𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

31

A SHAKING COUGH RATTLED ME ALIVE, as though my hoarse body had let out one strong scream in defiance and had been allowed through. As though my hand had been held by some strange hand in the dark, pulling me back from the tethers of the unknown.

I held fast to that hand, and when my eyes opened and I struggled to breathe, exhaling in coughs with my throat burning, I realized in full clarity that I was still alive.

Trippie Redd's dressing room burned bright, yellow lights still sparkling overhead and brightening the room. I saw my reflection in the giant mirror on the dresser, a crumpled girl thrown against the wall—with her body askew, neck tilted, and hair a mess. My face looked unrecognizable—it was still mine, yes, but I felt an overwhelming sense of pathetic sympathy for the look in the eyes in the mirror. But I didn't want those eyes to be mine, didn't want this look to be mine, didn't want this form to be mine.

Slowly, I straightened myself. What had happened was clear in my mind. It hadn't rushed to me like a ton of bricks, the realization of Trippie's reaction hadn't hit me at all because I had woken up with it. I had passed out with that information and I had now woken up with it. 

I pulled myself to a sitting position, resting my back against the wall. My neck hurt from the angle it had rested in, and my back felt so stiff, but none of it compared to the burning pain emanating from my neck—to the fire in my throat.

How much time had gone by? How long had I been lying here? Closing my eyes, I tried to zone out the pain, freeing my senses to focus on everything else. I heard the music then, the dull beats echoing like thuds in the walls of this small room. I could feel the vibration in the wall my back was resting against, I could feel the beats forcing their way into my heart.

I couldn't recognize the song, I couldn't recognize who was behind the mic. The voice, perhaps known, felt as unfamiliar to me as the state I was in.

Get up, Davina, I told myself—yelling in inside. Get up. Get up. Pull yourself together. I winced as movement surged a shot of ache up my collar bone, to my neck and to my jaw. I could see faint marks on my skin in the mirror. I knew what they would look like up close, a net of his thick fingers. A clamp of Trippie Redd's entire hand trapping my entire self in one strong grip.

He hadn't killed me. I knew he couldn't. In all of his faults, Trippie Redd was no murderer. He could attempt it, but he could never go through with it. I fought a pathetic scoff, and even that hadn't been enough for me. I had went and fallen in love with a true murderer. Did I regret it? Breaking up with Trippie—no, but falling in love with Machine Gun Kelly? I will be persistent, because my heart will always belong to him, but that does not mean I won't ever stop regretting it. My regret will be constant, like an ever flowing river, it will always be.

Slowly, I got up. My legs felt shaky, hesitant. They wanted to keep me here, told me to stay and see what happens. I got up regardless and slowly made my way over to the mirror.

There were indeed dark finger imprints on the skin at my neck. They were embedded, sized to Trippie's fingers to precision. The marks had purpled at some points, and at others, they remained a dark red.

My mascara had run slightly, I could make out the tear streaks that had now dried up. Quickly, I ran my fingers under my eyes, and fixed my hair to bring it up front and attempt to hide the fruits of abuse.

The emanating music reminded me that Trippie might return any moment. He might come back to see if I was alive, or he might resort to his drinks and drugs and forget about me entirely.

After fixing myself, I hurried over outside, closing the door to the dressing room shut behind me. Backstage seemed sparse in midst of the show, only a few crew members hurried about, ignoring me entirely. I could hear the stage clearly now, I could hear both Colson and Trippie talking as the crowd cheered.