Page 48 of Hollow Heart

Isaax was always insufferable, but two years into our four year run, the drugs, the alcohol, and the ever-present roller coaster of rockstar life had done a number on Issax.

I wasn’t an idiot, I knew just like everyone else did that he was headed for the gutter, but like everyone else in Issax’s circle, I looked the other way.

So did Lou.

But my reasons for looking the other way weren’t becauseHollow Pointewas raking in the money.

My reasons were much more personal.

I knew the moment Issax sobered up he’d forget about me, and Marci.

Forget about those hot, summer nights when the world was at our fingertips and we were fucking immortal.

And Marcilovedit. She loved him.

And maybe I did, too, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

Why ruin a good thing, right?

But every day I faced that truth, when I picked him up off floors covered in vomit, or pulled him from mattresses loitered with strung out, clammy bodies.

My memories slide back into those days like it was just yesterday.

Remembering the night we’d recordedLoose Canon. I’d performed on the track because Issax was passed out in the dressing room. That was the night Issax tried to commit suicide.

I blink furiously, trying to bury the painful memory.

Featuring me on the track was his idea. He said he didn’t feel good, and he looked like shit. But then again, Issaxalwayslooked like shit. He was always irritable, pissy, and going off at the drop of a hat. No one wanted to argue with him.

Except me.

I wanted to run after him, but Marci and Lou told me to let it go. To record the vocals, let Issax work off whatever he needed to, however he needed to. Maybe if he got his fix, he’d relax.

I watch as Felix grips his microphone stand, recognizing the deep bass and the chime-like sound of cymbals.

The beginning lyrics ofBlack Seain Felix’s live voice are deeper, richer like velvet.

Come on in, the water’s fine

Dark and tempting, it feels divine

I promise it’s fine, baby, come swim with me

Don’t leave me alone in the Black Sea.

His movements are short, sensual and his voice echoes with a depth, a pain that resonates on a deeper level.

I’d recorded my vocals, but something in my bones that night told me I needed to check on my bandmate.

So I did.

The doctors said if I hadn’t, he would have died.

I fight back the tears from the memories as I watch Felix’s fingers grip his microphone, his hair falling in his bright blue eyes.

He’s not Issax, Duncan.

In my brain, I know history isn’t repeating itself. After all, Isaax is still alive and well, and still sends me a fucking Christmas card every year.

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