Page 25 of Freeing the Wild
“Bodily harm?”I deadpan.“A woman died.”
I pick up a bottle of water off my bedside table and take a long pull, wishing it was bourbon.But since that night, I haven’t been able to touch a drop of alcohol.Probably because I threw up the entire night after Rustic Chords.
“I wanted to be alone,” I tell her.
Cherry comes and sits on the edge of my bed.Her fiery red hair goes with her name.So do her trademark bright red lips.She’s small and fit, with pretty features and a full inked sleeve of Disney princesses, baked goods and inspirational quotes.She swipes my hair off my forehead.
“Babe, I’m fucking worried about you.You haven’t gotten out of this bed in four days.”
“It’s easier here,” I tell her, moving back under the blankets.“I’m trying to forget the way her eyes looked.”
I feel the familiar sting at the bridge of my nose as I say the words out loud.
“You’re drowning yourself in ice cream and …” She picks up a bag from the floor.“What is this?”
“Caramel corn,” I tell her.
“Gross.”Cherry wrinkles her nose.“Maybe the best thing for you is to get out of this room.To get back on that stage, back to real life.”
I shake my head violently.
“I know,” she says, placing her hand over mine.“But from what the grief counselor said, and you’d know this if you’d have come with us to see her, people heal in different ways.One is to avoid anything that reminds them of the event that brought trauma.The other is to get right back on the horse, so to speak.Show yourself that the incident was a one-off.Tonight is the last show for a while.It might not hurt to show the world you’re alive and surviving.Then you can take a break and get your head straight.”
I sigh as she pulls me up to a sitting position.I toss my knotted hair into a bun on the top of my head and fasten it with an elastic from my wrist.
“One show, Cassie.In a closed stadium with cemented rails, and you never have to sit on the edge of a stage again.”
“I don’t know.I know the stage is secure.It’s not that.It’s hereyes, and the screams.I can’t shake them.”
I look down at my phone.There are a ton of messages from well-wishers and multiple messages from my mom, Ivy and Dax.Ivy has called me three times today already.She keeps asking for her and my mama to come out to see me, or for me to go there.But I just can’t face them yet.
I look back up at Cherry and breathe out a deep sigh.“One show.”
Cherry nods.“One show, babe.”
“I’ll try it.But I’m not promising anything,” I say, standing, ready to head to the shower.Cherry stands too and pulls me in for a hug.“We’ve got this, Cassie.”
I make it into the Arion Stadium in Santa Fe, New Mexico, on unsteady legs with my band.I only feel ready to face the stage for rehearsals after a hefty dose of anxiety meds from a road doctor.It’s a bustle of activity as it always is during rehearsal, and the headliner’s band is just finishing up as we arrive.
I can do this, I tell myself as we set up.I look at every single person in the stadium.Who are they?What are they doing here?Should they be here?A million thoughts run through my mind as the anxiety creeps up my throat.
We prepare to run through our eight-song set twice, but my voice is shaky and my legs are weak.Someone gets me a stool and I sit through most of the rehearsal, pushing that night, the flashes of people grabbing me, the fear in their faces, from my mind whenever I feel the intense pressure invade my chest and the sweat coat my palms.
I barely make it through the rehearsal before rushing backstage.I’m supposed to eat, but it just isn’t in me.I pick at a salad, then I’m ushered in to be readied by our contracted makeup artist.Another hour goes by in a blur and I try to think about the last time I felt real joy.The last time I felt alive.These last five months have sucked the life out of me physically and creatively.I look at my reflection in the mirror as my hair is styled.I don’t recognise the woman in front of me.She’s me, but empty.Hollow.Done.
When was the last time I felt anything?I know the answerimmediately and close my eyes to remember.I let my mind trace his face, begging the memory of his truck and Silver Pines to paint the dark areas of my mind with color and life as my eyeshadow is applied.
I will myself to relive the last moments I felt like myself.Haden when he smiled, when he kissed me.Haden in his simple, safe life on his quiet ranch in Kentucky.Far away from any stage.At Silver Pines, where everything is peaceful.Even the trees and the birds are friends, creating the most beautiful music together.A soundtrack for hardworking ranchers who seem like they’re just genuinely good people.
“You can open your eyes, hun,” the makeup artist says, snapping me back to the present.
The rest of my prep passes and, by showtime, I’m feeling dizzy and short of breath while I smooth down my hair and make sure everything looks perfect.I tighten my belt once, then again.My makeup is so thick, my lipstick so dark, my cheeks so highlighted I almost look plastic.My leather pants so shiny and slick.I think of my first show ever.The Rambling Jamboree in Berkshire, Oklahoma.I wore jeans and flip-flops.I strummed Ivy’s old acoustic guitar, my hair in a ponytail and not a stitch of makeup on.It was just me and the music.
“I barely recognize you,” I whisper to my reflection, trying to muster up that confidence I used to carry around with me everywhere I went.I screw up my eyes as I remember the comment I read just this morning about how leather isn’t the best choice for my thighs, as a heavy pounding on my door tells me it’s showtime.
I jump at the sound, but straighten up and do my best to appear prepared and relaxed.Though I can’t stop my heart thundering in my ears.
“Ready, sugar?”Dax asks as I shuffle out.
