Isabel quietly held Brandon's hand as they approached the Hawks Well Theatre. He looked down at her, felt her stiffening by his side.
There, in a spare room, the auditions were being held for the music concert. It was an annual concert, kind of a platform for the local children. He had performed there in the past, so had Mark, Ben, and Kyle.
It was the last week of auditions. Isabel had made up her mind just in time.
"Are you okay?" he asked gently, squeezing her hand. She shook her head. He held her close, put an arm around her shoulders.
"We're there," he whispered encouragingly. "Myself and Mark. You aren't alone."
"I'll be alone in that room, though," she spoke in a small voice.
"We'll be right outside, watching you." He held her hand again, felt how cold it was even though she had the gloves on. "Will you be okay?"
He was not sure of it. Isabel had not sung in ages. She did not have anything to do with music anymore. All the tragedies in her life had suppressed her voice. Music required emotion. She no longer showed any of it.
It was only because of their insistence that she had finally agreed to sing.
"I'm afraid." She looked up at him. The black cardigan made her skin paler, the breeze blowing her hair all over the place. "I don't know anybody there."
"You don't have to. Just sing. That's all." He hugged her tight, stroked her upper arms through the wool. "You can do it."
"I'm not sure..." She bit her lip.
"I am. You'll do great." He tugged at her hand. "Come on. You're the first one today."
Brandon asked some people there when the auditions for the day would begin. They were asked to wait awhile. Mark had been hanging around with some friends, and came up to them. Brandon laughed with him, tried to get Isabel to relax. But she remained slumped in the seat, not looking up, not talking to anyone.
When she was called in, Brandon started to feel his own nerves. They hugged her, wished her the best, and saw her till the door. He wanted to be there with her inside, but he would not be allowed.
So he and Mark waited outside, watching through the small gap in the door.
Isabel walked in slowly, barely looking anywhere. The room was not unfamiliar to Brandon. He'd hung out there more times than he cared to count, auditioned there for many concerts and musicals. But to her, it was unfamiliar ground. Her body language screamed it aloud.
"So, Miss Standish, what are you singing for us today?" One of the three selectors, whose name Brandon just could not remember at the moment, asked her. Isabel looked up, glanced at the three strange people in turn.
"Amazing Grace," she replied, her gloved hands in fists by her side. Brandon shoved his hands inside his pockets, trying to warm them up.
"Okay, so are you ready?" The other selector, a woman, asked. She nodded rather reluctantly.
"Please begin," she was given the green signal by the three people in front of her. Isabel shifted uncomfortably on her feet, her body stiffening. Her scared eyes moved around the room, lips bitten, and fingers fidgeting uneasily.
"Please begin, Miss Standish." She was prodded again by the selectors. Brandon and Mark exchanged glances, watched Isabel start to tremble. His heart ached at the sight. She looked nothing like the classically trained mezzo-soprano that she was.
"Oh no. Brandy, she's a mess," Mark whispered to him. Brandon pressed his hand to his mouth, overcome with the urge to step inside and bring her out of the room. He'd just taken a step forward when Isabel turned and came running out, with the selectors calling after her.
"Izzi!" He and Mark called out in unison. "Wait! Izzi!"
They ran after her, but she was too fast. She was already out on the road, still running, when they saw her.
"Izzi!" Mark called out. Brandon held his arm.
"I'll take her home," he told him. "I'll handle her."
"Sure?" Mark chewed his lip, worried. Brandon nodded, beginning to run down the trail Isabel had just taken.
She had sat down on the steps of a house when Brandon finally caught up with her. He stopped to catch his breath, then slowly went over to her side.
"Hey." He put a hand on her knee. She did not look up. Brandon moved her hair back, lifted her face to see what he had not seen in months: tears.
His mouth fell open as he stared into her overflowing eyes, her lips quivering, hands trembling. When he held her in his arms, he felt her entire body shaking in his embrace. He did not know the right reaction. On the one hand, he was relieved to find her showing emotions again. But on the other, it broke his heart to see her cry.
He stroked her head, cradled her in his arms, tried to stop the trembling. Passersby looked at them, a few of them even stopped to ask if everything was alright. He managed to get her to her feet, then walked her home. Isabel only cried silently and trembled in his arms all the way.
Sneaking her in through the back door of his house, he took her to his room. Isabel was still shedding tears; months of suppressed emotions finally finding an outlet. She sat on his bed, trembling. Neither of them had spoken a word yet.
Brandon enfolded her again, marvelling at the way she almost melted against his body. He buried his face in her hair, smelled the fading shampoo. When she looked up, her face was drenched, her eyes red and puffy, lips still quivering.
"There was a concert in school," she spoke brokenly, her head low, eyes wide and scared. "I asked for £40, the participation fee." There was horror in her eyes when she tugged the sleeves of her cardigan to reveal a deep, reddish-black scar on her right arm. Brandon flinched, his breath catching.
"I got this that night," she murmured, her eyes dropping close, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. He crushed her to his chest, kissing her face, trying to comfort her. Isabel was open with him. But there were still parts of her she hid from everyone. And that included her body. She was particularly guarding of her upper body, where the nastiest scars hid. He'd seen most of her other scars— on her legs, her neck, parts of her face.
But every time he saw another scar, his horror only intensified. He wondered if no part of her body was unscathed.
"Don't..." He kissed the top of her head, his voice choking. "Don't remember those times, please."
"They don't leave me." She clutched his arms, lips trembling helplessly. "Every time I close my eyes, I can see their faces, feel the pain... I can still feel the wounds."
She looked down at the scar on her arm. "I can tell you the story behind each of these scars," she mumbled. Brandon shook his head.
"Please don't do this to yourself," he whispered.
"They did this to me!" She cried, pushing him away. "My parents! They did this to me. They ruined me. What was my fault?"
"Izzi—" He reached for her, but she pulled back.
"I don't want to live, can't you see?" She screeched, rising from the bed. "I have nothing to live for. I have no one. Nobody likes me. Everyone looks at me like I'm the one at fault. I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere."
Brandon rose from bed and pulled her close. She crumbled when he held her, her voice dropping.
"I'm not happy," she sobbed against his chest. "I don't want to live."
"Shh. Don't say that." He stroked her head, wondering if he should have locked the door of the room, in case she wanted to run again. But he realised he need not when she put her arms around him, weeping bitterly.
"They asked me for descriptions," she croaked. Brandon figured the 'they' here meant either the court or the police, or both. "What did they want me to describe? How I'd be seized by the hair and wrenched up in the air, kicked in the stomach, and thrown against the wall? How I'd curl up in a ball under the bed trying to protect myself, crying and begging to be left alone? How I had difficulty keeping clothes on because the wounds hurt everywhere? Or—"
