Glass Cutter

The surprise of Oliver’s confession had stung me like an angry bee on a beautiful spring day. Words and thoughts, any sort of response, had caught in my throat like a viscous honey mixture, and I couldn’t move. The clumps of paint on his face, shirt, and hair had begun to dry and crack; and at the moment of his monologue’s end, the most coherent process that had come to mind was how I’d wanted to take the towel from his tattooed hands and wipe him down—help him like he’d helped me.

“Say something,” he whispered, his eyes dropping from me. In his demeanor, he looked sort of like a lost puppy with its tail between its legs, and my chest literally ached at the realization that my silence was hurting him.

I never knew I could’ve had intimate feelings for Oliver Sykes—a sort of crush, like he’d explained—and the emotion left my mind nervous and uneasy, my spine cold, and my legs without feeling. I’d never had that passion for anyone, let alone him, and having my first experience be with him seemed almost unnatural.

Of course, though, it was only in Menlo’s world that this occurrence would be such a train-wreck phenomenon. It was only in Menlo’s world that this occurrence would even matter to anyone but us. The rest of the world had boys and girls falling for each other every second of every minute; but in Menlo’s world, Oliver Sykes was not meant to have a girl fall for him, and in Menlo’s world, Amanda Tate was certainly not meant to be that girl.

I didn’t care, though, at that moment. I couldn’t, really.

My bottom lip made its way between my teeth, and it was perhaps the first action I’d taken since his silence, the first sign I’d given that I was still alive and well. “I—” I began, choking; and without much contemplation, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his. It was just a peck, just a simple, small, and slight motion to try and tell him that I’d accepted his reasoning and that I mirrored the emotion and desire quite perfectly.

When I pulled away, his eyes were closed and his body still as a statue. His chest ceased a rising and falling pattern—I couldn’t have even been sure he was still breathing. I wondered if I’d taken his breath away the same as he’d done mine so many times before over the past month—or if it was something else, more harmful to my fragile nature.

“I’m not very good at explaining my feelings in words,” I murmured nervously, “because no one’s ever really asked me to before.” I began to ramble because his lack of life force made me worry that I’d changed something in him, that I’d maybe turned him off because of how I’d gone about my affection, that maybe I shouldn’t have been so eager to drop my guard.

“And I don’t know how to kiss,” my word vomit started, “but I thought you’d already know that ’cause I’ve never had a boyfriend—I’ve never even liked a guy really. I don’t like many people here, but I guess that was already obvious because I’ve already told you; and I’m sorry if it was bad to kiss you when I don’t know how to kiss. I thought it’d be okay because it was only a peck, and I understood your story as you liking me—I’m sorry if I was wrong.

“I can go home now, and I won’t tell anyone. We’ll just go back to normal, I’m sorry.” I prepared to stand up, felt the heat of rejection sting my eyes for the first time, and I cleared my throat to hide the emotional buildup in my voice. “We’ll go back to being friends. I’m sorry I misunderstood you—”

My anxiety was suddenly silenced with his lips. This kiss, though, was different than what I’d offered him. He held my face gently in his hands, and he maneuvered his lips to hug mine, more so intertwine and overlap than just touch. I could feel his breath against my cheek, and the pattern was ragged, almost as if he was struggling to get his supply of oxygen properly.

He wrapped one hand around my waist, keeping the other still close to my jawline, and pulled me onto his lap, his bent knees between my thighs. The emotions consumed me then, made my own breathing uneven and stressed, and my body felt like it was going to explode. A pressure built up in the pit of my stomach, a warm feeling between my legs, and my lungs burned with every breath of his bedroom paint’s volatile organic compounds, his menthol cigarettes, and his Old Spice deodorant.

I brought my arms around his neck to pull him tighter to me, to close the space between our bodies; and it was at that moment that I finally understood why Delilah could give herself up so easily to boys—because at that moment, every cell in my body wanted to rip the plastic sheet out from his bedroom, tear his clothes off just as well, and find myself giving him every single moral I’d ever possessed while on his enticing, tantalizing floor mattress.

He was the one to pull away from our needing fit of passion—because our lips had acted like they needed each other in those precious moments—and the emptiness of his touch almost made me lurch forward for more. He brought his hand back to my cheek, resting his forehead against mine, and with his eyes still closed and a small smile on his lips, he whispered, “For someone that’s never kissed before, you do it well.. Just never give anyone else a sample of that, or else they’ll try to take you from me even more than they want to now.”

I released a deep breath, finally gaining some sober control of myself, and pulled away from him. “No one else wants it, don’t worry;” and that was the truth. It wasn’t the first reference he’d made to guys wanting something to do with me, but it was the most obvious one, and I wanted him to know that just because he wanted me, it didn’t mean every other boy did.

He scoffed a little, laughing, and opened his eyes. “You’re crazy, Amanda. I promise you I’m not the only guy that tried getting to you through Delilah.”

My eyebrows furrowed at that. “What do you mean?”

He stood up and took my hand to help me do the same. “That new guy she’s fucking from Seattle is probably the only guy that wants to fuck just her and not do it to get to you. Trust me—you’ve never been in the guys’ locker room before.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You’re crazy, Oliver.”

He just chuckled and continued holding my hand as he led me back to his bedroom. “C’mon, let’s get this shit cleaned up.”


Just the next weekend, a complete seven days of Oliver being “mine” in a different fashion than I’d ever previously had the pleasure of, he informed me that he had a surprise, and he urged me to “dress nice.” When he’d concluded his attire for the evening, he’d made a grand entrance in a pair of dark blue jeans tighter than his usual, the black Vans Lo Pros he’d always wear, and a loose, white tank top underneath an unbuttoned red- and white-plaid flannel.

Despite how beautiful the sight of him was, it had left me confused about what he’d meant by “dress nice”—because while he was certainly flawless and severely attractive, his clothing choices hadn’t been exactly what I would’ve classified as “dressing nice”—and so the misunderstanding had left me to decide on a white blouse, black leggings, and the only pair of heels I owned, a set of light gray booties with a tall wedge heel and a line of silver studs running down the back seams. Even though I hadn’t been sure of the outfit’s qualification as “nice,” I felt comfortable in it. With every gaze Oliver had the habit of offering me, I just hoped my clothing choices sufficed for his intentions.

I walked back into my bedroom, where I’d left him, and cleared my throat to announce my return. When I first walked through the doorway, I found him laying on my twin size bed, staring up at the ceiling, and humming a song I didn’t recognize. I smiled at him as he looked over to me, and I felt myself blush from his obvious examination of my body.

He grinned back at me, slid closer to the wall, and patted the tiny, empty spot beside him. “I was just starting to get lonely.”

I smirked and sat down next to him, facing him and curling one leg beneath my other thigh. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I didn’t realize forty-five minutes was a long time for a girl to get ready.”

He chuckled and rested his hand on my thigh. “I did think it was gonna be a lot longer, so I’ll give you credit for that.” He stroked the fabric of my pants with his thumb and leaned over to kiss the hand I was balancing myself on.

The affection he’d begun showing me since his confession hadn’t yet ceased to leave me fundamentally ecstatic. I remembered when his voice alone would turn me on, and now I had his touch to do it—and the emotions he caused had a sort of novelty I didn’t think would ever be lost.

“Lay down,” he softly encouraged, still smiling.

I obeyed, and I wondered if he knew exactly what it was that he made me feel. I wondered if I made him feel the same.

He stroked my bangs away from my face and rested his hand atop the hollow of my waist. “Do you know what you do to me, Amanda?” he asked, growing serious. His cheeks even blushed a little, and the newfound coloration of his skin—one that I wasn’t too often fortunate enough to see—was nice to me. I welcomed it with an almost needy acceptance—because I needed to see that he really meant the words he was so good at saying.

“I have an idea,” I murmured, simpering back to him. I placed my palm against the corner of his jaw, towards the top of his neck, and savored the feeling of his heartbeat against my fingertips. I wondered how many people in the world really became so engulfed in one person to the point where such a simple action as an intake of breath or flutter of a heartbeat made butterflies run freely throughout their very own stomach incessantly and without ever any ease.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy before,” he whispered. “If you were anyone else, I’d be ashamed to admit that...but you’re just different.” He smiled, sighing, and rolled onto his back, taking his touch back to himself against my internal wishes. “Now I’m gonna go all pussy on you and start saying shit that probably doesn’t even mean anything to you.”

He cleared his throat, peered back at me, and went on; “It’s just that words are all I have, you know? I remember last week you said people never ask you to say how you feel, so you always just show it—but even though no one’s ever asked me to explain what goes on in my head, I’ve still always tried. I guess it’s pretty useless, but apparently my words seem to do more than my actions—ironically.”

I pursed my lips and scooted closer to him so that our bodies touched once more. “Well I like your words, and I like your actions, too...so just don’t go and make hurting me one of those actions, okay?”

He smirked and slid his arm beneath me to hold me into an embrace. “I won’t—and I know people say a lot of things, but I’m a man of my word. I promise that I won’t hurt you if you promise to do the same for me—deal?”

I nodded and kissed the corner of his jaw. “I promise, Oliver.”


Oliver’s surprise was somewhere in Bellingham. I didn’t know the area, but I knew that he’d taken route-5 out of Menlo, and the first turnoff was the city closest to our town. Bellingham was much like Seattle, but the lights were dimmer, the cars fewer, and the life taking place much quieter. We’d arrived in the city sometime around six PM, and contrary to Seattle’s ceaseless wake, the atmosphere seemed to be dying down along with its early October sunset.

He’d parked his truck outside a small brick building with a lit up sign that read The Underground Coffeehouse. As we both stepped out onto the asphalt, I noticed numerous characters standing outside the front doors, among them all kinds of stereotypes—goths and punks, scenesters, skaters, and even more feminine and dressed up girls. Also between them all, I was surprised to spot Jona and Lee standing with one of the fancier girls and a man I classified as the most stereotypical goth in existence—black lipstick, platform boots swallowed in large, silver buckles, bondage pants five sizes too big, and purple liberty spikes a foot long. It took me a moment to realize the girl beside him—making me feel perfectly insecure with her too short, too tight, black dress and too high red heels—was also at the party Oliver had taken me to. He’d introduced her to me as Rayne, and I could never forget that first spark of jealousy she’d ignited inside me.

Despite my immediate surprise, seeing so many different kinds of people standing outside that one small shop made me feel a sort of liberation from Menlo, one that I hadn’t felt even when Oliver had taken me to Seattle. The people at that rooftop party had been eccentric in their own way, but they all could’ve been categorized into Menlo’s mold with enough work, dedication, and will to actually do so. The people outside that shop, though, were eccentric in every way, not just their own, and even though I didn’t want to judge their books by the covers, I couldn’t help but do so just then. Even so, though, the judgments I’d placed at least weren’t critical. They were just acknowledgments of who those people so obviously strove to be. I appreciated it all, actually.

Oliver’s hand laced its fingers between mine, taking me off guard and making me jump a little, and he chuckled at my surprise. “I know these people are strange,” he began as we stepped onto the curb, “but they’re my friends, and they’re a part of who I am. I wanna show them to you. I feel like you’re the only outside person that would ever truly appreciate and accept them.”

I nodded and gave his hand a gentle, comforting squeeze. “Oliver, you’re kind of strange in your own way, and I still appreciate and accept you. Have some faith in me.”

He smirked, laughing again lightly. “Alright, Amanda, then brace yourself.”

“Hey, it’s the pretty lass again!” the man I remembered as being Lee exclaimed, his voice sort of roping us into the small group he stood with.

I felt myself blush, and Oliver merely laughed warmheartedly. “Back off, asshole—she’s mine.”

Lee held his hands up defensively in a joking way. “Nothing wrong with a man taking a look—even if it is a very long, detail-oriented look.”

The goth man among their circle snickered, his voice deep in the sound. “More like an undressing-her-as-we-speak look,” he added, the severity of his low octaves almost frightening.

I felt the embarrassment burn beneath my skin; but as Oliver took his hand away from me to light a cigarette of his own and join the nicotine-filled congregation, I realized that there was no need to be embarrassed by the compliments—or even frightened by the goth’s voice. They were just people having fun with someone they obviously liked—or at least didn’t mind—and my reactions only came from Menlo’s instillment of “proper” manners and “rude” behavior. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t judge Oliver Sykes the way the town’s upbringing had forced me to instinctively do, and I realized at that moment that I wanted to make the same promise for his friends.

“Well only I undress myself,” I retorted softly, finally finding the wit in me that I’d always wanted among their selection of smart comments and friendly ignominies.

“Wow!” Jona chimed with thick surprise. “I can’t believe Oli hasn’t gotten on that yet.”

Then the blushing returned, and the warmth coursed through me once more—only because there was no amount of wit that could’ve responded to that comment without naivety. Oliver had to be the one to deny the crude implications, and he—to my relief and comfort—was; “She’s not a piece of meat, dick,” he cracked. “I’ll give you that most of my stellar choices usually are, but keep in mind that I actually like this one, alright?”

“Well I guess that reaffirms Rayne’s status as a piece of meat,” Lee declared, and they all, minus Oliver, sniggered.

Rayne merely rolled her eyes, scoffing, and replied, “Well who’s to say I didn’t pick him ’cause of his meat? Maybe he didn’t make the decision himself, jackasses—ever think of that? Oli Sykes doesn’t rule the goddamn world, you know.”

Oliver’s face was redder than I’d ever seen before, and the feeling of jealousy ran through me once again—only this time, it was not unfounded like it had been before. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Oliver had made this Rayne girl one of his partners—she was stunning, no matter how badly I wanted to deny it—but most of me didn’t want to feel the sting of jealousy, rather than think it shouldn’t have been felt at all. Most of me realized that any normal person would’ve felt it; I just didn’t want to.

“Now, now, children,” the goth chimed in, “you’re embarrassing poor Oli in front of his date. Let’s let sleeping dogs lie, shall we? There’s obviously a reason why you two aren’t fucking anymore, so how ’bout we leave it at that? He’s not fucking Rayne anymore...and apparently neither Amanda—but let’s all leave it at that, shall we?”

A sweep of chuckles went through them, but Oliver and I apparently found no humor in it—and his hand never found mine again, either.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I declared quietly, feeling the anxiety trying to consume me. I didn’t want it to succeed then, but I was also confident that it would.

“Aw, we’re just fucking with you, Amanda,” Jona consoled cheerily. “We don’t mean any harm. Let sleeping dogs lie, as Jason said. We’re all just a couple of good friends bashing on each other for the laughs—nothing personal, sweetheart.”

“I know,” I quickly whispered, not actually knowing; and I made my way into The Underground Coffeehouse for the first time by myself.

I was taken aback to find a sort of lounging area at the entrance—a number of couches and coffee tables strewn about—and a stage at the back. There were five men on the stage, all a part of the dark scene and stereotype, and they seemed to be setting up instruments for a performance.

By that point, I was fairly sure Oliver’s surprise was taking me to a concert for music he enjoyed.

I quickly asked a man in a dark green polo where the bathrooms were and headed off in the direction he’d given me. The bathrooms were actually only a bathroom, and I was at least grateful for the knob that could clearly lock away the outside annoyances and humiliations.

Just as I was about to close the door, just as I was about to let the morbidly confused, overwhelmingly unwanted emotions run free, a foot clad in black Vans Lo Pros shoved its way into the decreasing crack of the doorframe, and a gentle force pushed the door open. Oliver quickly slipped his way into the tiny area, locked the doorknob, and slammed the door shut.

“I’ve fucked a lot of girls, Amanda,” he began without even taking a breath, “and you need to understand that for your own sake. That’s not hurting you because they were all before you. Someday I’ll explain everything, but right now, I just need you to not do this. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that I haven’t saved myself—you have no idea how much I wish I could’ve been like you or just even found you sooner—but none of that changes anything. This is exactly what I meant when I said that I was afraid I wasn’t good enough for you. Please don’t make that real now. Out of all times you could do that to me, please just don’t let it be now.”

The look on his face was heartbreaking, the way his perfect features seemed to be holding back tears so desperately. I’d never seen Oliver Sykes cry before—I’d never really even heard about such an event—and at that moment, a moment that seemed so close to metamorphosing from a fathom to a reality, I knew I didn’t want to. I didn’t ever want to, and it was also at that moment that I realized I really could never break my promise to him. He was such a fragile creature on the inside, I was coming to see, and when he told me that he’d explain himself some day, I believed that that explanation would actually come and be valid—and worth waiting for.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice almost nowhere to be found. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t good enough for me.” I wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my face into his chest. “The only reason why any of it bothers me is because I worry that I’m not good enough for you,” I added, my words muffled by the cloth of his shirt.

He brought his arms around me, embracing me tightly, and kissed the top of my head. “You have no idea, love. You really don’t.”

I let the silence take over, and I inhaled deep breaths of his scent to calm myself. I liked him, and I liked him a lot. It was scary, but it was a fear that I was actually excited to face—especially with him at my side.

“Don’t scare me like that ever again,” he finally said, pulling away just enough to look me in the eye. “I just got you, okay? You gotta give me at least a month before you tell me to go fuck myself.”

“I can’t tell you that just yet, Oliver,” I began, smiling at my coming comment. “I still need a ride home;” and we both snickered at that, immediately lightening the mood.

He gave me his lips for just a sweet moment, and all too soon he pulled away again. “C’mon,” he urged, keeping an arm around my shoulders as he went to unlock the door. “They’re waiting for us. We got people to entertain with our chastity.”

I laughed with him again, and I couldn’t help but smile at all the people that stared at our unlikely union. At their almost astonishment, I realized that while everyone in the world was constantly falling for someone and then someone else, it wasn’t everyday that a match like Oliver Sykes and Amanda Tate was made.


Oliver and I lounged around the venue for about an hour when a man with largely stretched earlobes I hadn’t previously met approached us. One band had played, and it was a surprise to me that I’d actually found their screaming vocals and low-tuned guitars attractive. I’d never really gotten much into the rock music scene before; and while I usually found radio singles like “Too Close” by Alex Clare, “TGIF” by Katy Perry, and “Give Your Heart A Break” by Demi Lovato appealing, I surprised myself to find the band whose music was so opposite than what I’d previously dubbed as my taste to actually be talented.

“You ready?” the man greeted, grinning and giving Oliver’s arm a friendly punch. “They got the crowd so pumped, it’s insane.”

Oliver nodded and pursed his lips. “Johnny’s voice is starting to go, though. Maybe someone should tell him to stop screaming out.” The line of his lips turned to a smirk.

Oliver’s friend chuckled and quickly turned his attention to me. “Sorry for my manners, doll,” he said. “I’m Matt. I don’t believe I ever had the honor of meeting Oli’s lovely bird this time around.” He held his hand out, a grin on his face, and I shook it politely.

“Well I don’t believe I’ve ever had the honor of seeing ears stretched to an inch up close and in person,” I replied, smirking playfully. I didn’t know why Oliver’s friends were so forward and incessant with making inferences to my so-called beauty, but I was grateful to at least be gaining some speed in replacing my verbiage with compliments from the snarky comebacks department.

Matt snickered. “I like this girl,” he decided aloud. “She’s sassy.”

Oliver smiled and gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I think she’s starting to get used to you twats, at least.”

“Yeah, well, let’s hope she doesn’t advance in becoming one of us twats from hanging around you too long. You are one of us, after all.” Matt grinned innocently.

“Dick,” Oliver mumbled, quickly flicking his foot into Matt’s shin.

“I only learn from the best, Oli—probably been hanging around you too long.”

I smiled at the boys’ banter and continued peering around the venue’s participants. Oliver had led me to one of the loveseats towards the back, but despite this, many of the room’s audiences continued to study us as if we were the very martians that conspiracies claimed to have altered 1947 Roswell forever. The looks were fun to me, though, because I was proud to be in the company of the boy that was clearly the cause of it. I’d never had such interest beheld to me before; it was invigorating.

The performing band’s drummer pulled his last piece off the stage, his bass drum, when Matt tugged on Oliver’s arm and said, “C’mon, loverboy. Let’s get going before the guys tear us apart for never helping—because, you know, we apparently never help.” Sarcasm was clear in his voice.

Oliver chuckled and stood up, leaving the place around my shoulders where his arm had been cold. “Wait here,” he said, “and when the band starts playing, then go up front by the stage, okay?”

I nodded. “Where are you going, though?”

He grinned and gently tapped my thigh. “Just helping out some friends.”

He leaned downward and kissed my lips tenderly, only momentarily locking them the way he’d occasionally do in my fantastic favor; and all too soon, like I’d felt so many times before, he stopped and pulled away. Without another word, he was heading outside the venue entrance with Matt at his side.

For the time that he’d been gone, I couldn’t stop glancing at my phone. With each click of the volume button on the side of it and each light-up of its tiny front screen, the round, blue numbers telling the time would only change forward by a minute or two—meanwhile every sixty-second interval felt like an eternity. Only six lonely minutes had passed when new company found me and Rayne was taking the seat next to me that Oliver had been in before.

She had an alcoholic drink in her hand—I could smell the liquor even above the venue’s overall mixed stench of sweat and cigarettes. She smiled at me as she got herself situated comfortably and pulled down her dress to cover at least some of her thighs. “No reason why two lovely ladies should be alone, aye?” she greeted, taking a quick sip from her drink.

I nodded and held my breath. I hadn’t been particularly fond of the girl from the moment I’d met her weeks before, but if her intentions of accompanying me were altruistic—truly for the purpose that people should never be alone—then I had to give her some credit, even if I didn’t want to. I had to remind myself that her past with Oliver was referred to as their past for a reason.

“He treats you well, doesn’t he?” she asked, suddenly breaking the inevitable silence that was bound to come.

“Yes,” I answered, “very.” The thought of how he’d been a decent friend since the beginning of our school year together made me smile. Even the few starting mishaps of his tendency to invade my personal space made me feel happiness down to every neuron. I couldn’t help but mentally laugh at myself for my original chastisement.

“I’m sorry about earlier—when they were all bringing up our past and I mentioned his dick,” she went on. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

I simpered at what I felt was her sincerity. I’d been used to false apologies from the girl I still called my best friend; and despite how it was a poor excuse of a friendship, a positive that had come of it was my ability to detect such lies in everyone else. Rayne’s apology—and ultimate truce, in a way—had been rendered sincere by my radar.

“It’s okay,” I replied. “He dated my best friend, so I’m pretty used to hearing all about it.” It still felt weird to refer to Delilah as my best friend, knowing what she’d done to sabotage Oliver’s feelings for me.

“I kind of feel like I’m missing out, if anything,” I added, offering her a chuckle to let her know that peace had been made and hard feelings left behind. Even my jealousy had dimmed to a tiny spark only waiting for another, different opponent to attack.

She smiled, but the expression seemed forced. “No, you’re not. I’ve known him for a while, seen all the pretty, little girls he totes around, watched him fuck them up, and then let him do the same to me. He’s not doing that to you. We’re the ones missing out, trust me.”

I frowned because my understandings of human behaviorism left me with the unfavorable knowledge that Rayne had been one of the considerably many heartbroken by Oliver Sykes—but she hadn’t yet gotten over it.

“He wasn’t just a hookup to you, was he?” My voice did the talking, but the part of me that did the thinking didn’t actually want to know the answer.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess he kind of has to be now, right?”

Yes because he’s mine, I wanted to say; but instead, I just remained silent and waited for her to go on—because I was fairly sure she would.

“I mean, Jason’s good,” she adhered to my assumptions, “but he’s just not Oli...I guess you’d have to know my past to fully get why Oli meant so much in it. Who cares, though, really?” She forced a laugh, and the sound was about as fake as a career prostitute’s lack of STD’s and as sad as a Third World country’s form of hoarding. It was one of the very few sounds that made me truly cringe and raised the hairs on my arms.

“Well you do,” I offered, “so it must matter.”

She nodded and looked away from me. “Amanda, I’ve never wanted to hate someone before. It’s always just come naturally; but you—I wish I could hate you and tell myself that Oli’s wasting his time with you, but I physically can’t. Just seeing you, and hearing you speak, and watching you—we’re a different kind of people, hun, and you’re wasting your time with us.

“You’re this innocent little thing, and you truly are a good person, and I wanna hate you for that so badly—just to make myself feel a little better about who he’s left me for. I can’t even explain how badly I wish you were a tramp like me and your little friend. Oli’s trying to turn his shit around, and you’re exactly what he needs—and even more so, what he wants. He doesn’t want me; he doesn’t want your friend. He wants you, and that hurts more than anything—to know that you aren’t a waste of his time...to know that you are good for him and what he deserves.”

She sucked down about half of her drink before continuing, and I didn’t even have a chance to discover a formal assertation in my brain; “Anyway, I didn’t come over here to give you a stupid sob story. I certainly don’t give a shit about my past, so Oli’s part in it shouldn’t matter. I just came over here ’cause Jason’s in the bathroom.”

I remained silent after her speech ended because I hoped to find words fit for a response. I didn’t know how she could’ve dubbed me such a good person—despite that I liked to think I was—because she didn’t know me. Had Oliver not introduced us at his friends’ party a few weeks prior, she wouldn’t have known me apart from every other girl with auburn hair and an awkward mannerism, so how was I such a good person to her that it made her voice cloud with tears?

“We should be friends,” I finally said. I hadn’t put much thought into my declaration, but Oliver’s friends didn’t seem to put any into theirs; and so the rare occasion that I’d actually approve of something I’d say even after saying it sustained.

She chuckled—sincerely, this time—and took another sip from her drink. “Amanda, you wouldn’t wanna be friends with me...but I guess we can still be anyway.” She smiled at me, and for the first time, it was a mostly sober, very real expression.

The room’s lights dimmed then, and the audience suddenly began to cheer.

“Go up front,” she urged, nudging my knee with hers. “Your surprise awaits you.”

I furrowed my eyebrows at her in confusion but listened anyway. Eyes followed me still, even without Oliver’s presence at my side, and the question of what exactly his surprise was still left me baffled. I’d thought taking me to the show was the surprise in itself, but apparently everyone except me had been aware that it wasn’t.

Just as I reached the stage, Oliver and the four of his friends I knew made their way onto it, and the people’s applause grew even louder with their entrance.

“What the fuck is up, Bellingham?” Oliver shouted into the microphone. He held his hand to his ear as if to say he couldn’t hear anything, and the appraisal raised still a few notches higher—and I became just a little more confused.

Lee and Jona both strapped guitars over their shoulders; Matt sat down at the drum set; Vegan settled a bass upon his own comfortable grip; and within just moments, a heavy breakdown poured through the speakers, and the the four of them, minus Matt, jumped energetically—even almost violently—all around the stage.

“Jump, jump, jump!” Oliver screamed. “Get the fuck up and fucking scream!”

People began gathering from the sofas and chairs to congregate before the center of the stage. They started to push one another, jumping just as Oliver had asked, and it was Oliver’s very own hand that pulled me to the side of the stage, away from all the growing madness...and I suddenly understood what his surprise was.

Oliver Sykes was in his very own band.

“Who here’s got something to say and feels like this whole world just doesn’t give a fuck?” he went on yelling, jumping away from me. “Who here’s got someone they really give a shit about and wanna show them the way to Heaven—our fucking Heaven?” The insanity only grew with the rising volume and intensity of his questions.

“Well, motherfuckers,” he shouted, and his words suddenly picked up a rhythm to match what the other four members created; “this is a call to arms, so grab your guns and get your horses. Only the dead will see the end of this fight. This is a call to arms, so all you fallen soldiers sing with me—death or glory!”

The verses and choruses stung my body as they screeched through the amplifiers, and every vibration seemed to loosen a part of me just a little bit more. I smiled at Oliver’s enthusiasm. I grinned at the audience’s excitement. For the first time, I felt like a part of something. I felt liberated from Menlo’s shackles and absorbed by another, better cause. The stuffy atmosphere of the venue, everyone’s sweat suffocating the air—it all made me feel important, like the venue would be just a little less crowded if I wasn’t there. It was a feeling nothing had ever given me before.

My arms raised themselves over my head, and I closed my eyes to let every note consume me whole. Oliver’s voice, the sound of his meticulous and well calculated screams—it was mine in that moment, and it was then that I truly felt alive.

By the end of the song, as if I was a third party watching myself, I even felt my body scream with Oliver the last repeated line of his song; “Bring out your dead!” and it was because every skeleton that he talked about in the music, every skeleton that I hid, was accepted by these people, just as I was coming to accept every one of theirs.