Page 89 of Fractured Rhythm

Bash grinned. “Always was a weird habit. Never seen another drummer do that.”

“He was constantly fidgeting. Now I know it was the drugs. Some high he was coming off of. I wished I’d seen it for what it was back then. Or at least how severe it was.”

“Cas, you can’t do that. We all knew he had a problem. Every rehab stint he said he was better and wouldn’t go back. I wish I’d never believed him. Fuck. I should’ve been there that night.”

“If I can’t go down that road, neither can you. If you hadn’t been there, it probably would’ve happened another night,” I said, not wanting to think about why Bash hadn’t been there. He’d finally told me he was hooking up with some girl and bailed on my brother. I would’ve been fine with never knowing that bit.

“I know. It’s just so fucking hard,” he said, dropping his head and pressing his forehead against mine.

We each released a frustrated breath. There were so many things we missed or ignored. The blinders had been thick.

After an extended moment, we broke apart, and I continued looking through the box, pulling out a few t-shirts. Buried at the bottom was a bound book. It looked like a journal. I grabbed it, and my hand froze on the top cover.

“He always had that thing with him in the last few years. Never showed it to anyone,” Bash said.

“Really? I don’t remember him ever having a journal when we were younger,” I said, flipping it over in my hand, running my fingers along the edge. “We shouldn’t open it.” But my curiosity got the better of me and I cracked the front cover.

“Cas, we shouldn’t read this. You might not like what you find,” he warned, his hand covering the first page.

“Why? We all know how everything turned out. What secrets could he possibly have?” I asked.

“I’m pretty sure he started writing in it after his first rehab stint. Why would you want to read that?”

“You’re right,” I said, but I still flipped through the pages. Most were blocks of text. I skimmed over a passage where he talked about what would happen if he was gone. He wrote about how he didn’t know how to act without the drugs, and how he hated writing in the damn journal. He thought he was too smart to go too far.

But you weren’t. You fucking weren’t.

I sucked in a breath. I should bury this book back in the box and let my brother keep his thoughts to himself.

“Cas, please,” Bash said. The man could always read me perfectly.

“I just…” I started, flipping through more pages but not stopping to read. When I got toward the end of the journal, it wasn’t random musings—it was a song.

“Did he take up songwriting?” I asked.

“What? No. He always said that was up to me,” Bash said, holding his hand toward the book.

I read over the lyrics and choked out in pain, shutting the book and fighting tears.

Bash took my hands in his and pulled me into him. “What did you read? Fuck. I should’ve left that box in the back of my closet.”

“There are a few songs in there. The last one was about fighting to breathe. At least, that phrase was repeated a few times,” I said. The words he’d written were so raw. And it wasn’t complete. Lines were scratched out, notes written in the crease of the page.

“Cas, I hate that you are hurting. I hate that I had no idea he was writing songs. But, mostly, I hate that I missed this. Everything. Fuck.”

He released one of my hands to run his fingers through his hair in frustration, and I put my palm on his chest, trying to soothe him as he continually did with me.

“I was his best damn friend. And I let him down. I let you down. Right now, I want to read his lyrics and have a drink or four. There should be whiskey on the bus.”

“No. Read the song if you want, but don’t chase it with booze,” I said. It’d been a while since he had more than just a casual drink or two and I’d hoped he’d moved past his need for whiskey. “Please.”

“I won’t,” he said. “I mean, with the booze. But can I read the song?” he asked.

“Umm. Sure,” I said, opening the journal and thumbing through until I found the page. I handed the book to Bash and sat on the edge of his bed.

He sat next to me, his eyes focused on my brother’s words.

“This is good. Damn hard to read, and it makes me want to rage out, but the lyrics are good.”

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