Page 141 of Down Beat

Kitty won’t talk to me.

Unanswered messages, and unanswered calls. Huh. Could be the name of a song.

I did the last two shows after she left in a goddamn zombie state, eyes glazed as I stared out over the heads of the people who paid good money to see us and flatly delivered the lines that fall from my tongue as easily as I draw my next breath.

I can’t remember half of the last concert, and not just because I was drunk enough that Kris said it was a miracle I stayed upright, but because my mind was entirely elsewhere.

My cards have been put on hold, my spending money reduced to a handful of bills that Rick meters out to me at the start of each day. It was Wallace’s great idea on how to ensure I don’t skip out and fly to see her again.

Because I would. If only to see her face one more time before I made sure there’s no way they could ever drag me back to this damn fucked up musical pageant.

The water runs hot over my hands as I stare at them in the basin. I zero in on the callouses on my palms, the thickened skin side of my fingers. My head aches while I try to drag up some feeling, some memory of who that guy was, the one who would bounce up to every goddamn show no matter how big or small with fucking stars in his eyes.

Toby once said in an interview that when you love what you do, then touring isn’t as stressful as people think it is. That as long as you keep that passion, that fire, then your work will never be a chore.

I can’t pinpoint where that changed—I just know it has.

I lost the passion.

My fire snuffed out a long time ago.

Now the guys drag my ashes from show to show, hoping if they huff and puff on me long enough that I’ll form some sort of presentable lie.

I can’t do this. I can’t live this lie any longer.

How the fuck do the legends survive doing this for twenty plus years? Simple. Most of them don’t.

My hands shake beneath the flow while my gaze slides along the counter. There must be something in here. There has to be a tool I can use, even if I have to improvise.

“You need help?” Toby quips from the door.

I turn my head his way, a lump in my goddamn throat as I look at the tired gaze of the one guy who has the least reason to still love me after all the shit I’ve put him through.

“I think I need a hell of a lot more than that.”

“Fuck, man.” He steps forward as my legs give out.

My wet hands drag the water down with me, the droplets running in rivers down the front of the cabinets and across my forearms, much the same as my own runs in rivers down my face.

“Hey.” Toby’s hands push under my arms, trying and failing to lift me off the floor.

It’s no use. “Don’t bother,” I tell him, my voice thick with resignation. “There’s nothing left to save, bro.”

“There’s always something left to save,” he snaps, jerking harder to make me stand. “Come on you useless fuck; don’t quit on me now.”

Why not? I already have.

“Em!”

I roll in Toby’s arms like a ragdoll as Emery appears at the door. Kris hovers behind, hands in pockets.

“We’re at that point,” Toby says to Em. “Get it.”

I can pick the sadness in his tone, the disgust that he’s allowing it to happen. He’s been against this since Em suggested it the last time I got this low. Only it’s never been this bad, has it?

Kris leans a shoulder to the doorframe while Em skips the room, appearing seconds later with a Corona in one hand, something I can’t see in the other.

He squats down next to me, Toby kneeling behind to keep me propped up.

“Here.” Em holds his hand out and offers the unconventional antidepressant. “Chuck it down ya, man.”

I take the pill and throw it back, chugging the beer until the bottle is dry.

I’ve got no idea what he gave me, only that it’s designed to keep me on my feet and fucking alive long enough to play this next show. After all, why ask questions when you honestly don’t give a fuck if it kills you?

Rock, meet bottom.

---