The Way It Hurts

by Patty Blount

  “I meant, I understand—”

  “Bullshit, Dad!” I broke free, whipped around, and shoved him back a step. His eyes flared once, but he didn’t retaliate. “You don’t understand! You can’t even admit you miss her. All you do is go on long walks with Mom and sit and watch TV, drinking gallons of coffee.”

  He stared at me, dark eyes blurred, and suddenly, he crumpled up and sank to the floor, sobbing like a two-year-old. “You’re right,” he choked out. “I don’t miss her the way you do… She’s my daughter not my sister, so it can’t be the same. I go on those long walks to keep myself from grabbing the car keys and rushing out there to spring her loose. I drink all that coffee because I’m afraid to go to sleep at night in case she needs me, and I want to hear the phone if it rings. There’s a piece of my heart beating outside my own body—that I’m supposed to protect and I can’t. Don’t you understand that? I can’t and neither can you.”

  I shook my head. Pretty words but that’s all they were. “Dad, I can’t give up on her. It’s not fair that I can talk and go to school and…and you know, have this normal life while—”

  “It’s not fair, Eli. It’s not fair at all.” Slowly, he climbed up off the floor, joints popping from the effort. “But it’s not your problem.”

  My vision went red, and I advanced on him. “Fuck that.”

  Dad’s hands shot up. “Listen to me. You are her brother, not her parent. Do you understand me? I’m her father, and I cannot take care of her anymore. Not with a house and a full-time job. You have none of those worries, and even if you did, it still would not be your responsibility.”

  I sucked in my cheek, glaring at him. “You didn’t even let me try.”

  He shut his eyes, and it suddenly hit me he was so exhausted he was almost swaying on his feet. “Eli, I’m done arguing with you about this. You want to try? Fine, you do what you have to do. Have a good show.”

  He left me there, alone, his words echoing in the darkness.

  I watched Anna’s video over and over and over. “I will never give up, Anna. Not like he did.”

  Never.

  • • •

  “Okay, guys. This is it. You ready?” Nick asked me while we took our places behind the stage and waited for our introduction.

  I peeked cautiously around the curtain, noting the guys in black T-shirts marked “Security,” the crowd barriers, and—oh, God. “Channel Twelve is here,” I reported, awed.

  “Shit,” Nick groaned, shutting his eyes for a second.

  “Come on, guys. Walk in the park.” Sam fluffed his hair and adjusted the leather cuff on his wrist.

  My eyes fell to my own bare wrist. I’d given Kristen my cuff. Whatever. It was fine. Just another fucking blank space where she should be.

  I scanned the crowd, a useless surge of hope forcing me to search for any glimpse of blond hair and cleavage. Of course there was no sign of her. But I saw so many people. Teens, parents with kids in strollers, a bunch of biker guys…pretty much everybody was holding a color print of the “Kris Versus Eli” battle poster, and against my will, a smile tugged my lips. Seemed that heavy metal had universal appeal. The smile melted when I wondered how many people in this audience were also in that ugly crowd at the playground. How many of them sent Kristen those online threats? I’d told her it was no big deal, part of the territory. She’d have to get used to it if she wanted to play with the boys.

  What a fucking tool I was. Am.

  I’d spent so long developing my rock god image, I wasn’t exactly sure why it stunned me to realize that the perception I so carefully created was reality to fans, and that most people would never know there was a different side of me unless they took a really close look. Like Kristen had.

  A loud “No” captured my attention. In the front row by stage right, a woman sat anxiously looking around at the people shooting her funny looks. At her feet, on the ground, a little girl sat. She was about ten years old, wearing baggy clothes. I took one look and knew, even before I noticed the hair hanging in her eyes or the way she rocked back and forth, shaking her head, that she was on the spectrum, and my heart clenched. I took another look at the crowd, my jaw tightening.

  If they turned on her…Jesus. I caught the eye of the closest security dude and motioned him over. I asked him to have the crew keep an eye on her. “Don’t make the mom anxious, though, okay?”

  “No problem.”

  I ducked back behind the curtain. “Hey, Nick. Got any extra sticks you can give away?”

  He frowned and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.” He checked his bag and took out a set of practice sticks. “Here.”

  “Thanks, bro.”

  I walked around the curtain and down the stage steps, ignoring the hoots from a bunch of teen girls who spotted me and slowly approached the little girl and her mom on the right. “Hi. I’m Elijah—”

  “Oh, um. Yeah, I know who you are. You’re, uh…you’re why we’re here.”

  It took me a minute to be able to talk. I smiled and nodded. “Thanks. Here. These are for her. If she’s like my sister, the music speaks to her.”

  “Oh, it does.” The woman covered her mouth with both hands and then took the drumsticks.

  “She can beat on the ground if she wants. Or come onstage with us. Whatever you think will calm her.”

  The woman looked horrified. “Definitely no stage. Just sitting near music will help.”

  I nodded. “Does she respond to her name?”

  The woman’s eyes clouded, and she shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s Maggie.”

  “Maggie,” I repeated, but she didn’t respond, and I knew better than to press her.

  “Is your sister here?” Maggie’s mother asked, and I shook my head.

  “No,” I admitted. “My parents refused to check her out of her residence program for today’s gig.”

  “Residence? Which one?”

  I didn’t answer. Trust only went so far.

  “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—God, I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay. I know what you meant, but I can’t tell you. I can’t risk the information going public.”

  “You’re right. I’m so sorry.”

  A group of girls wearing sundresses decided to approach, and I took that as my cue to bounce. “Enjoy the concert.”

  She offered up the “Kris Versus Eli” poster. “Would you sign this for us?”

  I grinned. “No problem.” While I scrawled my name over my image, I casually asked, “Would you put your daughter in a residence if you could?”

  “Thanks.” She took the poster back like it was a soap bubble that might pop. “And yes. I would. Some people hope and pray to win a lottery, but me? I hope and pray I’ll be able to keep her with me always. But I know that’s not possible. This world doesn’t understand these kids, and at some point, I’ll have to provide her with her own world, one that—”

  “Elijah! Elijah!” Chants started, and the girls surged forward.

  I turned to go. “One that what?”

  “One that’s safe for her so I can stop worrying about what will happen to her when I’m gone.” She angled her head and studied me. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe the stuff they say about you. Anybody who loves his sister the way you do is not a jerk.”

  And there it was again. I managed a wink and an evil grin. “Shhh, I got an image to maintain.”

  “Elijah! Elijah!”

  I turned and found a cameraman and reporter wearing a red suit and high heels jogging toward me, her heels tapping on the concrete. One of the security guys tried to hustle me back onstage, but I waved him off. I could handle this.

  “How nervous are you about today’s concert?” The reporter thrust her microphone under my nose, and my eyebrows rose.

  “I’m excited and amped up but not nervous.”


  “The recent threats made against your family don’t concern you?”

  Ah. Now I knew what this was really about.

  “Threats always worry me, but my family is safe right now.”

  “And what about Kristen Cartwright? Is it true she is no longer with Ride Out? Did you split because of the online battle or was it something more personal?”

  Shit. What was this, a TMZ segment? I swallowed down my annoyance and neither confirmed nor denied. “Kristen had a family emergency that prevents her from singing with us today. Whenever she feels ready to pick up a mic again, Ride Out is happy—and lucky—to have her.”

  “Elijah, it’s no secret you and Kristen have battled over creative differences as well as personal ones you so publicly debated on the music forum, the Beat. Where does that battle stand today?”

  I opened my mouth, ready to deliver my standard response to every question just like this one that I’d been asked. And then, a flash of red from the corner of my eye caught my attention.

  I swore I saw Kristen’s red boots. She was here! The rock in my gut suddenly disintegrated, and I wanted to run, find her, tell her I was sorry, and never let her go, but when I searched the vicinity, the only red I saw was on a pair of sneakers belonging to some ten-year-old.

  Kristen wasn’t here, and she never would be again.

  I took a deep breath and stared directly at the camera. “You want the truth?”

  “Of course.” The reporter revealed every perfectly capped tooth in her mouth, and I almost snorted.

  “I messed up. If I’d listened to Kristen from day one instead of starting up that stupid Kris versus Eli hashtag, maybe we’d be having a different conversation.”

  “That’s very direct, Elijah. But is it true?”

  At this, I did snort. “Truth doesn’t matter. Just perception.” My new mantra.

  The security guard took my elbow and led me back behind the stage just as the festival executive tapped the mic.

  I took my position with Sam and Nick and waited for the executive to finish his speech thanking everybody and their uncle for coming and supporting local businesses. Finally, he said, “Put your hands together for your hometown heavy metal heroes, Ride Out!”

  A deafening roar went up from the crowd, which I estimated to be about a thousand people. We took our places, grabbed our instruments, and readjusted our microphones one last time. The crowd’s energy infused us, and I took a minute to let it spread to every cell in my body. Kristen may not be here, but half the school was. I recognized her friend Rachel and Nick’s girl, Leah, standing in the front row. I leaned in and shouted, “Hello, Suffolk County! Are you ready to rock?”

  The crowd roared its answer, and Sam counted us in to a cover of the ’80s Bon Jovi classic “Wanted Dead or Alive” and strummed the guitar intro that had become iconic. I grabbed the mic and took a breath to deliver the first line of the song, and the crowd’s cheer all but drowned me out. By the time I hit the chorus, they were singing along. The energy rose, the atmosphere sizzled, and everything faded out until it was just me, a guitar, and a microphone…

  A crowd of adoring people shouting our names didn’t hurt either.

  From “Wanted Dead or Alive,” we slid into current stuff like Thousand Foot Krutch’s “Let the Sparks Fly” that got all those spectators counting to three with us, and Avenged Sevenfold’s “Hail to the King.” By the end of that one, some clowns at the front were striking their chests in some goofy salute before falling to one knee. I laughed and pointed.

  We paused to chug some water, and just as Sam started the chords for Anna’s favorite song “Brown Eyed Girl,” a girl in the front row let out a shriek. It was Maggie. Her startled mom shot me a look of pure mortification, but I just waved it off. She couldn’t help it, and I got that. But some witch sitting nearby flipped her hair over her shoulder and shouted at her.

  “Oh my God, can you like control her or something so the rest of us can enjoy the show?”

  Instant fury ignited, and I grabbed my mic. “Hey! I hear any more of that crap, and we’re done up here.” Security started moving toward the section I was glaring at.

  “What? No way, I paid for these tickets. Kick her out for disrupting the show.”

  “She’s fine. You’re disrupting the show. I got no love for people like you who have no tolerance.”

  The chick just rolled her eyes and saluted me with one finger. I switched guitars, trading my bass for a Telecaster, and jumped off the stage. The witch thought I was coming to her and beamed bright and viciously at Maggie’s mother. I elbowed her out of my way.

  “Still got those sticks?”

  Maggie’s mom pulled the drumsticks from her bag and handed them to me. I put them in Maggie’s hands.

  Maggie never made eye contact, but she did stop shrieking. As soon as she noticed what was in her hands, she began rocking. I gently guided her hands to the chair in front of her, showing her how to beat the pattern I’d taught Anna.

  “Sam, hand me the mic,” I called. Sam took a mic from its stand and passed it to a security guard, who ran it down to me. I handed it to Maggie’s mother. “Hold this for us, will you?”

  I propped a leg on the chair Maggie was drumming and positioned my guitar. Into the mic, I said, “This next one goes out to my sister, Anna, and to Maggie.”

  I strummed the opening to “Brown Eyed Girl,” Sam and Nick entered right on cue, and I sang the first lines directly to Maggie, who kept right on drumming the pattern I’d taught her. The audience loved it. Maggie’s mother cried.

  The bitch next to her stood with her arms crossed and a disgusted look on her face. By the time we got to the “la la la” part, Maggie was singing with us, as I’d figured she would because this song held magic. When the mean girl whipped around and pushed her way out of the row, a cheer erupted.

  I grinned and shook the hair from my face.

  Yep, magic.

  When the song ended and the applause died down, I climbed back onstage. “Front row, I’m counting on you to help keep some space around Maggie. Just let her enjoy the music her way, okay?”

  A big dude wearing motorcycle leathers thrust a fist in the air and moved closer to Maggie’s mother. She looked up, up, up and then turned red. Whoa. Okay then. Like I said. Magic.

  I figured now would be a good time to kick off the second half of the show.

  This portion of our set list was all us—original Ride Out songs. The entire audience was standing, waving their hands, and singing along. A few shouts of “Kris! Kris!” rang out, but I ignored them…and the gaping wounds they slashed.

  Finally, it was time for the last song—Kristen’s song.

  “The Way It Hurts.”

  I cued up the pain. I let it curl my hands into fists, and I let it force my lungs to constrict and my vision to blur. Nick counted us in, and Sam’s fingers strummed the first chord, aggressive and raw. I opened my mouth and delivered the first line with a soft, heartbreaking tremor in my voice.

  It can’t get worse; this is the way it hurts.

  It can’t get worse; this is the way it hurts.

  Don’t know how it all went wrong,

  Thought what we had was so damn strong.

  I showed you my heart, tore down my defenses,

  They said I’m a jerk, said I’m offensive,

  And you just turned away.

  You called me your friend, said you were sure,

  Can’t believe I was that insecure.

  I fell fast and fell so hard,

  I was yours, now I’m just scars.

  The last line, I delivered with the aggressive and brutal metal growl I’d delivered during our practice in my garage, and the effect was instant. The audience went wild. When I hit the chorus, hundreds of hands went into the air, swaying to my sound.

  What
can I say?

  What can I do?

  Everything I am means nothing much to you.

  It can’t get worse; this is the way it hurts.

  I got nothing but my name,

  Nothing but my songs,

  Feelin’ so much pain, but the words still come out wrong.

  It can’t get worse; this is the way it hurts.

  I paused here, shredding my notes in a riff that hadn’t been in the original version. But I needed it. My heart was screaming for Kristen. I had to regroup. Focus on the pain. I bent the last note, extending it, and opened my mouth for the next line, when a deep growl stole the oxygen from the air.

  Frantically, I looked around for the source, expecting it to be just reverb or feedback, but I saw…red boots.

  I gasped, and my eyes damn near popped out of my skull.

  Those red boots stepped up to the stage. I raised my eyes past them up the curve of sweet bare legs revealed in a short black dress, past the incredible rack that had starred in way too many of my fantasies, up to Kristen’s face, her mouth open in the most chilling metal scream I’d ever heard. Goose bumps rose on every inch of my flesh, and my jaw dropped. She attacked the scream the way she did everything else—balls-to-the-wall, full out. It was brave, and it was so fucking muscular, I forgot to be mad, forgot she hated me, forgot everything except for the way that one sound held me captive.

  She paused for a breath and sang the next line but changed the words.

  You’re wrong, and baby, I’m sorry.

  But there’s a whole other side to this story.

  The hell with the fame, keep all the glory

  Just don’t turn away.

  What else can I say?

  What else can I scream?

  The man that you are is everything to me

  It can’t get worse; this is the way it hurts.

  She stepped toward me, blue eyes blurred, and all I wanted to do was drop the mic and grab her, hold her, and never let her go. It suddenly dawned on me that this was a concert, and there were fans who’d paid to hear me sing, and whoa, there was even a mic in front of me. I shoved the guitar behind my back, gripped the mic with both hands, and in a clear, strong voice, sang the next verse the way I’d first written it, with the words she’d called beautiful.