Free Exit Wound by Alexandra Moore Page B

and we’re going to take time to mourn.
    “Remember, everyone mourns differently. Be kind and courteous, but don’t overstep your boundaries. We have therapists who are willing to talk with each and every one of you as soon as you’re ready. For now, get some rest. You’ll be needing it.”
    With that said, the tour manager went to his bus, and we all separated for the night.
    Everett’s death was already trending on Twitter, and I wanted to vomit.
    I remembered what it was like to lose Mackynsie. A car accident was quite different than a gunshot wound, but it still hurt the same to the people left behind. You want to do everything in your power to ban alcohol, guns and bullets, and arrest the people who use them. It was never that simple, though. I wanted to scream from the rooftops. I wanted to punch someone in the face. I wanted to be punched in the face. I wanted to feel pain and release it—there was an overage of it in my system.
    I needed a distraction, so I checked my messages again—and as if on cue, there was an anonymous message.
     
    Anonymous: It isn’t what I wanted to do. Now that you’ve seen what I’m capable of, it’s time to pay your dues .
     
    Underneath was a picture of me hovering over Everett, blood and tears on my face. So much blood. I ran to the bathroom, and I did throw up that time.
    I was being harassed and stalked, and I didn’t know by who or why—and it looked like everything was leading to Crosley. Why would he do this? Why would he go out of his way to stalk me around the United States, send me taunting messages with incriminating photographs, and why did I have “dues,” or “debts” to pay? I kept thinking back to what he had said last to me, about our conversation when he saw me before summer started. Nothing came to mind.
    I needed sleep, and sleep was evading me. Nightmares kept me up, and cold sweats kept me hot and cold all at once. I couldn’t calm down, and when we finally reached New York City again, I hadn’t had any real sleep. It was like with Mackynsie’s death all over again: the dreams, the night terrors. Everything was coming back full circle—except this time, it was far too much.
    When we got home, Ben decided to let us stay in the apartment since it was somewhere familiar. I went straight to my room and locked the door, leaving my baggage in the front entryway and my heart on the floor. I threw myself onto my bed, and all the tears came flooding out. There was no stopping it this time. I couldn’t hold back. Everything inside me was screaming for release.
    I was beyond hysterical—I was stark raving mad. I rampaged through my room, destroying it, throwing things around and breaking them until I came across one thing I had forgotten about: my songbook. In the midst of all the chaos, writing would help settle me. I picked up a pen I found on the floor and opened the journal. My blood turned to ink, forming words on the pieces of paper that had long since been abandoned.
    I sat there for hours, writing song after song. Some were trashy, some were made to be trash, and others made me feel a little less guilty. If I could feel a little less guilt with each song, I knew I’d be okay. I tried writing a new song every hour, hoping that whatever came out would be a form of purging for my heart and my soul.
    When I took note of my surroundings again, I discovered the sun had come up, and I smelled food cooking. I came out of my room, and I saw Ben scrolling through his iPad over a plate of food.
    “What did you make?” I asked him, and he pushed a plate over to me.
    “Sit. I want to talk with you while you eat.”
    I sat down, contemplating the food on my plate.
    “I think it’s time for a change of scenery,” Ben declared.
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    He showed me his iPad screen. He was on some real estate site looking at houses that were near the Dartmouth main campus. The one he showed me was beautiful, and I could imagine living there