Page 165 of Lost Lyrebird
I’d tried to push those thoughts to the back of my mind.I really did.But then she’d brought up the pills and my addiction, and everything I’d been holding back rushed forward and straight out of my mouth.
I’d ruined every bit of the progress I’d made.All of it.And her walls came right back up, probably stronger than ever, and I only had myself to blame.
I throw the empty whiskey bottle in my frustration.It hits the wall and shatters on impact.Glass shards fall in all directions and land on top of the papers on the ground, along with the empty pizza box.
When I pull the joint from my lips, I miss the ashtray entirely and burn a few holes in my comforter.In my haste to grab it before it lights on fire, I jar the entire thing, and the ashtray spills over the side of the bed to the floor.The joint duplicates the holes there.
Story of my fucking life.
I end up just stepping on the joint to put it out.
The light is dim, but enough to see the clouds of smoke swirling throughout the room from the weed I’ve been smoking, which, along with the whiskey, is the only small mercies I’ve granted myself from the pain.
The mess doesn’t escape my notice.What once was an organized collection of journals and notes is now an explosion of paper.They cover my walls and the floor.The important ones are pinned up, while the non-important ones are discarded and lie in layers on the floor.They’re a collage of old memories and rainbow highlights.
From where I sit on the end of my bed, I reach forward, trembling fingers and all, and pull one more journal from the large pile.I flip through the pages searching for pink highlights.The words swim in front of my eyes, and every time I try to focus harder, the letters blur, running together in a mess of ink and bad handwriting.I gave up cutting them out yesterday.Now, I just rip the entire page out and set it in a pile beside me, until I have a chance to pin it to the wall along with the others.
Pulling my shirt away from my body, I fan myself.For whatever reason, I’m sweating more than normal.I can’t tell if it’s from the fever under my skin or the lack of air conditioning.I’d crank it up and get some air ventilation in here, except that would require me to leave this room and pay a visit to the sunlight, which holds no appeal.
Instead, I read a few of the pink passages out loud under my breath.My voice is thick and slurred.My body also feels heavy, like I’m sinking into the mattress, and when I move my arm, it’s numb and slow to respond, sluggish.
The next page is a sketch I once tried to do of her face—a half-finished disaster—I discard it.It looks nothing like her at all.In fact, it’s a mockery of her beauty.
I glance up and let my gaze travel over the walls.I’ve taken a few sneaky pictures of her with my camera, but they’re not great.Their shit, if I’m being honest, and don’t do her justice.But they, too, are pinned up there, sitting beside my notes about her, her likes and dislikes, descriptions ofhertattoos, her song choices, any and every detail she’s revealed is plastered up there.
It was her all along, and I didn’t see it.She was right fucking here.
Lily.Elle.Only it was never Elle, was it?It wasLforLily.Lilian Bennett.Her full name claws its way through my chest, twisting tighter with every utterance.She’s been on the missing persons list since 1996.She’s originally from Georgia.Never graduated from high school.Her father passed away when she was a child, but she has a mother named Suzanna and one little sister, Lacy.Or at least that’s what Dozer’s computer genius friend was able to track down for me, a guy he calls Whiz Kid, once I sent him more valuable information about her and a few pictures.
The information he sent helped me tie a few strings together from the past to the present.Other breadcrumbs I discovered by dubious means, either from info Raven divulged about her, or from my observing her day to day.Like her obsession with fashion magazines, fear of cats, flower preference, drink of choice—tea or lemonade, her asthma, her favorite colors, tattoos, particularly the wings on her back.Rainbow macaroons and sunflower seeds— the snacks Raven told me she took from the basket I had delivered.The ever-present and colorful nail polish on her toes.Her skills on stage.Not just an exotic dancer, but a performer.A beauty pageant queen multiple times over.
There’s a new spiritual side to her that doesn’t tie in, but I believe it’s who she’s become over the years.Hints to this are the dreamcatcher that now hangs from her rearview mirror.The palm reading she’s done for the other girls at the club as a parlor trick.
She loves the outdoors, a contrast with how she portrays herself.She begs Raven to hike to the peak of Sandia with her at least once a month.When I had Raven take me to the exact spot, my mind fucking exploded.I had been there before with her.I felt it down to my bones.There were small flashes of a memory, but nothing I could fully grasp.
Even her fucking phone case, which speaks for her love to wander, is a map of the parts of Europe.I have memories of a map with pins like these, and I believe they marked the places she wanted to see.
These are the most prominent feathers and crumbs.
However, the thing that gives her away more than anything else is the rhythm in her soul, the music that lives inside of her.She hums with energy.It vibrates outward from her, this inner song only she can hear.
She reveals who she is under her skin every time she takes the stage.Yes, it’s sexy as hell, but it’s so much more than that.She cuts herself open up there and tells every single person in the audience something about herself on a deeper level.She loves music and is always somehow able to find the best songs for each routine.But the kicker is, she doesn’t sing.She hums the music.Even when there’s no music, she’ll sometimes hum a tune under her breath.
My hummingbird.I’m certain that’s why there’s a hummingbird tattoo on my hand, and I suspect there’s still a pink one on hers under the makeup.
I stand and make my way to the wall.I trip over something on the floor and barely stay upright.My balance is off, and the migraine has me closing my eyes for a spare second as I bear the pain and pressure it delivers in a throbbing, steady pace.The more I try to make sense of it all, the worse it gets.
The heat is also getting to me, and in this closed-off room, all I can hear is my heartbeat thumping like a bass drum in my ears.
The coppery taste should be my first clue that something’s wrong, only it’s not.Nor is it the warm liquid that spills over my lips.It’s nothing but a nuisance I wipe away.
It’s not until I touch a few of the notes and leave behind a blood handprint that I realize what’s happening, that I’m bleeding.
The stains left behind are a bit macabre.
Fuck.
Itdoesn’t matter.
