Soulmates Never Die

She sat next to me, a cigarette hanging loosely from her fingertips. Her deep burgundy hair was long, messy and windblown. She looked calm, with a thousand yard stare that looked as if it continued past the point where the blue sky touched the water. As she took a drag, I couldn't help but notice how beautiful she was.

I chose not to break the peace. Instead, I stared off into the distance. Faint music drifted from her shitty transistor radio. Birds shouted at one another as they patrolled the beaches, looking for some sort of food to be washed up by the gently lapping waves. The air was heavy, and everything seemed oddly empty without the harsh sound of the ocean crashing down on itself.

Finally, I cleared my throat. She made no sign of recognition, but I knew she was listening. "So what made you call this time?"

She stirred then, flicking the ashes from the tip of her cancer stick. Carelessly, she shrugged and said, "I don't know. I haven't seen you in a while. Wanted to say hello. Catch up."

"Good enough for me," I shrugged as I leaned back against the mound of dirt behind us. We both knew that wasn't it. Whenever Amy - that was her name - called me, it was because she wanted to get away. Her life had never been perfect. She was raised by her single mother, a hippie who had thought she could carry out her 'free love' lifestyle after having a child by naming her first born daughter Amethyst. Much to her mother's dismay, Amy abhorred her mother's carefree attitude and adopted the more 'normal' nickname that everyone knew her by at the age of seven because she didn't like that she was different. The only thing similar about Amy and her mother was their use of drugs and sexual experimentation.

And that's why she would call me. Her mother never cared about her, and she wanted someone who would devote all their attention to her, even if that attention only lasted one night.

When I'd answer my phone, she would talk quickly and in a low voice, as if she were planning something illegal.

"Steve, I want to meet you."

"At the usual place?"

"Where else, dipshit?"

"Well, we could-"

"Look, Steve, I can't talk right now. Just be at the usual place in an hour."

And then she would abruptly disconnect. I always wondered why she felt the need to be so quiet when she called. I never cared to ask her. I assumed if she wanted me to know, she would have said something.

We would find ourselves sitting on the beach with our toes in the sand when those sixty minutes slipped by. I always went early in hopes that she would already be waiting there, and she always came late, as if she were testing my desire to see her. She never apologized. Rather, she would ask for a cigarette and tell me that I was too punctual.

I was never one to be vocal, and Amy had mentioned to me that she liked it better that way. She told me once when she was stoned that people were always talking to her, and she was always being reprimanded. Amy was quiet and mysterious, but she was also very open. I knew absolutely nothing about some aspects of her life, yet at the same time I was well versed in others. It was all a matter of what she opened up to me and whether or not she gave the indication for me to pry further.

"I've got something to show you," Amy finally murmured. I raised my eyebrows at her as she ground out her cigarette in the sand.

"And what would that be?" I asked before taking a drag from my own cancer stick.

She stared off in the distance as she replied, "I got a new tattoo."

"Of what?"

"It's fucking stupid," she muttered, turning her gaze the her knees. Her sudden changes raised my curiosity. She was never afraid to tell me anything if she felt strongly enough about it.

"It had to have meant something to you if you got a tattoo of it," I retorted honestly. I flicked my cigarette from my hand and retrieved another one from the near-empty pack.

She looked down at her wrists, which were adorned with bracelets, and appeared to be contemplating something. Finally, Amy stood up and took a place in front of me, blotting out the setting sun. She lifted her Joy Division shirt to reveal three simple words: 'soulmates never die.'

"It's beautiful," I said honestly, thinking about the significance of the words. As I did so, she jammed her hands in her pockets and turned away from me, looking embarrassed.

"No, it's stupid. I shouldn't have gotten it," she muttered, a blush creeping up on her cheeks.

"It's not stupid, Amy. I like it."

She looked back at me, a lopsided smile on her face. "Yeah?" Then she turned back away. "I heard your song on the radio the other day, and I bought the album. I wasn't expecting to hear that in the song, but I thought it was nice. I got the tattoo the next day."

"Hold still," I commanded her as I fished an old camera out of my bag. She turned away again, and I snapped a quick picture of her thin figure.

'Soulmates never die' had been our own personal motto for the past seven years. She had said them to me when we had known each other for about a year, after she finished a long spiel about mortality and it's relation to love. I'd liked the sound of it and echoed her as we watched the stars. After that, it had stuck to me like glue for the following years, and we had exchanged the words each of the countless following times we met. Finally, when my band, Placebo, had gone into the studio almost a year before, I had thrown out the words while we were looking for it. Brian, the singer, had latched onto the immediate charm in its syllables and turned it into a near-five minute song titled Sleeping With Ghosts.

"I like it," I repeated, smiling at her. She bit her lip to hide a smile of her own and sat down next to me once more. "So you heard the new album, hm?"

"It's not really new anymore, Steve. But, yeah. It's different, but I like it. Something new to listen to at the least," Amy shrugged. When we first met, she hadn't known who I was. To her, I was simply another person she happened to run into at a bar, not some big, British rock star who was touring with their second album. I was Steve, a nice guy who offered her a drink and wound up naked with her on the hood of her car in a deserted parking lot. I was a guy who she re-met when I came to the US for a small vacation and instantly reconnected with. And I liked it that way. She was no starfucker. She was just looking for someone to love her.

"What do you say about going back to the car? It's getting cold," I suggested, grinding another cigarette out in the sand. She nodded and picked up her radio and the emptying pack of cigarettes. Then, I helped her stand up and we headed back to her car. It was an impressive car at that; a '70 Plymouth Hemi-Cuda in Tor Red. I had been struck dumb the first night I'd seen it. I knew cars, and I knew that was the epitome of the American muscle car. Amy humbly admitted that she had bought it from a widow who didn't know how much it was worth and made the repairs it needed.

Amy climbed in the back of the car rather than the front seat, which was an invitation for me to join her. Gracelessly, I crawled in next to her and closed the door behind me. I added my bag to the growing pile of randomly dropped items on the front seat. The muted sound of the waves barely met our ears.

As Amy took a swig from a half-empty beer bottle, I couldn't help but watch her semi-graceful movements. Without thinking, I leaned back and informed her, "You're beautiful."

She snorted and handed me the bottle. "I'm not trying to be."

"You don't have to."

No sooner had the bottle touched my lips than Amy pried it out of my hands and climbed onto my lap. Her thin arms wrapped around my neck and she pressed her forehead against mine. Immediately, I was immersed in a veil of her auburn hair. Her hazel eyes searched mine intently, although I had no idea what she could be looking for.

Finally, she began planting a series of kisses on me; a few at the corner of my mouth, then gently on my cupid's bow, before finally settling on my awaiting lips. After a brief tease of a kiss, she pulled back and smiled.

"Why me?"

I was startled by her sudden question. I'd only heard Brian say those words before when he was worked up over his latest petty problem. Never before had I heard them come from the smiling lips of a woman who had just kissed me.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She brushed a stray hair behind her ear. "Why me, and not some other girl? You're a big, bad rock star, Mr. Hewitt. What made you pick some girl from a shitty family and a small town over all the other girls?" she clarified, looking amused.

"So, you're asking me why I'd choose a beautiful, kind woman like you over the coked-out starfucker?"

"I guess you could say that, yeah," Amy snickered. I reached up and took the hand that she was using to hold back her hair in my own.

"Amy, you're simply incredible. You're like a refuge for me. I can escape the monotony of touring when I'm here with you. You make me feel like a human being rather than a shell of anger placed on a pedestal for the world to scrutinize at their will," I responded seriously. I was never good at describing how I felt, and I hoped that was sufficient.

"I like that answer," she said, and then leaned down to kiss me again. As she did so, I forgot that I had intended to ask her why she'd questioned me. All of my thoughts had dissolved into the pure emotion of that kiss.

A mere seconds later, Amy was tugging off her clothes as best she could in the confined backseat of her car. It was a night like many of the others we had shared, where we wound up in a pile of sweaty limbs with our respective chests heaving as we tried to catch our breath. Curling up as best we could on the seats together, commenting on the quality of the sex, and murmuring something that could resemble a declaration of love, though our ears were ringing too loudly to hear it and our minds pushed it away, unprepared for the unavoidable storm it would bring. It was a moment that I always looked forward to, almost as much as the unifying act of lust itself.

As Amy slept on my chest, I ran my hands through her hair. Perhaps the next time I'd see her, I would ask her what she thought of a relationship. Always next time.

__________

I couldn't be sure how much time had passed since that meeting with Amy. Touring had efficiently taken the piss out of me once again, and the days of plane rides, bus rides, going from venue-to-venue, and playing gigs on an impressive lack of sleep in country after country aided in making the days blur into one, prolonged stretch of drug use and fighting. The patience of everyone in the band was wearing dangerously thin.

I sat on the couch on our tour bus, watching the dreary rain splatter on the windows and forming intricate patterns that I didn't care to observe. All I wanted was to get off the tour and return to America. I had spent these days building up a shaky sense of confidence in myself, although the ideas I had thought fantastic while under the influence became a little more implausible as sobriety shook them.

Amy was a no-frills kind of girl. She wasn't fond of the cliches that were made so popular by chick flicks and fairy tales. My best bet would likely be to simply ask her outright if she would be interested in pursuing a full time relationship.

I worried the end of my smoldering cigarette as I took another swig from the bottle of whiskey I held in my hand. I was exhausting myself just thinking about these petty romance problems. I returned to staring out the window. This time, not much of anything was running through my head.

The door to the back room flew open, slammed closed, and then repeated itself once again as Brian stormed out of the room with Stef in close pursuit. The fuming singer stopped in front of me, placing his hands on his hips.

"And just what the fuck are you so placid for?" he demanded. I glanced at his pursed-lip face and sighed inwardly.

"Don't drag Steve into this, Brian," Stef said, grabbing Brian's thin arm, which was immediately yanked from his grasp.

"I'm not dragging him into it. I'd just like to know how he can look so listless while this goddamned band is in shambles." Brian's voice was like a razor-sharp knife, and he stared at me expectantly. He turned to stare straight into my soul with his fiery eyes and prompted me. "Well, Steve? What has you so relaxed? Have you given in to your drugs again? Hm?"

Suddenly, I was furious at the small man and his condescending tone, but I tried to hold my tongue. "Am I not allowed to have some peace and quiet now, is that it? We've got to be at each other's throats every second?"

Brian's jaw dropped open and was nearly at a loss for words. "Fuck you, Steve."

"No thank you, sweetheart," I called after him, as he had already began heading for some other part of the small bus in a flurry of his own negativity.

"I'm so sorry, Steve. I don't know what's gotten into him lately," Stef apologized sheepishly. The tall man rubbed the back of his head, staring at the rain-touched window.

"Stefan, please. Don't apologize for his behavior. It isn't your fault," I muttered, taking another long, burning drink from the bottle.

"I just wish I could do more to stop it," he sighed, dropping his hands in front of them to wring them nervously. "I should probably go see if I can calm him down, then."

"You can't babysit him forever, you know," I informed Stef as he turned away from me. He laughed humorlessly.

"I only wish I could."

I chose not to say anything more and let Stef continue on his way. Not only did I not want to get involved in their arguments, but I hated watching the way Brian treated the taller man. It was blatantly obvious to everyone but the small singer himself that Stefan hopelessly adored him. It was upsetting, even for me, to watch him follow Brian around in the wake of his destruction, apologizing to everyone and desperately trying to help a man who refused to be anything but angry. Far too many nights had been spent trying to comfort Stefan when he came knocking at my door. No matter how hard I tried, I could never do anything to help. He would pour his heart out to me, but the only comfort he wanted was a bottle of liquor and something to help him ease the pain.

The sounds of Brian shouting became a twisted sort of background music as I resumed my gaze at the dreary European sky. The motions of the bus and the effects of the alcohol began to rock me into a dreamlike state, and I was glad to trade reality over for sleep.

__________

"Christ, Steve, answer your phone!"

I grimaced and swatted at the hand that was shaking me awake. My eyes focused quickly in the dim lighting, and I wasn't surprised to see that it was Brian with his hand gripping my shoulder.

"What?" I muttered as I sat up. I immediately regretted falling asleep on the couch. It felt as though each and every one of my muscles was rebelling against me.

"Your phone, Steve. Fucking answer it, would you? It's been ringing all night," he sighed. I was almost confused by the lack of sharpness in his voice. His quiet, almost sad tone reminded me of when I first met him, and he was nothing more than a college student that was struggling with his music career and battles with the bottle.

"Sorry, mate. I'll get it," I groaned. It hurt even more to stand, but I knew nobody would be very pleased with me in the morning if I didn't do something about it. After tottering over, I checked my missed calls. There was a surprising number of them: 29, all from Amy.

My heart faltered in my chest. Immediately, I dialed her number, and I could feel Brian's eyes on my back the entire time. It rang five times before someone answered.

"Hello?" It was a man's voice.

"Hi, um, I'm looking for Amy, er, Amethyst. Who is this?" I said, confused. Why would she have been calling me if a man was going to answer?"

"You wouldn't know me. I'm a nurse at a hospital in Maryland. Are you Steve Hewitt?"

I sighed in frustration. "Yes, I'm Steve. What's going on?"

"Amy is in the hospital, and she was asking for you in the ambulance," the nurse responded. I was at a loss for words for a few moments.

"What... what happened?" I forced the words out of my mouth. They were almost painful.

"I don't know how to tell you this, but..."

"Well, you could just say it, mate. That always seems to work."

He sighed into the phone. "Amy, she... she overdosed on Vicodin. We believe that it was intentional."

"Wh-what? Is she okay?" I gasped, but the doctor continued ahead, as if he had broken the floodgate that held back his words.

"We're doing the best we can for her. She, ah, passed away while we were in the ambulance. We've resuscitated her twice. We're in the process of pumping her stomach right now," the nurse responded.

"Will she be alright?" I asked, my voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

"Well, at this point in time, nothing is concrete-"

"I don't care if it's concrete or not. As of right now, do you think she's going to make it?" My voice was surprisingly calm, considering the circumstances.

"It doesn't look like she's gong to make it. She was very near irreparable when she was found. She'd been out of it for a while, and it was damn near all we could do to bring her back. We're doing what we can, but it's highly doubtful that she'll make it through the week. However, there's still a chance she could live. A very, very small one, but a chance nonetheless," the nurse replied. I sighed and gripped my hair.

"Thank you," I said, exhaling. "I can't come to see her at the moment. Would you call me if anything significant happens?"

"Absolutely."

"Thanks." With that, I hung up the phone and dropped it on the table. I leaned my head on the wall in front of me, and suddenly, I was overcome with emotion. Shouting the first expletive that came to my mind, I punched the wall. I let my fist linger there for a moment as I tried to regain some composure.

"Is everything alright?" Brian asked timidly. I glanced at him through the corner of my eye. Drying tears had cut their paths down his cheeks, and he looked as if he were unsure about what what was going on.

"No," I said, my voice breaking. I cleared my throat and continued. "She tried to kill herself, Brian. She's in the hospital, and she's going to die."

"Oh Steve," he whispered. The singer stood up and grabbed my hand, pulling me down onto the couch with him. He had no clue who I was talking about, but he still pulled me into a long, warm hug, stroking my hair gently. I didn't know why he had switched gears and was being so kind to me, but I wasn't going to question it.

"I want to be there, Brian. I need to make sure she's not alone," I whispered. "But she'll be gone by the time I get there."

Brian didn't say anything and just continued to hold me. I focused on breathing deeply, trying not to break down. The nurse had said that there was still a small chance she could live. I tried to think about that, but it really wasn't helping anything.

After several minutes, Brian spoke.

"Go to sleep, Steve. I'll wake you if anything happens."

That was all the incentive I needed.

__________

I was startled awake by the sound of my cell phone ringing. Brian had fallen asleep with his head on my chest. Stefan was there as well, reclining on the sofa next to Brian and I, his legs propped up on a stray chair. I gently pushed the singer off and grabbed my phone.

"Hello?" I answered breathlessly. Brian roused from his sleep and was immediately attentive, watching me.

"Is this Steve Hewitt?" It appeared to be the same man as before.

"Yes, it is. Is everything alright?"

The man faltered for words for a moment before finally saying, "Ah, no. We're calling in regards of Amethyst. She passed on a half and hour ago and is unable to be revived."

I clamped my hand over my mouth and tried to restrain the surprised sob that came out. I then removed it and gripped the table. My limbs had turned to jelly immediately after he had spoken.

"Is- is there anything else you can do for her?" I whispered.

"I'm afraid there isn't. We've done everything we can, but her body is rejecting all treatment. There's nothing else we can do."

I bit my lip, closed my eyes, and tried to breathe normally. "Okay. Okay. Thank you."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hewitt."

I ended the call and set the phone down. Stefan jumped up from the chair and grabbed onto me just before I collapsed into his arms. He was murmuring something to me, but my head was spinning so badly that I couldn't concentrate on his words. The taller man put me back on the couch and took my hand in his.

"Steve, is she alright?" Brian asked.

"She's dead, Bri."

Brian's jaw dropped when I spoke, and he pulled me into another hug. "I'm so sorry, Steve."

"I can't fucking believe it," I mumbled, and it was only then that I allowed myself to start to cry.

__________

As the days of touring dragged by, the ache in my chest became worse. Losing Amy before I could even have her ate away at me constantly. Brian and Stefan postponed their constant arguing for about a week and instead decided that they were going to focus on trying to make me feel better. I was grateful for that, although I didn't much show it. After that week ended, however, they stopped feeling bad for me and resumed feeling bad for themselves.

"Steve, we've got a show in an hour. You need to get off the bus and come to sound check," Brian said. I glanced at the small figure standing before me. I knew he was right, but I had no desire to stand up.

"Five minutes," I mumbled, lighting another cigarette between my lips.

"What?"

"Give me five minutes."

Brian stormed over to me, yanked the cigarette out of my mouth, and ground it out in the ashtray that was on the table next to me. His glaring eyes bored into my soul.

"Come the fuck on, Steve. I don't mean to sound like an insensitive prick, but you need to push this hurt away to some little place where you can reach it later, because, if you don't remember, we're on tour. We've got shows to play, interviews to go to, and things to do. I understand that you feel terrible right now, but you have to move on, because your performance affects not only Stef and I, but the thousands of people that come out to see us every night," Brian said angrily.

"It's not just something I can forget about, Brian!" I shouted. The singer took a step back in surprise, but my anger only seemed to fuel his fire.

"How long is going to take, then, Steve? A month? Years? We're a band, Steve. One faulty part, and the whole machine goes down," Brian spat.

"All this over me skipping sound check?" I asked with a humorless laugh.

"No, Steve. This is about you fucking up because you're drinking and taking pills. It's about you filling every bus and venue with your negativity. It's about dragging me and Stef down with you," Brian explained. He still stood in front of me, hands on his hips, looking down at me with his condescending eyes.

"Alright, then. I'm sorry for being a human being. Is there anything else you'd like to get off your chest?"

"Steve... I think I speak for everyone when I say you don't belong in this band anymore. After this tour is over, you are to pack all of your belongings and take the first flight to wherever you want to go. We'll publish an official statement that explains that you won't be returning to play with Placebo on the next album. We'll find a new drummer, and you can pursue whatever career you want, as long as it doesn't involve this band," Brian stated, deadpan. It took a moment for his words to sink in, but when they did, they hit me like a sack of bricks.

"What do you mean?! I've been in this band for years, Brian! You can't just get rid of me like that; I'm one corner of this triangle!" I exclaimed, exasperated.

"As a matter of fact, I can, and I am. You need to sort yourself out," he said as he turned away from me. He grabbed a cigarette of his own as he began to leave. "You've got five minutes to sort yourself out before we go to sound check."

__________

Knowing that my last show was just that made it a brutal experience. I would never be here again, with the two men I considered my best friends for years. It was a tough pill to swallow. I threw my drumsticks and water bottles into the crowd as I left the stage and hoped that Brian would change his mind.

My bags were already packed. All I had to do was retrieve them from the bus. Both Brian and Stefan were there, watching me as I left. Brian, emotionless; Stef, teary-eyed and apologetic. I sighed, said my goodbyes, passed out a few hugs, and made my way to the airport, where I had bought first-class tickets to the nearest flight to America. It was a long flight full of unsatisfying sleep, bad food, and my sad attempts to forget about everything.

I booked a hotel room near the beach that Amy and I used to go to and fell asleep there for nearly an entire day. I awoke, found a shitty coffee shop to eat at, and then went to the cemetery where they told me she was buried.

I nearly lost myself right then and there. Looking at her grave was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do. Below her name and the dates that depicted the short time she'd graced this world with her presence, 'Soulmates Never Die' was the epitaph that had been engraved in the stone. I sat down and cried as the sun slid down in the sky. Only when the light in the sky and the tears began to subside was I able to stand up and leave. Saying goodbye to that headstone was even harder than saying hello.

The last place I went that day was to the beach we had shared. As usual, nobody was there to bother me. In the small backpack I had carried with me was a bottle of gin, a pack of cigarettes, and a few of Amy's belongings that had been left for me. I hadn't gotten around to opening the box, and that was the first thing I did while there was still enough light to see its contents.

It was small; no bigger than a shoebox. Inside were quite a few pictures of the two of us over the years. It was interesting to see how the two of us had gone from a couple of fun loving kids to more sullen-faced adults. She had also given me her favorite t-shirt; the Joy Division one that I could remember pulling off of her on our last visit. And then, on the very bottom of the box, was a note addressed 'to a Mr. Steve Hewitt'.

I unfolded it, and, in the fading light, strained my eyes to read what she had written. The note was heartbreaking. Through sips of gin I relived her memories through her sloppy handwriting on the tear-stained page. From childhood to adulthood, she had never been granted security or stability. In the times when she had needed structure, she had only found rocky ground. She had been raped as a teenager and lived with the guilt of thinking it had been her own fault. Her fast rock n' roll cliche lifestyle hadn't helped her ease her pain, and it was only as an adult that she began to realize how much it hurt to know that she hadn't been granted the happy lifestyle that she thought so many of her peers had found. When she met me, she thought she had found 'the one', but was disappointed to find I was just another instability. A so-called rock star that toured the world for months, recorded albums for months, and lived across an entire ocean and in a separate country. But she had found that she'd fallen in love, and with the wrong man.

Here, she assured me that this was not my fault. I was simply another blip on the radar. What had finally set her off was the realization that she was growing older and had neglected to follow the necessary steps to a normal lifestyle. As a freelance journalist, she didn't have a steady job, she hadn't found a man to settle down with, didn't have kids, never bought anything bigger than an apartment, and had too many problems to be able to handle any of those things.

"But Steve, there are a few things that I want you to know," she had written. "I love you, and I think you love me, too. For as little as we got to see each other, you were the only person I could trust. Please don't let this interfere with your life. Go back to England, or wherever the hell you're living now, and enjoy yourself as best you can. And, remember, soulmates never die."

I rubbed the tears from my eyes, put everything back in the box, and lit myself a cigarette. And, as I stared out at the waves, I began to plan out what I was going to do.

First, I would go on vacation. Get this out of my system and make some new memories. I'd move back to England and buy myself a proper flat rather than the shithole I'd called my home for the past ten years. I'd look for a new band, maybe a new job. But most of all, I would never forget the girl who had so drastically changed my world, even after she had ended her life. Because soulmates never die.