The Hush Society Presents..., Izzy Matias [cat reading book .TXT] 📗

Benji’s loud orchestra-like snore drives me mad. It’s only seven eighteen in the morning. I can usually fall right back asleep, even in the wake of Benji and Eric’s snores, but not today. Eric hasn’t come back since the kraken unleashed itself and wrecked havoc on everything in its path. Benji’s been asleep since I crept back inside our tent.

I probably only have two hours of sleep in me, but how could I get some shut-eye when everything I’ve worked for and the people that I care the most about could be forever lost?

The snoring stops. The sleeping bag crunches with motion. Benji is awake. I assume that much. I open my eyes and sit up.

He nods at me, but with a tight expression. "I’m off to grab some food." He doesn’t invite me to come along. Instead, he zips open the tent and the soft, golden glow of the sunrise peeks in.

"Okay," I say. I don’t know what else to say. Sorry isn’t enough to fix this. I don’t know if anything will ever be enough.

"Benji." I follow him outside, but he’s already by the gals’ tent, and I’m in no state of mind to deal with Cassie. I don’t even know what to say to my best mates, what more her.

Eric and a redhead gal are cozy by the dead campfire. Remnants of blackened charcoal and smoke are what are left of the beautiful fire. Eric narrows his eyes as soon as he spots me. He doesn’t say anything to me, but whispers in the gal’s ear. She giggles, nods her head and they stalk away.

I’ve never had both my mates angry with me at the same time. One of them was always the middle-man to the other to placate our fights.

Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover what I put them through. They risked their dreams and our friendship and for what? I’d just made sure that a future with The Hush Society was no longer possible. What a great mate I am.

Just when I think I have a hold of my life, it slips through.

They’ll probably go on with Ear for Music without me. It’s better that way, too. There’s no way I’m qualified to mentor young musicians. I’m nothing but a massive disappointment to my best mates, my Hush Society family and even to my own kin.

I’ve nowhere to go.

I can’t stay here, nor can I go home.

What do I do?

My stomach grumbles loud. I can’t remember the last time I ate. My hands go straight for my wallet. I count my money and realise that after I give the contribution necessary to fix our car, I’ll only have enough to buy me two meals, maybe three.

I approach Cassie’s tent to give her my share. Instead of waking her up or calling for her, I use an old flyer as a makeshift envelope, put the cash in, and scribble that it’s my contribution. I then open the zipper of the tent by a few inches—only enough to throw the makeshift envelope inside.

The sooner I leave, the better. It’s a complete waste to not finish the last day of Willowfields, but I know there will be no enjoyment in catching any of the bands anymore. I grab my bag and head to the nearest source of food. I decide that I should at least tell Benji I’m leaving.

As I walk towards the food stalls, I spot Benji walk back to camp. I meet him halfway. "I’m going back to Beverley," I tell him.

"Okay." He doesn’t look shocked. It’s as if he expected me to do this, but he does ask where I’m going to stay once I get there.

"I haven’t thought that far ahead," I say and shrug. The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll be accepted back home as much as I don’t know how I can fix what I’ve done to my mates—not just Benji and Eric, but everyone with us on tour.

"Take care, mate."

I give him a weak smile, nod, say goodbye, and walk away.

This is a first for me: abandoning Willowfields Music Festival on its last day. I walk the stretch of people, tents, and the long stretch of the field until I reach the bus stop. I pull out my wallet to pay for the bus to the train station. I don’t have much cash left. I pick the seat at the end where there are the least people and pull my hoodie on. At least my mobile and power bank wasn’t nicked, so I can still listen to my music on the ride to the station. I put off listening to URadio because it reminds me of my mates, my mistakes and my regrets. I choose heavier stuff—angsty, scream-filled verses—to soundtrack this miserable morning.

When we finally reach the station, we alight in single file. My stomach rumbles louder and a headache begins to form. I grab the cheapest breakfast I can find, which is a plain, crusty bagel, and head to the ticket counter to enquire the price of a one-way ticket to Beverley. I count the money I have left numerous times—as if counting it again will make what I have bigger, but the amount stays the same.

I check the balance left on an ATM. Even if I withdraw the last ten pounds there, it still isn’t enough for me to go back to Beverley.

My finger hovers over Mum’s number on my mobile.

But I can't do it. I can't even ring Mum. I don't want to hear the disappointment in her voice. What if she won't want me home either after everything I've done? I've been so selfish. I pocket my mobile and wander around the station without purpose. What if I asked for spare change? I am that desperate.

I spend a couple of minutes observing who best to approach. When I spot an old lady, I take a seat beside her and go for it. "Excuse me, madam, would you have any spare change?" The words sound foreign as