The Way It Played Out

After two months of not hearing from anyone on tour, I gave up on them. They didn’t like me anymore. They didn’t want me around. They had Nova, now.
Looking around Mike’s apartment, I started tidying up all of my things, putting them into a cardboard box. I didn’t have much, so it all fit in a good-size cube. I thought about leaving a note, but none of the words seemed right to me.
I wound up tearing every try to shreds, rendering them completely illegible as I dropped the fragments into the garbage. Once I was satisfied everything that would remind anyone of me was gone- even the few pictures Mike had of me had been placed facedown on the surface they usually stood on- I was ready.
I took a deep breath, knowing no one would miss me. They had Nova. I wouldn’t even miss me.
I wouldn’t be around to miss me.
Not wanting to leave too much of a mess, I went and sat down in the bathtub with the ExactoKnife I used for some of my little artistic projects, and used it one more time to carve designs into my arm, all sorts of crisscrossing lines up, down, and across the inside of my left forearm.
I’d never seen such a brilliant red. It made me wish I’d captured that particular shades in one of my sketches, but then it started to fade to black.
Everything did.

I was somewhere safe, I knew that as soon as I became aware. I was awake, but I didn’t want to open my eyes because I knew I was safe. I just wanted to sleep.
But I was curious, too. Where was this unquestionably safe place, with the soft hum of voices and slight buzz of computers?
What was it like?
Then I realized I’d killed myself, or at least tried.
“I’m an idiot.” I sighed softly.
“Glad you agree.” Said a familiar, tense voice, and I opened my eyes, looking sadly at Pete. Joe, Patrick, and Andy were there, too.
A hospital. Of course.
“Sorry.” I said quietly, not looking at them.
My arm was wrapped in gauze, hiding the crisscrosses I’d made. I knew it was more grotesque than beautiful, but they shouldn’t hide my morbid attempt at carving. Art shouldn’t be suppressed.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. What were you thinking?” Pete asked.
“Two months. Nothing.” I replied softly. “Not even from Vicky. They don’t like me anymore. They’re my boys- my family- and they don’t want me anymore.” I met his eyes. “They don’t want me around.”
“That’s not true.” Joe told me. “Sometimes it’s hard to stay in touch during a tour. I’m sure they still like you. We like you.”
“Yeah. Don’t we count? We want you around.” Patrick put in.
Once I was released from the hospital, Pete drove me back to Mike’s place to get my stuff.
“You had this all planned out, didn’t you?” He asked softly, noticing the facedown pictures, the lack of evidence that I’d ever been there.
I didn’t answer, just picked up the box.
When Pete moved to take it, I just shook my head and held it tighter, not looking at him.
“No note?” He asked, as if hoping that made me a little unsure of my desire to die.
“Everything sounded wrong. I’m better with a pen than actual words.” I mumbled, and Pete stared at me sadly for a moment before leading me back to his car. He wanted to ‘keep an eye on me’- make sure I didn’t try it again.
The guys were fun, always knowing something to do or having something witty to say, but it was hard to laugh. Almost impossible just to smile.
As time passed, I got used to living with Pete and Hemingway, the sleepovers he’d drag me to with the guys. I knew they were trying to make me feel wanted, but I felt like they were just doing it so I wouldn’t die. I knew they were my friends, but deep down, I was questioning everything.
I was sketching outside, my back leaning against a tree when someone walked up to me.
“Whatchya drawing this time?” Asked a familiar voice, slightly hesitantly.
I glanced up in surprise. “Mike?” I blinked at him as he stood there, sheepish, his hands in his pockets.
He glanced up at me and gave me a tentative grin. “Hey.”
I closed my sketchbook, absentmindedly pulling the end of my long sleeve t into my palm, scrunching it up and holding it tightly in my fist as Mike sat down next to me.
“How was tour?” I asked quietly, watching the grass as if it were incredibly interesting.
“It was… lame, really.” Mike ran a hand through his dark hair and looked at me, and
I met his gaze for an instant, confused. He loved being on the road.
“Bill ditched us when we weren’t playing a show, and everything is so boring without you.” Mike sighed, then looked at me. “You don’t look too good, though. You holding up alright?”
“I’m still here, mostly.” I grinned crookedly, but there was no humor, no happiness in it. “Has Pete told you he’s keeping me?”
“Yeah, he did.” Mike gazed at me sadly. “Do you want to stay here? I missed you. I still miss you. All of us do.”
“I like it here.” I admitted slowly.
“I… Pete told me what happened, while we were gone.” Mike confessed quickly, looking down. “He told me what you did.”
I was a little surprised Pete had only told Mike, but I didn’t question it. Pete never made sense, even though he always seemed to have a plan that worked out in the end, some way or another.
“I’m sorry.” I said softly.
“No, I’m sorry.” Mike corrected, meeting my gaze. “I really am sorry. We all missed you like you wouldn’t believe, but we thought it was easier for you to forget about us while we were gone.”
“It’s ok. You were trying to make it easier for me.” I said, my voice quiet and slightly dreamy, like I wasn’t really there. That had become normal for me.
“It’s not ok. We made you swallow cyanide or something.” Mike retorted.
“Pete didn’t tell you what I did?” I asked, slightly surprised.
“I was afraid to ask. He was already yelling at me.” Mike replied sheepishly.
“Don’t tell.” I ordered childishly, then pushed up my sleeve, showing off the crisscrosses all over my arm. They’d scarred over by now, a bunch of thin lines running in all directions, almost like the feathering patterns I used to shade some sketches, to give it texture.
Mike winced, but took my hand. “I’m taking away your sharp stuff.”
“Pete already has everything locked up and hidden.” I tried to grin at him. I really did want to smile and be happy and be back to how I used to be, but I just didn’t feel like me.
“I’m glad he’s looking out for you, ‘cause I’m doing a really shitty job of being a stand-in brother.” Mike grinned ruefully at me. “I can’t screw up your hair anymore, it’s too long.”
I grinned at him, the closest to a real one I’d come in a long time. “Then maybe it’s time to cut it again.”
|| My old friends have been dropping like houseflies. The smoking gun still sits in my pocket and I know how to use it.||