Page 71 of Mason
Turning to the right, I close my door behind me, then make my way to the attic door. I don’t think he’s up there; I’ve come to recognize the subtle sounds from above that are him, versus standard house noises. I open the heavy door and ease up the stairs, cringing a bit as a few creak and groan. At the top, I’m pleased to find I have the place entirely to myself, just like I’d thought. Slowly, I turn, looking for a light switch. I don’t see one in an obvious spot, but the moon is shining brightly in the night sky, providing a small amount of light through some of the windows. Barefoot, I tread cautiously, then spend several minutes looking at each piece of work.
They’re downright angst-filled, sadness seeping from them. And in some cases, they’re a bit morbid. It’s gut-wrenching to see Mason’s pain so clearly on display. But damn. If this helps him get out the dark feelings, then I’m all for it. It strikes me like a bolt of lightning while I’m standing there in front of one particular sketch—the one I’d noticed the other night that I believe is a self-portrait—that Mason bearing witness to my nightmarish behavior is very much like me looking at his art. The outward expression of our pain is a window into the harsh reality of the darkness that lives inside us. I just wish he didn’t feel the need to hide it, but I do understand. It’s very personal. I probably shouldn’t even be here, but being with Mason’s things gives me peace. I can’t explain it. But I need this tonight more than anything.
Soon, I find myself in front of a drawing that was obviously torn from a small sketchpad. I tilt my head to the side.Is this… is it me?
Suddenly, I suck in a breath. It is. It’s what Mason was drawing the day he found me in the cemetery. And it’s beautiful. He’d perfectly captured the pain I was feeling. I haven’t visited Juliette often because it tears my heart out every time. Being on the grass above while she’s buried deep in the earth—I’ll never get over it. With the anniversary of her death coming up fast, and her resting place so close now that I’m at KU, I dunno. I’d needed her that day, likely because of her connection to Duke. I’d needed to talk to someone who would understand my confusion. The problem is she won’t ever respond. Can’t ever answer my questions. I still have so goddamn many. My heart sinks in my chest, throbbing painfully. Finally, I wrench myself away from the sketch. It’s making me sad. But it did distract me from the other concerns plaguing me, if only for a while.
I look around for at least another twenty minutes, paying respect to as much of his artwork as I can. The sketches of his mother gut me, knowing that she’s gone. Judging by the sheer quantity of similar images, he was obviously terribly affected by her passing. I can’t forget that he dreams of her, too. Becomes confused when he wakes. It’s like his mind has bent, unable to accept that she’s truly gone. Every bit of it makes my heart ache for him.
There’s no denying Mason’s talent, no matter how twisted-up he is in the head. It’s a somewhat terrifying place to be, but it suits me just fine.
Yawning, I wander over to the spare mattress he keeps up here—the same one he’d laid me down on—and curl up on my side. Despite the fact that there are no pillows or blankets, I feel much better up here than I did in my own bed. I close my eyes, hoping the solace I’ve found stays with me until morning.
* * *
I am not okay.Something is wrong. My head is stuffed full of cotton, my brain unable to register my surroundings. Dazed, I struggle to move, but can’t. My skin is sticky with sweat. I try to swallow, but my throat is thick, and I can’t even open my mouth to speak, much less scream. My heart pounds and pounds, a vicious, thumping rhythm. Eventually, I take comfort in it, I focus on each individual thud inside my chest and the way it sends blood pounding into my head, so loud I can’t hear.
I’m not alone.
There are other people here. Deep voices. Laughter. The smell of tequila travels up my nose and makes me want to retch. And it’s dark, so dark I can’t see who or what or where I am. I try to lift my head, but I only succeed in turning it. I’m a rag doll, unable to control my limbs. I wait for whatever is coming, worry moving through me like a flash flood, threatening to carry me away.
My mind twists, and I’m suddenly at Stella’s. I frown.
Juliette.Relief sweeps through me until she looks into my eyes. Hers are wide and frightened. She’s shaking. I don’t understand.
Don’t understand.
Don’t understand.
Don’t understand.
THIRTY-SEVEN
MASON
I dragmy ass up the stairs well after everyone else has gone to bed. For some reason, it seemed like a good night to sit outside and contemplate my life’s decisions. It’s the stress of the day. Shit like this always stirs me up.
Rubbing my hand over my jaw, I take in a deep, fortifying breath, stopping at the end of the hall to consider whether to sleep in my bedroom or to head up to the attic for a bit. The vodka I drank hasn’t done much more than create a warmth in my belly. I’m tired but wide awake, if that makes any fucking sense at all.
A heartrending cry makes my decision for me. My brain does a little flip, though, realizing that it hadn’t come from Lennon’s room. She’s in the attic.Myfucking attic.
I throw open the door and race up the stairs with what feels like claws tearing at my chest. As I burst from the stairwell, my eyes scan the space, my blood pressure already rising. I expect to see her standing, a look of horror on her face, before one of my sketches, but that’s not what I find at all.
Lennon must have come up here to sleep. Right now, I don’t have time to ask myself why, but I sure as hell will later. I’m across the space in three strides, diving to my knees. She’s on her back, arms extended out from her sides, and she’s kicking, thrashing, really, as if she’s trying to get free of something.
Her breath heaves from her, one after another, her face contorting in agony and fear. She mumbles for a moment then vocalizes several things in a rush of confusion. “Why are you so scared? Who is he? Wait. Who is he, Juliette? Wait!”
She’s very clearly asleep, but… Juliette? What?Jesus.I don’t know what the fuck to do. Wake her? Hold her? My mind scrambles. I’ve never had anyone wake me from my nightmares. Not once. But maybe that’s because I never had anyone care enough about me to try to help. Instead, I live in misery, never knowing when the next one will strike and turn me upside down. My heart clenches as her chest fills with air right before she expels a primal, raw scream.
Oh, fuck.I have to do something. I kneel at her side, bending so I can place a hand on her cheek. “Kintsukuroi, wake up, baby. Please wake up.”
She moans, then abruptly swings her head back and forth. Tears stream from the corners of her eyes.
No care for my own well-being at all, I brace myself over her. If she lashes out, so be it. “It’s me. It’s me, Lennon,” I whisper with my lips grazing the skin near her ear. “You’re having a nightmare.”
“Mm,” she mumbles.
I pull back, assessing whether she’s coming out of it or not. Her lashes flutter a few times. “Kintsukuroi.” I suck in a breath. “Come on, baby.”I know this shit is awful. You don’t want to be trapped in this. It’s no better than being physically stuck in a locker. Worse, maybe, because sometimes with the way our minds work it can feel like it goes on forever.
