Synister: The Push Series - Book 1 (18 page)

“So, this means that we can make fun of you, and you can't get pissed because you won't be able to hear what we’re saying?” Zeke questioned. There was an odd sense of quiet, and then I threw my head back in laughter.

“You motherfucker. Really? I just told you that I was going deaf, and your first thought is to fuck with me straight out.” I couldn’t hide the smile in my words. It was exactly what I needed in a night so heavy with sadness and despair.

“Seriously, Synister. You sure this is permanent?” Scottie asked, the disbelief still heavy in his eyes and heart.

“Ya, man. They said the progression of hearing loss would happen over time, and with as much as I have been missing in the last two shows, I would say the floor is dropping out faster than I can fake it.” This was good, right? We were discussing this. In that moment, I had a glimpse that maybe everything would be okay.

“I’ve already talked to a friend back in Pittsburgh. You all know Hawke. He knows this amazing songwriter. If we are willing, we can test her out to see if she will gel with the band. I know you are going to want to make this about me. I don’t want that. Please don’t lose track of everything we have fought for. The only way I can accept this is to know that Push will go on. That you all will be okay. I need to focus on Brooklyn. Getting her better, figuring out how to live in a world with no sound. I need your promise that you’ll be okay. If I know that, then I can be at peace with walking away.”

The conversation lasted for the next three hours. There were tears and laughter. Hendrix punched Oscar for making a stupid remark, which brought on more laughter. We discussed the tour, next steps, a replacement drummer, logistics, who to call, what to say. It was both formal and casual. It was what I needed to be a part of and what they needed to be at peace. I knew this was the euphoric time when all the ideas and what-ifs lived in our minds. The reality of putting them in place. Not seeing me on stage would be when the heartache would really hit home.

I needed to be at peace with this part of my life. I needed them to be okay with it even more. It was funny how things happened, but making peace with Push allowed my heart to be filled with one and only one thing.

Brooklyn.

Like the sun peeking through the clouds, a new dawn was waiting for me, and I was finally ready to move on. To commit to Brooklyn the way I needed to, the way I always wished I could. She would be my center, my focus. The one thing I put every ounce of effort into no matter the cost. She was the sun that finally ended my eternal night.

Synister
- Broken Wings and Beautiful Things

Thirteen days after Brooklyn’s attack, I was finally able to take her home. There were so many emotions that I had worked through that it was hard to not tie her physical healing with my mental resolve to be what she needed. I was exposed to everyone and anyone that I came into contact with. I spent hours sitting in the chair beside her bed. I watched as the black and blue reminders on her skin turned to the color of pea soup and began to fade. I memorized her sleep patterns. I knew the way her eyes flickered and the way she smiled and gritted her teeth when she was dreaming. I knew exactly when those beautiful dreams turned into nightmares because her face wrinkled and her breathing escalated. On nights when the terror was especially bad, I reached out to her, rubbing my thumb across the top of her hand. The feel of her smooth skin under mine seemed to calm her. I tried once to climb into bed with her, but that ended in an epic disaster. When Brooklyn realized that I was invading her space, she began thrashing and screaming out. I quickly removed myself from the bed like a burglar through the kitchen window. She was so worked up that the nurses came rushing in as the alarms on the machines monitoring her vitals cried out into the stillness of the hospital. After that, I resided myself to holding her hand. Reaching out to her, I softly brushed the hair from her face and hummed bits and pieces of songs, melodies, anything to calm her. After a few nights of repeating this pattern, it seemed to work. For that, I was thankful.

When she woke, we never discussed what she had been through every time she closed her eyes. I knew all too well the look of terror as you silently tried to convince your mind that the horror was over and in the past. Sometimes, no matter how much your current situation seemed harmless, you could still see the evil lurking behind the veil of darkness in your mind. I had the same expression on my face every time I thought about Vince. It was fear, shame, anxiety, and guilt mixed together in a destructive cocktail. Brooklyn would look at me, right through me, and I knew I was what she needed. Seeing the comfort in her face because I was with her seemed to keep the darkness at bay. I didn’t want her to know the feeling of dealing with trauma alone. I never had anyone to just be there for me. I had to deal in silence and solitude, and I knew what a fucked-up job that had done on my soul. I refused to allow Brooklyn to see herself in that situation. She would not face her future and the horror of the last few weeks on her own. It was funny—the relief and stress of being needed like that. I had never been needed by any woman before.
I’m fucking terrified.
Sure, I had the band, but that was business. Scottie needed me, relied on me, but that was different. Plus, dudes don't talk about feelings and shit.

Brooklyn needed me in a way that was primal. Basic in every way, yet complex. She was looking to me to lift her up, to challenge her. She was going to push me away and then needed me back by her side in a split second.

This
need
was different.

This
need
was unbound.

I did everything in my power to keep both of our sanity. When I explained to her the meeting with the band, she cried, and then I cried. All the guys came to visit her over the course of the two weeks. I threatened them with the removal of their balls in a cruel and unusual manner if they upset her. Scottie was the last to visit. It was just too hard and brought up too many memories from when we were kids. Between the two of us, Scottie ended up in the hospital more than a dozen times for his accidents. I only did one trip for a broken wrist. Vince found other ways to break me. Bones heal, but a heart doesn’t. He made sure I stayed in a constant state of desperation. It was like an emotional limbo between waiting for the next time he picked away at what little I had left of myself. I was on edge anytime someone got close enough to see what I locked away—the part of my heart that Vince blackened with his fist and his fury.

When Scottie entered the room, it took forever for him to look at Brooklyn. I could see him trying to be brave. He was holding back tears, and his hands were shaking. While watching him face his demons, I understood the fear of success or failure that a parent must feel. I knew he needed to do this at his pace, but I wanted nothing more than to shield him from all the pain it would cause.

When Scottie got to Brooklyn’s bed, he just kneeled down beside her. She was still hooked up to a ton of machines, and as I stood in the corner of the room to give them distance, I watched as she reached through the rails and placed her hand on his back. The minute her fingers came to rest on his black T-shirt, his resolve to stay strong for her evaporated. I could not hear what he was saying and strangely felt like an outsider in a very private moment. Walking to the doorway, I stepped just outside the door and allowed Scottie a minute to make peace with what had happened. I felt his arm on my shoulder, and when my eyes connected to his, he immediately became the little boy I protected all those years ago.

“Synister, when you find the person who did that to her, you call me first. He hurt her. I’ll destroy him.” With those words, Scottie walked away from me without another sound. Once he was out of my sight, I put in a text to Big T.

Me: Keep an eye on Scottie. He just left seeing B, and he is not in a good place.

Big T: You got it, boss.

Thank God for Big T. He was a fucking rock. He was leaving Push to run private detail for Brooklyn and me once we got settled in L.A. He had already set up the band with a handful of interviews for a new detail. Knowing that he would be there to protect her twenty-four seven crossed one thing off the mile-long checklist of Brooklyn detail that I had in my mind.

It took four days for her to regain her sight and another three before she was able to get out of the hospital bed. I was determined to bring the world to her. I loaded my iPod with a million songs, and we spent hours side-by-side listening to music. I read her the reviews of the last show, and we talked about the band. I knew her need to deflect from discussing the attack was an attempt to keep her sanity. I couldn’t blame her.

As the bruises on her face and body began to fade, it appeared so did the possibility of finding the son of a bitch who did this to her. The rape kit did not hit on the DNA with anyone in the police database, and although Brooklyn had skin and hair under her nails, there was still nothing that popped up. I wasn’t sure if not finding a match or finding one was worse.

Part of me wanted to know the name and stats of the motherfucker so I could pay him a visit. The anonymity of the attacker for Brooklyn was different. Not knowing for Brooklyn meant that she would be forever looking over her shoulder. Along with her healing, this would be another in a laundry list of items that we would have to figure out. Together. A conversation for when we were settled.

As much time as we had spent together, we hadn’t really talked about what was next. Brooklyn did not want to have
that conversation
with the hospital audience. You would think that by spending almost twenty-four seven with a person you would have time to figure shit out, but we really didn’t. To think about it, we hadn't put facts or figures to anything outside of the moment, the here and now that we existed in.

Walking into the private room that had been our home, the place where I had spent every night and day by her side, I noticed that the newest delivery of flowers had made it. Every day like clockwork, a dozen yellow roses were delivered to her room. The scent was incredible, and those flowers were so happy it was impossible not to look at them and smile. Or at least I hoped. I wanted her to see the beauty in the world around her and not get pulled into the darkness. I wanted her to be surrounded by how much I loved her. I wanted her to see what the future could be with me.

When she came into view, just seeing her sitting on the edge of the bed in jeans and a V-neck shirt, I was reminded exactly what I had to look forward to. Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and she was looking down at her hands. I approached her slowly, and when she lifted her face, I noticed the tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong, baby girl?” I asked with a sense of hesitation in wanting to hear the answer.

“I don’t think I can do this, Syn.” As a tear slid down her cheek, I wanted to touch her, comfort her, and assure her that everything was going to be fine. That we were going to be fine. But I knew all too well that she would have to find this journey of healing on her own. No matter how close I was to her physically, emotionally, I was in another hemisphere. I couldn't push this. Couldn't force her to see what she had. As much as we were headed down this road together, I knew she would only let me in when she was ready.

“I know you are set on me coming home with you. I want that. I really do. I’m just not sure I can be the Brooklyn you fell in love with. I’m not the same person. I’m not sure that I will ever be her again. I can’t see life through the same eyes. You deserve a woman who is whole, and I’m in pieces. Every time I think about you touching me, I physically get sick. I can feel my stomach doing somersaults, and it’s like I am back in that alley. Back with him.” She ran her hands down her thighs and spoke in a mere whisper. “How can you love me like this?” Pushing herself off the bed, she stood in front of me, arms crossed over her body. She was putting distance between us. Shielding herself from me. I knew she was hurting, but she needed to hear the truth. She needed to be assured that I was here for her no matter what that meant for us or how long it took for her to love me back. Seeing her doubt herself twisted at my heart and pissed me off at the same time. I knew my fighter was in there, and goddammit, I was getting her back.

“Brooklyn, you are the woman I love. Every piece of you. When I look at you, I see someone who has fought for me when I didn’t know I needed it. Fuck, when I didn’t deserve it. When I rejected every ounce of love you had, you were there making me believe in myself. You were the one that was my rock. The reason I kept going when I was so close to ending it. When I could see no another option. What stopped me and kept me going was you. I know you are questioning yourself. What your life will be. Fuck, babe, I do that every day of my life. Every time I got scared and heard the hate in Vince’s words, when I doubted myself, you made me believe in myself. It was you then, and it’s you now. It will always be you.”