Sonata

Evelyn's POV

I think this is where we began, wasn't it? What better way to go back to the beginning that was really the end then to have it told from my point of view once again? I don't know how important my opinions, observations, etc. really are -after all, I was the daredevil's lover, so that should count for something.

Not to mention that he can't speak for himself.

I saw him die before my own eyes, and I could barely hold myself together to let it soak in before I wanted nothing more than for Tom to kill me with his bare hands somehow. I wished he had the guts and no brains to fulfill a command like that immediately, then he could kill himself if it was a desire. Life seriously didn't feel livable once Oli lost his pulse.

I needed all the alcohol in the world to shield me from this pain; all the pills to make my body sedated enough to feel like it wasn't even real, that this didn't just happen. It had to have been a bad dream -the worst fucking dream in the world- because there was no possible way I was awake. I must have been going insane; the insane fear of getting in trouble and going to jail was stressing me out to a level of delusions.

Yeah, that was it.

I disregarded Tom next to me.
I disregarded the smells of the bar.
I disregarded the corpse not too far away.
I disregarded the shock overtaking me.

This put my body in such a freeze that I refused to comprehend anything and everything. The whole night was only continuing painfully in my mind, but on the outside, I was still safe in my bed and Oli would probably soon come over with the same grin on his face that he always had when he saw me. A person will put themselves through a lot just to ignore what is happening; all it takes is the precise event to deliver you to the point of delirium where you create your own scenarios.

Unfortunately, to achieve this is better said than done.

The setting was too dynamic to look past, and my imagination was gutted after seeing such an atrocity. All that replayed over and over was the moment the glimmer from his eyes vanished, and his body went limp. The lack of lighting couldn't make it any less than what it was; a death had just taken place, and not only that, but I loved that man who's death had just taken place.

The world had lost a great value of a soul, all thanks to the ignorant town I called home. It was no longer a place for me, because they didn't accept who I was or who I spent my time with, they couldn't even accept something that made me feel so great: music. Wilcom was full of people who wanted their own, overly sterile territory with no room for diversity or gaining any knowledge. Close minded bastards, and I was related to one of them.

I snapped to get the bartender's attention, and as he glanced over at me, he gave a pointed look of concern. He obviously knew how much I had had to drink, and he was attempting to play the good guy and question my need for more intake of booze. He didn't try too hard though; he knew what I was going through and to get caught in the middle of a sudden fury I could ensue was getting stuck in a spider web laced with super glue on top of it that ensured you were truly fucked.

He filled up a shot with vodka, and I could already taste it on the buds that occupied my mouth. They watered with the burn they had been exposed to the whole night and ached for the slight relaxation that came soon after. That was my goal with drinking: alleviation. Wasn't that why anyone drank?
The boys were prime examples.

The poison was placed in front of my folded arms, and as I unraveled them to slink my fingers around the glass, Tom stared uneasily as I downed it fast. He was never too comfortable around alcohol, which was why he stayed at the merch table at shows not only because it was his job, but to steer clear of his intoxicated friends.

The only thing to loosen up his tight personality was cigarettes. Ever since the day I saw him light up his first one, it became an important addition to his life. He was close to smoking almost a pack a day in only 2 more weeks from when he visited that corner store on the way to my house. He became irritable very easily, and his fatigue and need to boost his nicotine level was always on the rise.

He was exactly the kind of person you didn't want getting into anything that could trap him, because it most certainly would. He wasn't strong-willed enough to lay off, and it rapidly turned into an addiction. I could only stand on the sidelines as I watched his life go down the drain, and it was very unfortunate.
I wondered if his parents knew about his dirty habit.

"Yeh jus' gonna drink yerself teh death?"
He asked bitterly.

I knew he didn't like it, hell, I didn't even like it, but as he was with his cigarettes was I with my vodka. I wouldn't criticize him for it as long as he butted out of my business, for everyone has a guilty pleasure that doesn't need to be justified. If it makes you feel good and you're not hurting anyone but yourself, then by all means, indulge. Tom better not have been trying to change me, because I could throw it right back and give him a list of improvements he could make in his life.

I simply shrugged my shoulders, not paying much attention to his paranoia, and pushed the shot glass back towards the bartender. I couldn't remember what number I was on, but it wasn't a low one. If I left tonight only to pass out a couple minutes later in a heap of garbage, then maybe when I woke up I wouldn't remember a damn thing.
I can dream.

"Go smoke Thomas, I don't have time for this petty bullshit. I just lost someone."

"Oi, so did I. Stop actin' like yer alone o' some'fing. 'e's my brub; I'm in deeper shite."

I rolled my eyes. I could feel the drinks getting to me, and I was becoming more and more bold with my actions and words. The last thing on my list was to get into a fight with Tom, but I could see it steadily approaching. Logic had almost eluded me, but before it did, I opted to shut my mouth and not let in one more drop of alcohol.

A smart decision on my part.

The bartender stole my glass gladly, and out of the corner of my eye, he seemed relieved to do so; maybe even thinking I hadn't caught him doing it and I would forget. At least he cared that much.
Tom and I scanned the room once again, and back to the front and center where the one person who connected us was, no matter how hard we tried to keep our sights away from the perimeter.

His clothes were torn; the vultures had swarmed around the corpse hungrily and picked what they wanted from him. A jumper sleeve. His shoes. Anything that could be ripped off by bare hands.
Everyone wanted a souvenir; a piece of their hero, and the political congregation walked off and left him there to allow it.

If you were in the back of the large room, you couldn't see shit; all the fans attacked greedily and the body disappeared rapidly in their desperate midsts. It took a little over five minutes before they were shooed off by the bartender who probably got tired of just babysitting me, then Tom and I rushed over to view the more extensive damage. I think I saw him reach for his pack of cancer sticks, but maybe not.

Oli looked like a minority of Ethiopia who died of starvation, but purple in the face and the rope that was around his neck completely gone; revealing deep excursions. He was so hard to look at while Tom and I had pulses and he didn't.

He was really dead.
Gone from the Earth.
His spirit either soaring to oblivion or Hell.

That's when I cried.

He was entering a different dimension on his own with no way to call him back, his eyes lost of tears and beginning to erode in his sockets. TV does no justice to the deceased, and most especially to an individual that was torn away from his physical being. I hope you never have to witness someone fighting for their life only to ultimately fail, and definitely not someone who has your heart, then it feels like the cruelest form of theft.

Hating him, however, didn't arrive too long after.

Why was he dumb enough to be so daring? Why couldn't he have been a coward like everyone else and still be alive? I would have never met him if that were the case, and I'd have only remained miserable. I couldn't despise him, in that respect; I could never. I owed him some of the best months of my life. I owed him my happiness and passion at the least; I could have killed myself by now if time permitted for longer suffering, but he and the band saved me.

You can scan through all the romance movies and claim that you have heard it before, and I won't try to argue, for my only defense is a peaceful surrender to conformity by saying it has happened for me too.

However, it was now taken too, ruthlessly.

Body fluid spewed from my tear ducts as I was mourning the deceased that was now able to sing his heart out forever and ever; an eternal resting that can't be dreamed of no matter what drugs you huff or inject. After the initial torture, he was let off easy from then on. I wish he grabbed my hand at the last second to take me with him.
Tom and I were left to pick up the destroyed particles of obliterated pieces.

I couldn't include the rest of the band, as much as I wanted to share the grief, neither of us had any idea of where the fuck they vanished to.

Hiding out somewhere around town?
Back to England?
The Bermuda Triangle?

They left behind no clues, and maybe in their case it was better off that way. I could shallowly understand the dilemma at hand: not any one of them wanted to hand next to Oli so they scattered like mice. It was baffling that Tom wasn't brought along though, and saddening. Out of all of them he was the most connected to the singer (literally by blood), and at much greater risk.

As if he wasn't vulnerable enough, though his face was dejected of any emotion, I knew better. His brother had just been taken from him to leave him utterly empty. His friends were out of sight, but never out of mind, and he was potentially wanted by authorities. All he had was his parents and myself, and I wasn't such a good bargain. He and I weren't as close as he or I were with the others.

I knew what it was like to have comrades escape your life though, and we could now share the loss of someone we dearly loved; I hoped that that would be enough. I needed someone to cope with me, and really, he was the only one that could. Through his non-verbal communication he would help me. He didn't need to say he was sorry for my loss because he shared the sorrow, we were both sorry for ourselves.

Like I had said, that was all I ever needed.

He leaned down next to me and stared at his brother with no love or hate or sadness in his eyes, only clear observation while his hand fell upon my shoulder. His delicate color of attitude had calmed down like mine had, and there was only affection between the two of us.

"'s alrigh' love, 's ova. Don' look a'im anymore."

"I don't get it Tom! Why was he so fucking dumb?! Why did he have to be the tough guy and get killed over something so stupid?! It's not fair!!"

His grip tightened, and I could feel it even shake a little at first, and once he talked again, the force only grew stronger.

"I...I dunno Eve. It wasn' stupid teh 'im, and Olleh does any'fing teh win. 'e went too, t-too far this time."

I felt a tear fall onto the cloth covering my shoulder; Tom was crying. We were so close to Oli and there we were mourning over his dead body in each other's equally dead arms. Sobs erupted from him, and he clutched me tighter towards his frame as a blanket to make him feel better. It wasn't awkward at all, and in fact, it was overwhelmingly comfortable and I didn't want it to end just yet.
Not for a while. At least until I could compose myself.

The smell of the blood was beginning to rise, and in my hysteria, I dry heaved right next to him. Why I hadn't vomited was a baffling mystery considering that I had so much of the sauce in my system, but I was grateful for small miracles like that. Tom patted my back as my bawling turned nasty in the form of snot dripping from my nose and my tears slipping into every crevice in my face.

It was my most vulnerable and ugliest state and I didn't ever want anyone to see it because it made me look weak, but Tom kept assisting me and I couldn't keep him away. Not to mention that my grief was enough to keep my insecurities astray for a while since my boyfriend was pale and lifeless right next to me.

"Breaks meh 'eart teh see this. Please stop."

His voice sounded so small, as though he had given up all hope and prayers for anything positive to come out of such a dark situation, and the only thing he was trying to achieve now is peace and a little stability. He didn't want to be alone standing next to his gruesome brother while his only friend now was weeping uncontrollably on the concrete floor by his side. Tom couldn't deal with things on his own to this degree, and he needed me to calm down so I could join him.

The only problem was that I couldn't deal with it, period.
Not too long ago was I trying to sweep it out of my own fucking mind, and now he practically wanted me to face and accept it with him, but I didn't want to. I just needed to cry forever and maybe that would be long enough to forget why I was shedding tears.
Forget what destroyed me.

Drinking + death = an emotional wreck.

The orange jumpsuit that clothed his body had loose threads hanging from the arms and by the waist from where the out-of-line fans had ripped it hard enough to get their own piece of memorable fabric; leaving his outfit in chunks as though he had just run through the Brazilian rain forest being chased by a black panther.

It gave me a chance to see his colorful body one more time before they put the body in a casket, and I could try to remember every single line and curve that made his tattoos.

I gently pulled up the remaining sleeve blanketing his right arm and first noticed the little blue ghost that babbled about love. It was one of his first ones that always managed to put a smile on my face. Soon it would match the shade of the rest of his skin, and that thought sent chills down my spine as I pulled the damaged sleeve over it once again. I then looked at his hand not much further down, spotting the "mum" inking, right next to the woman with the octopus head. That one was always curious to me, but he said that it reminded him of a book called The Creature From The Black Lagoon, and he liked it either way.

Then came the first half of his Drop Dead knuckle tattoo, and I held onto his hand; carefully then with a tight squeeze. I wasn't stupid enough to think that I could revive him with my touch, but holding on to him before I ultimately let him go seemed like a gesture that could fix some of the ruins of me. My eye released another drop and it landed on both of our clasped hands, or rather, my clinging paw to his limp one.

His other hand was resting gently over his torso, as though a true fan couldn't stand to see him all sprawled out and returned some of his dignity back to him by placing it there. I would shake that individual's hand if that really happened.

Tom fell to his knees next to me and reached for that other hand, the one that had "dad" pierced into the skin neighboring his thumb and the Grim Reaper not too much farther away. This was where the irony came into play: Oli was said to be so obsessed with the concepts of life and death (more on death's side), and here he was already called to the other side that he was fascinated with.
That's what his chest piece represented, along with the tattoos on each side of his neck.

I couldn't understand that -what was so intriguing about losing your breath infinitely and transcending to a different location? It was merely a process that would never be broken, and how someone can be infatuated with one aspect of that process, which happened to be the darkest corner, was concerning and maybe for him, fitting.

Oli was somewhat morbid like that, and that was definitely one of the characteristics of his personality that I fell for.
There was definitely a creepy side of himself.

"...huh?"

My eyes quickly focused on Tom who had whispered this, and I knew then that something was up. His brows were forced down by muscles as far as they could go, mouth pursed tightly, and actual pupils completely fixated on something that was hidden from me. I followed his sight, and he was staring intently at his brother's waistline. I must have been missing something, for I couldn't understand what was so baffling.

He then proceeded to run his fingers across Oli, so low and close to something private that I thought I was seeing things, but then it all came together. That spot that he was examining appeared rather bare, as though something was missing.

My eyes widened.
It couldn't be.

"Tom...I thought he had a tattoo there."

He blinked once, blinked twice.
He couldn't speak he was so lost.

"'e did. It was...it was the 'Reckless' one. I-I-I was wiff 'im when 'e got it..."

I moved in even closer to see again for myself. I scanned it back and forth and up and down over 5 times and my eyes were not deceiving me: it really wasn't there. I knew that Tom was telling the truth about the tattoo because I saw it for myself that night in the stairwell with Oli and he showed it to me.
It was real then, why not now?

I re-evaluated everything that has happened lately to try to make sense of what was going on. The last time I saw Oli he wasn't himself in the slightest; it was as if I was sitting next to an entirely different person. He wouldn't be affectionate with me, he kept to himself, and he got shit faced drunk the night he was arrested.

The Oli I knew would never sink that low no matter what was currently on his plate. He would stand his ground, but the guy in the van was so broken and so willing to be taken in by cops that it was almost like....

It was almost like he already knew it was going to happen.

Not only that, but none of the guys stopped him, and they didn't react like Tom or I did, or even Curtis. They must have known too.
Then there was Corey; an identical twin who would do absolutely anything for Oli even if it included death. He had the same tattoo as him and started forming the same accent, then he only wore long sleeves from that point on.

Oli wanted him to stick around.
He saw him as valuable.
Why couldn't I see it before.

Tom was going through the same thoughts I was, and we slowly looked over at one another with utterly disturbed and shocked expressions; mouths slightly opened and knowing each other's current conscious realizations:

This was Corey in front of us.
He died for Oli.

...what?