Page 5 of Hurt

As abruptly as it started, the music stopped. The strings thrummed, and he didn’t stop them. He let them still on their own, then he opened his eyes. He didn’t look surprised to see Grant. His face was blank.

“I’m sorry I—”

“We’re closed,” he said simply, picking up his guitar and holding it by the neck rather than the strap.

He didn’t look back at Grant, just stalked off the stage and flicked off the lights.

Grant reached up and touched his cheek, only to realize his eyes were wet with tears.

2

IF I COULD START AGAIN, A MILLION MILES AWAY

Arusted metal staircase clung to the western side of The Sunspot. It creaked and rattled, groaning when anyone so much as looked at it. The stairs led to a small apartment. Built sometime after The Sunspot, it was added on as an afterthought. Calling it an apartment might be generous. Really, it was a glorified attic. Low ceilings and bare wooden floors.

The only homey thing about it was the small wood-burning stove shoved into the corner—not that the residents used it. Every time they tried, smoke filled the room, clogging their lungs and smudging the walls.

On particularly cold nights, they would shelter in the bar. Dragging blankets and pillows down the sketchy staircase and huddling together under the bar. Those nights were always fun. Like creating a fort and sleeping in the living room—there was just a hint of newness, a feeling that you were doing something different.

Willow was curled up on the beanbag that served as their couch. Her damp hair was falling in front of her face, and she used it like a shield. She was tired. Her muscles were sore from dancing, and her stomach growled. She should eat, but she couldn’t be bothered to unfold herself from her perch and look in the mini-fridge stuffed into the corner. There was nothing in it. Neither one of them had been shopping recently.

Not that Kurt went shopping. He rarely left the bar anymore.

Willow glanced toward the bedroom—a small closet with a queen-sized mattress on the floor. They normally shared it, but right now, it was just Kurt. He had come home an hour ago, kicking off his boots and stumbling to the mattress. Curling up around the bottle of whiskey in his hand, he fell asleep.

He did that sometimes. Willow didn’t know why. She would ask, but she knew Kurt wouldn’t tell her. She made that mistake once—the way Kurt’s face shuttered off, eyes going dark and lips pressing together made Willow’s heart hurt. She had never seen her brother like that before, and she never wanted to see it again.

Even now, watching Kurt curl up around the bottle with his clothes still on…it was heartbreaking. Willow didn’t know just when Kurt had been broken, but she knew he was. And she didn’t know how to fix it. One day her brother was the sarcastic asshole from her childhood, gruff but not afraid to laugh. Never afraid to play a prank with her or roll his eyes at something his mother said.

And the next, he was gone. The man who replaced her brother looked the same, but he wasn’t. The curl of his lips was gone, that signature smirk and husky laugh had disappeared. The dark eyes that looked out at her were dead.

Willow hoped it was a phase. Something temporary, something that would hurt Kurt but one day would heal. But it didn’t. It kept getting worse. It didn’t matter what she said or did. Kurt wouldn’t talk to her. And every day that passed, the chasm between them grew larger.

It started that night. The night that Willow was supposed to be doing her final audition for university. It was a formality. Everyone knew she would get in. The school was practically salivating to get a performer of her quality. But something nagged at her. Her fingers felt clumsy on the strings, and her attention kept wandering.

She went home instead.

That’s when she found Kurt. Lifeless and cold. Willow had clung to him, begging him to come back.

He did. Or at least, part of him. Kurt never thanked her for saving his life. He never said anything about it again. They pretended like it didn’t happen, and most times, that worked.

Except for nights like tonight. The rain pounded on the tin roof, and Willow watched droplets of water dribble down the walls and pool on the wooden floor. She imagined the dust of the desert being hosed down, animals scurrying out of their holes to bathe in the fresh water that fell from the sky with such irregularity. The parched earth would soak in the water. All of them were enjoying the rain except for her.

It made her feel lonely. Lonelier than she usually did. Even when Kurt was awake and sitting on the beanbag beside her, Willow was alone.

Her brother was the ghost who haunted The Sunspot. Unable to leave, unable to change. Going through the motions of his life but not feeling anything. And Willow didn’t know how to save him.

She couldn’t save him, and she couldn’t fix him. All she could do was linger on the edges and pray he was there when he eventually completed his circuit of self-destruction. She knew she was being selfish. If she really cared, she would have let her brother die years ago. Let him end his pain. But she couldn’t. Willow was lonely, but at least she wasn’t alone. She had her brother’s ghost.

A corkboard was hung up on the wall between the kitchen and bedroom. They had stuck pictures to it—a playbill from one of Willow's concerts (Kurt had drawn a mustache and devil horns on Willow's face), a family picture taken several years before the Becketts had died, Noah’s senior photo, and random bits and pieces of things they once cared about.

Willow hadn’t spoken to Noah in a while. Occasionally they phoned each other. Chatted about stupid things, and at the end of the call, Noah would ask for Kurt only to be told no. Kurt didn’t want to come to the phone. Willow would pretend she didn’t hear the disappointment in the teenager’s voice, and she would tell him next time. Kurt would call next time.

They both knew he wouldn’t.

Noah was eight when his parents died. A snot-nosed kid with two missing front teeth and his mom’s delicate nose. He lived with them for almost a year before Kurt made the decision to send him to his paternal uncle. Both Willow and Noah protested. They screamed until they were blue in the face—how could they send Noah to a stranger? Sure, the guy was rich. He had all of White Sand Mesa under his control now that Noah’s father was dead. But what was that compared to the warmth of the two who had been there his whole life?

Kurt wouldn’t listen. He set the kid on a bus and never looked back. Periodically, Noah would run away from Luther. He would get tired of living in White Sand Mesa and come to slum it with the aunt and uncle he so desperately wanted to be with. Luther would allow it for a few weeks before dragging him back and shipping him off to the finest boarding school money could afford.