To know you is to hate you.

Somehow, I knew this wasn’t dying. Dying would entail more peace, more bright lights and perhaps a sense of nirvana; this was nothing like that. All I can remember is the burning agony, not just in my left arm, but all through my body. Voices spoke frantically above me but their speech was remote and accompanied by the dense ringing in my ears.

I opened my eyes to an intense, white light. My vision was hazed and my eye lids felt heavy. A nurse was at my side, reaching up to a bag full of clear liquid and to the blood pack hanging beside it. She looked down at me and smiled.

Despite my perplexity and pain I weakly grinned back. She moved down to fiddle with the drip shoved into the crook of my elbow, I could feel a faint nip as the needle moved beneath my skin and then the faint trickle o warm liquid running down my fore arm. The young woman hummed softly to herself as she cleaned up the mess.

“Where’s Billie Joe?” I asked her. My voice sounded foreign; it was so rough and quiet.

“I’m sorry? Who?” She questioned, still that smile upon her face.

“I – I was brought in with him.”

She sighed gravely and for a moment I thought the worst.

“I only work here sir; I barely can remember faces never mind names.”

I was glad her expression was one of confusion rather than grief and I also found that I was rather glad that she hadn’t recognized us.

She apologized to me again and then shuffled from the room. However I was not left alone for long. Tre edged into the room, a paper cub in one hand and a magazine in the other.

“Hey buddy.” He said.

He had two butterfly strips across the bridge of his nose and one on his left cheek.

“Did Billie do that?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He sat down by my bed and handed the cup to me. In it was white coffee with, if I was correct, a hint of cinnamon, “I asked if you were allowed it and you are so…I bought you one. its decaf but I thought you might like one any way.”

I was more than a little pleased that the drummer had brought me this offering. I made to move and give him a brotherly hug but moving seemed to wake up the agony in my left shoulder and so I simply hissed and settled back into my pillows.

“How’s BJ?”

“He’s alright. You definitely came off worse. He’s got a bit of a black eye and a few cuts; but that’s it.”

“They aren’t keeping him are they?”

“Nah, no reason to. As far as they know Billie was just a little delusional and paranoid. They had a doctor come in and see him and we both just lied out our asses. I don’t think any of us want Billie admitted for this and as long as you don’t press charges the police won’t get involved.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. They have no reason to.” Tre sighed, “He’s feeling pretty bad though. He work up, I explained what happened and, God, man he just started bawlin.”

“Shit.” I took a sip of the coffee, my eyes were staring dead ahead at the white of the sheets and my mind lay primarily on Billie Joe, “What about the crew?”

“Billie Joe felt ill, we got back and found him chucking his guts up in the sink and he was delusional. Basically what we told the doctor. They may not believe us but it’s better to hold them off than tell them the truth. They know what BJ is like when he’s in a bad mood, so ill and delusional should be no problem for them to get their heads around.”

I nodded and continued to sip at my coffee. I knew, as well as Tre, that it was only a matter of time until the crew had to be told what the hell was going on.

“Tre, when we get to the next town, or whatever, I am taking him straight to the hospital to get this shit sorted out. Or at least get him on some sort of medication for it.”

“Yeah, and if he don’t go, I’ll fuckin drag him.” He took the empty cup from my shaking hand, “You outta get some rest. I think they’ll let you out tomorrow depending on how your vitals are.”

I lay back and started at the white of the ceiling only to discover it wasn’t white at all; but crème.

“I doubt I’ll sleep any, man.”

He threw the magazine onto my stomach. I picked it up and read the title. Ehrfürchtig Gitarre.

“It’s German?” I questioned.

“Hey, at least you won’t be bored.”

************************

Billie was seated in the back of the tour bus in an over sized hooded top and a winter hat. He chewed on his finger nails and watched out the window at the passing cars or at the arriving ambulances. It was dark; his face was illuminated only by the flashing lights out side and by the green emergency light above the door.

Tears coursed down his cheeks, his lower lip shook with the effort to conceal his cries and his body was shaking. What had he done? More over; why? How could he lose control like that in front of millions of people, only to go out back and stab his best friend? He wasn’t worried about his chucks of missing hair, he was upset but not worried, but at the moment he feared more for Mike.

Something burned inside his skull; like the beginning of a migraine or worse. His breath shook in time with that of his body and he bit down hard on his lip. There was a voice. It was harsh and violent, it hissed like a snake and it growled in the break between it’s words.

The man didn’t want to listen to the cruel whispers, he didn’t want to hear the insults and the name callings; he had heard it too often lately. Even before the attack he had been hearing it talking to him in the dark.

He wondered, in an attempted to ignore the voice, where the kinder of the two was. He spoke so nicely, with jazzy undertones and he reminded Billie Joe of himself as a child; minus the sexual innuendos. He had no idea who he was but he much preferred him to the demon.

The voice was coming through louder than before. Billie brought his knees up to his chin and grasped his hands over his head. He knew he looked like an escaped mental patient; but he didn’t much care. What else was he to do? He gently beat the sides of his skull with the heels of his palms and clenched his teeth together.

“Stop it.” He whispered, “Fucker. Get out of my head.”

It laughed and continued to wreak havoc on Billie’s mental state. The singer began to cry harder, his breath coming in sobs and his body trembling from head to foot. He heard the door of the bus opening and closing, then the urgent shuffling of feet.

Someone took him into their arms and held him tight against their chest. He only realized it was the beloved drummer when he heard the man start to speak.

“Come on buddy, calm down. It’s okay.”

And Billie Joe, despite his embarrassment at being caught like this, cried. He gripped onto the mans shirt and allowed himself to weep. Tre rubbed his back, his gentle movements making the older man feel safe and warm; but it couldn’t erase what he had done to his best friend.

“M-Mike must hate me.” he sobbed.

“No man, no way. He’s worried about you; we all are. But you gotta stay strong for us Billie Joe and we’ll help you get through this.”

“I gotta get this fixed.”

“Yeah, you will BJ. But for that to happen you have to take it easy and rest up.” The drummer sighed, “I hate to say it, but we have to go back home.”

Billie looked up at Tre and frowned.

“We can’t do that.”

“We have to BJ, your health is priority and I am sure that the fans will understand.”

The singer bit his lip. There really was no other option but to bale. Tre laid his chin upon the top of the Billie’s head and closed his eyes.

“What’s it gonna be?” he whispered.

Billie sighed.

“You can tell the crew to pull out of the gig. Contact Schneider and let him know we’re pulling out. I don’t think I’ll be facing anyone for a while so, can leave it up to you?”

Tre smiled weakly at the small man.

“Course Dude, you can count on me.”