That’s an even worse loneliness, when you’re isolated amongst a crowd. It feels wrong, sideways, as if the earth’s flat and you’ll fall off.
I love him with or without his music. I love him because I know if he were here with me, he’d move heaven and hell to carry me to safety.
His music and his voice are beautiful. I hang on to hear both again. It plays in my head. The time in the studio with him when I saw his brilliance firsthand. Before my mother ruined it all.
Freezing cold, I cough and curl into a tighter ball.
Footsteps grow closer in the hallway. I turn on my side, shocked at how attuned my hearing is now that I can’t see not even my hand in front of me. The room’s horrible smell irritates my gag reflexes. The door opens and I squint at the hall light beaming into the room. Crawling to my hands and feet, I expect to see my mom. She’s allowing more light in right now, so she has to have forgiven me.
“Georgie?”
Della, one of our maids, calls my name and I waiver. She doesn’t speak to me again, but sets a tray on the floor and backs away.
The scent of chicken broth mixes with the scents of my pee and vomit, and fills the room. Lovely. Staring up, I blink. Nothing changes. It’s still pitch black.
Call me weak, but I’m not. I’m plain fucking tired. On my hands and knees, I follow the smell. When I reach the tray, I feel around, sagging in relief when my hand wraps around a glass, cold with condensation.
I smash it to the floor and the liquid splashes on my thighs and legs. A drop or two catches my cheek. My fingers search for a jagged piece and I moan when my skin is cut.
Hopefully, the pain I’m about to inflict upon myself doesn’t last long. Laying my wrist on my thigh, I press the glass to it and slice.
“Ahh.” Tears rush to my eyes at the flare of pain. Warm liquid slides down my thighs. My blood. The glass slips from my fingers but I manage to lift it again to repeat the process on my other wrist.
When I’ve accomplished my tasks, I curl up on the floor and wait to die.
Cassandra
Darkness descends on me. I grab my glass of wine from one of the tables in my dressing room. Something’s wrong. I know it is. I try to assemble my thoughts to pinpoint the awful premonition sinking into me.
Mother’s intuition has never been my strong suit. I long ago tuned it out. Once or twice, when Georgie was little, I listened and discovered her locked in a cupboard, or unable to slide from under a bed she’d hidden beneath.
Why listen now? I have no idea. No, why hear it now? I refuse to listen. She has to stay in the room and sober up. I can’t have it known that she’s addicted.
I pace a little more, my mind flitting to Crowell and his confession of how addicted Georgie is.
If my actions are discovered, though, that’s the story I’ll use. Georgie is really in the room because of Sloane. She defied me. He defied me. I should follow through with my plans for him, but I haven’t been as calm in years. Knowing Georgie is locked away is freeing to me.
A noise catches my attention, and I tiptoe to the door connecting my closet to the bedroom. I stumble back. Parnell is with Abby, in our bed. In our bed. She moans as he pumps into her. Sickness invades me and a wounded sound escapes me. They both freeze.
Sighing, Parnell lifts up, leaving her reddened, swollen pussy open for me to see. She doesn’t bother to close her legs. She doesn’t—
A God-awful scream curls my toes and Parnell shoots from the bed. Pulling the top sheet from my bed, Abby wraps it around herself and follows him. I remain where I’m at, not caring what’s happening. Only seeing my husband with the girl, Abby. She’s different than the others, something more than I’ve been to him in years. Covering my face, I sob into my hands.
Parnell hollers, as if he’s in agony. I hope he is. Maybe, then, he’ll feel half the pain I’m experiencing.
“Call 911,” he sobs, running back into the room with Georgie in his arms. For the briefest moment, my mind blanks and I stare, not quite comprehending my limp daughter.
He rubs his cheek against hers and ugly cries. His little slut, Abby, wears a robe now. My robe that I’d left in my bathroom that I share with my husband. He shoves a cell phone into her hands. “Save her, Abby. Save my Georgie.”
Towels are wrapped around Georgie’s wrists and her hair is tangled. She’s pale and gaunt and ugly. She might die. Naked and bloody, leaving the world just as she came in. I almost envy her, but I don’t. Maybe, now, I’ll have peace. I’ll have Parnell.
“Call 911,” he screams again through his tears.
“They’re on the way,” Abby soothes, caressing Parnell’s back. Worry creases her forehead. “D-della called.”
“Call again,” he directs. “Please. Get her help.”
He paces, Georgie still clutched to him. Judging by the redness of the towels, she’s bled out. There’s no way she can survive this. My breath catches. I cover my mouth as a sound escapes, alerting Parnell to my presence that he’s forgotten.
“Cass, do something. Help our little girl.”