More than a Melody (H.S) ON HOLD

13

thirteen

I am stranded in a parking lot.

Stranded. Heart palpitating to the rhythm of my trembling. The world is the darkest it's ever been, slithering through every possible breaching of light. Suffocating. Twisted. The idealistic reality of fear.

I'm not alone, though. Miles is here. Vincent. Harry. Silas. Delilah. Danny. The man in the truck.

We're all gathered in a crooked circle, it's so dark yet my eyes adjust. Harry is beside me, I hear his breathing, I hear his crying. Why is he crying?

"Something isn't right."

Danny is sobbing, Delilah collapses. I am immobilized. I scream in agonizing pain as my tendons tear, the inelastic cords shooting fire through every crevice of my body.

"Stop, Jane. You're hurting yourself."

Harry wraps his fingers around my bicep, attempting to steady the body that threatens to crumble.

"They'll be okay. They'll be okay."

One by one, they disappear. Miles first, then Vincent, Danny, Delilah, Silas. Until it is only the three of us.

"I have you. It will be okay. Please believe me."

And yet he is crying.

__________________

I convince myself that the nightmares are stress induced. A byproduct of Sunday's conversation. A conversation that has plagued my mine for the entirety of this week.

A few nights now I have awoken to the feeling of my arm being grabbed, calfs cramping. Stress induced. Mental manifestations mirroring the physical.

Miles worries the stress and anxiety I am undergoing will inevitably lead to a panic attack. I tell him about the nightmare and this only feeds into his worries. He tells me things that he hopes will help ease my enervated mind:

"I talked with Silas. He has a friend who owns a small publishing company in Seaside. They would love to see how you do as an editorial assistant."

"Mae called, she said she has an extra room and has been looking for another roommate. If you're interested."

"We still have time, Olive. Our lease isn't up until February."

It's now Friday. Harry's here, at the diner. He brought his own tea, I brewed it, and now I'm left scrubbing the counters while he continues to write the lyrics hundreds will soon gawk over.

The smell of lysol intermixes with my thoughts, both strong, both fervent.

One day I will never wipe down these counters again, these counters that I would perch myself onto as a kid during those long nights; legs dangling over the edge, Miles sleeping in a booth, stormtrooper jacket acting as a pillow.

When I was seven and Miles thirteen, Dad let him stay home by himself. When I turned thirteen, though, I stayed. I hated the idea of Dad being alone.