The Sound of Their Presence

Chapter Six: Break Up and Make Up

Cheyenn's POV:

    After argueing with Shane about who would sleep where, I end up laying in his bed. I am sitting up with my back to the ornate headboard, my knees drawn to my chest. Shane is on the floor, across the extremely small room, in the same position as I am. We stare at each other, blankly.

    Partially to break the awkward silence, "Do you have an Ipod or radio, or anything like that?" I ask.

    "Yeah," he tosses me an Ipod. "Lilith said to give you this," and Shane tosses me a black, smooth Ipod touch.

    "Thanks. Any music on it?"

    "You can plug it into that laptop and use MP3 Rocket for the downloads. We don't pay for music." Shane then passes a white MacBook Pro to me. I pull up MP3 Rocket and transfer my new music onto Itunes before synching it all. 

     While music loads, I ask, "Why don't you call Lilith by 'mom' or something? She is your mother, isn't she?"

    "Yeah, but when she isn't around, I like to pretend she isn't."

     "Why?"

    Clearly, Shane grows aggrivated with my puzzlement and questioning. "Because! If you had lived with her all your life, you would hate her, too!" He looks down, realizing he was being too loud. We sit in silence awhile, after I shoot him a glare. 

    I log into Wattpad, an old habbit of mine whenever I have connection to the internet. Although I don't write publicly, I love some of the stories other people come up with, nearly as much as I love music. I read parts of new stories that look good while the music finishes downloading and transferring to the Ipod. Over an hour later, I plug in a blue pair of headphones from Shane's nightstand and turn up the music.

    After a few of Metallica's best guitar and bass solos, and listening to Adele belting out her greatest hits, I subconsiously began to hum. I only realize because Shane is nodding his head to the rythem of the song I am humming to. I had looked over to him, and the Ipod I was listening to was not loud enough for him to hear!

     I pull out an earbud, pausing Emilee Sande's Next To Me. 

     "What?"

     "Nothing."

     "Seriously, what?" I am quite curious about his thoughts as Shane tries to hide his smirk, but it only grows wider as my eyebrow rises higher.

    "You are just . . . You were humming."

   "Then I am so very sorry," I allow my voice to drip thickly with sarcasm. "I will stop if it makes his royal highness happy."

     "No, come off it! I just meant . . . You were good. God! You frustrate me . . ." He turns redder with each word.

    I think of the perfect song. I would have to alter some of the lyrics to show exactly what I meant, but he would get the gist of the original version, I suppose. TIme to work on my Christina Perri!

    "Try this on for size!," I shout, as he starts to get up and walk towards me. I lean down towards him, my face at the foot of the bed.

"No, I can't take one more step towards you

'Cause all that's waiting is regret

Don't you know I'm not your ghost anymore

You lost the love I loved the most

I learned to live half alive

And now you want me one more time

And who do you think you are?

Runnin' 'round leaving scars

Collecting your jar of hearts

And tearing love apart

You're gonna catch a cold

From the ice inside your soul

So don't come back for me

Who do you think you are?

I hear you're asking all around

If I am anywhere to be found

But I have grown too strong

To ever fall back in your arms

And I've learned to live half alive

And now you want me one more time

And who do you think you are?

Runnin' 'round leaving scars

Collecting your jar of hearts

And tearing love apart

You're gonna catch a cold

From the ice inside your soul

So don't come back for me

Who do you think you are?

And it took so long just to feel alright

Remember how to put back the light in my eyes

I wish I had missed-"

    " I apologized, didn't I?" Shane pulls at his hair in frustration, completely cutting off my song, which had been going quite well, honestly.

    "No! You didn't actually, Shane!"

     "Well I am sorry!" We sit in silence for a few minutes, before he removes his hands from his temple, continueing, "I really am sorry. I didn't mean to blow up at you . . . Twice. . . And shooting you . . . Also twice . . . I want us to get along, but you obviously hate me. I am trying, Cheyenne. I am really trying."

    I consider for a minute. He may have shot me, but he seems to be genuinely sorry. I doubt he was the one really wanting me dead. I owe him an apology for questioning him and being so hard on him, but I can't bring myself to admit it. Instead, I stick my hand in face, and ask, "Start fresh?"

     He shakes it, briskly, and we both lean back in our original seating arrangements.

    I do not sleep a wink that night, but before Shane falls asleep, he tells me, "You really are a good singer, by the way.