the police—who told them about Layla and Declan's fascination with suicides. The amount of live-streamed suicides after this made the news was enough for many states to declare a public health crisis, and it wasn't long before their music was banned from streaming services and radio stations. All of their merch was pulled from chain retailers, which was great for the little guys who were able to cash in.

They all hoped they'd come back.Ihoped they'd come back. But aside from the fanatics, everyone seems to have let it go now. It's long past time I did, too.

But the idea of letting go—of admitting to myself that none of it was real—hurts, too. I think of Luca. I think of how he washed my hair and told me he'd love me until his heart stopped. I think of Declan telling me that I'm perfect, I'm poetry, and the rest of the world was just beige.

That's how everything feels to me now—just beige. Like the lifeless walls of the room I've called home for the past three months, the world is completely devoid of color. They sucked the life out of everything around me when they left me an empty husk that used to be human in the dirt in Wyoming. The trees are beige. The people around me are beige. This fucking burrito even tastes beige.

I choke down as much as I can before returning my tray.

"I'm ready to go back," I tell the woman moderating the room.

"Townsend needs an escort back to the dorms," she says into her walkie.

"I'll grab her," a voice replies. "She has a visitor."

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