Page 27 of Phantom
I bend to pick up a few more sheets, keeping a wide berth away from the fellow student I once thought could be my friend. There are a few pieces left that I leave alone as embarrassment stings my skin. All the while, people snicker and gawk. No one helps me. Not even Maggie or Jaime.
By the time I’ve gathered up enough to hopefully put most of them back together, I turn on my heels and walk back to my room, trying to hold my head high.
“Make sure you take your meds today, Scarlett! You’re already so upset. Don’t want to have to lock you up again!”
“Cállate la puta boca, Jilliana. Goddamn,” Jaime fires back as the dark hallway swallows me up.
I desperately wish I could disappear. My friend is calling for me to stop, but I don’t wait for him. Instead, I pick up speed until I get to my room and shut the door, careful not to slam it in case someone thinks I’m beingmoody.
Taking a steadying breath, I try to ignore Jaime calling for me from the other side of the door. If he can’t stick up for me in public, then he can sit out there all by himself. I lock the door and collapse right on top of the clothes covering the couch. I spread the sheet music pieces on my small coffee table, trying to organize them, but angry hurt has blurred my vision to near blindness. Blood rushes in my ears, muffling Jaime’s—and now Maggie’s—pleas.
I know they were just as blindsided by this whole fiasco as I was. Still, not being able to adequately stick up for myself, and then not having anyone stick up for me, stings like hell and I’m not ready to see them again.
My mind flashes back to my dad comforting me, talking me through what we hadn’t yet realized were episodes. The depression or mania would come on slowly back then and last for weeks. But he’d always remained patient, just joking that I had my mother’s wild fighting spirit.
He’d meant it as a compliment, but my mom left us because she didn’t have the tools to understand herself, and we certainly weren’t equipped to handle her. We had to find out from the officer on our doorstep when that fighting spirit left this world entirely. She’d been in the middle of what must have been a depressive episode and alcohol had always been her cure.It’d been her damnation the night she’d gotten behind the wheel with it.
Ever since, my “wild fighting spirit” has scared the shit out of me. It wasn’t until my first full-blown manic episode after my dad died that I was forced to get help. Jilliana just cruelly threw my worst moments in my face.
But is she right? Am I going crazy again?
From my seat on the couch, I peer inside the open door to my bedroom, to where IknowI left my orange bottle of old medication last night. The container is nowhere to be found and has been missing since I woke up this morning. The only explanation I have is that the dream version of Sol Bordeaux I conjured last night took it.
Fuck, what if I am losing it again?
More than anything, I wish my dad was here… or, ironically, I wish I could hear the music that caused this whole mess.
Vibrations buzz against my thigh and it’s only then that I realize I’m still wearing my costume over my leggings and thin T-shirt. I unzip the back and slide it off quickly, just in time to retrieve my phone from the pocket on the side of my leggings and answer without looking at the caller ID.
“Little Lettie!” Rand’s voice sounds so wrong to my ears, especially when I was just wishing for my dad’s. But maybe Rand’s the exact distraction I need right now. Someone who knew me before my diagnosis. Someone who knew my dad.
Hope for a reprieve flutters in my heartbroken chest as I mask the wobble threatening in my voice. “Rand, hey! What’s up?”
“I’m in the Quarter on business. Want to go get your favorite while I have a break?”
I jackknife up. “Beignets?” I pause and narrow my eyes with suspicion even though he’s not in the room. “From where?”
His chuckle warms my chest, reminding me of a time when twelve-year-old me craved to make him happy. The fact that he’s laughing now does wonders for the throbbing pain in my heart, especially when he answers correctly.
“Café du Monde, obviously.”
Scene 7
JUSTICE IN THE DUNGEON
Sol
The coward in front of me died with pain permanently etched into his miserable face. He knew once my shadow brought him down here that there were only two ways out of my dungeon, trial by water or combat.
The first means risking the runoff channel that flows on the far side of the stone room. It’s one thousand feet to the mouth of the Mississippi River in dark, murky water that requires one to hold their breath for many feet at a time through the tunnels. It’s treacherous, especially if the water is slow that day, but I’ve done it several times in the middle of the night, just to ensure the fairness of my options.
The second is by far the more dangerous alternative: a duel with choice of weapon.
He didn’t even put up much of a fight.
Many people look at me and somehow assume I didn’t train for years in everything I’ve supplied in this room. They see the river and think I’m the safest bet, but every single victim has been sorely mistaken, and this one was no different. I even gave this sad bastard my knife once I realized how poor of a shot he was with his gun. He still didn’t stand a chance with my fists.
“Brother?” my twin’s voice echoes down into the cellar. “A word?”
