Page 51 of Love Sick

I think back to when I first woke and how she said I was the perfect match for Jonathan—and I now see she means that in more ways than one. She couldn’t give Jonathan Misha’s heart which would have been the perfect match if Jonathan were alive.

But he wasn’t.

She gave me that heart because she wanted me, Dutch Atwood, to live.

Reality and fiction have skewed for her as she is obviously unstable, but after losing the love of your life, isn’t that expected? I mean, look at what Luna did when she lost Misha.

Love, the crux of it all.

Alanna watches the dress burn, a look of nothingness befalling her. I wonder what she’s thinking.

“I don’t know what to do now. I’ve made such a mess of things.” She brushes her fingers through her blonde hair and I notice they tremble.

Not in fear, but rather, withdrawal.

“What are you on, Alanna?”

She chokes on a strangled chuckle. “To deal with what, exactly? The voices? The suicidal thoughts? The depression? Take your pick. I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

I want to hate her, but in this moment, I don’t. I feel sorry for her because I don’t sense deceit. And this is what is eating away at me.

I can end this right now. She is vulnerable, and I know she wouldn’t put up a fight because it seems like I would be doing her a favor.

If I kill her, does that make me a monster? Do two wrongs make a right? Could I live with that on my conscience for the rest of my life?

Alanna thought she could, but look where she stands right now.

I am caught at a moral crossroad—which way do I choose?

“Did you give me that heart for Jonathan? Or for me?”

I remember her words, but those words were spoken by a delusional, crazy woman. Who I see now doesn’t resemble that person at all.

“For you,” she replies, reaching into her pocket and offering me a knife. “You’d be doing me a favor. Avenge your lover because I cannot do the same to mine.”

Take it…

Misha has been quiet lately, and I know that’s because he was never really there. None of this is real—just my subconscious playing tricks on me, akin to that of me believing I couldn’t play piano because of my new heart.

But that wasn’t true.

I couldn’t play because my own fears stopped me. If I didn’t have anything “special,” which differentiated me from the rest, then how could I create extraordinary music?

“Take it.” Alanna nudges her outstretched palm, almost begging I do it.

What is the matter with me?

This is what I wanted…so why can’t I move?

“Dutch?”

With a sigh, I do something which I don’t understand—I turn around and walk back into the house and do the only thing I’ll forever understand.

I sit behind the piano and I begin to play.

Just like it happened the last time I was here, the music comes to me so quickly, I can’t keep up. I play like my life depends on it because the louder I play, the softer the voices become until all I hear, all I feel, is the music.

I don’t know how long I play, but when I reopen my eyes, I see that it’s dark out. And that Alanna sits on the cushioned chair, watching me with nothing but admiration.

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