I Wanna Be Somebody

As soon as my purple camouflaged ESP was tuned and plugged in, I was hammering out the main riff to Metallica’s “Blackened” and like a true champ, Avaa joined me on the drums hardly ten seconds of playing by myself. I’d like to say I primarily grew up on classics like Metallica, Megadeth, and Iron Maiden because those were my “adoptive dad’s” choices.

But, as the Guns N Roses shirt I was wearing that day proclaimed, I also had an unhealthy obsession with classic hard rock. The Who, AC/DC, Def Leppard, Aerosmith, Kansas, Heart...my list went on and on when it came to my base inspirations. However, Guns N Roses were always that gateway band that held a special place in my cold, dead heart.

I’d stopped my guitar dead and began picking out a higher-tempoed song, speeding it up more than it usually was. An annoyed growl came from behind me and I spun around to grin at Avaa while I strummed out the main riff to “Paradise City”. The song’s title was tattooed on the inside of my left bicep, my first time getting inked and a stupid mistake. But I was an obsessive teenager and at the age of seventeen, it sounded like a cool idea.

Avaa continued to glare at me, wearing the “Save a drum, bang a drummer” shirt I’d gotten him for Christmas one year. “What?” I demanded as I continued to play. “Don’t be a music elitist.”

Avaa refused he was such a thing and went to play his own musical choice, our song “Hypodermic Needle”.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Isaac step onstage with his black Jackson Kelly around his neck. I muttered under my breath and moved to the opposite end of the stage as discretely as possible. The look on his face signaled he wanted to talk, most likely about last night and this morning.

“You going to keep avoiding me?” Oh, shit. Isaac was calling me out immediately.

“I’m not avoiding you,” I lied, trying to keep up the riff’s rhythm.

“That’s bullshit,” said Isaac, crossing his arms. “You’re all over me last night, you promised me you wouldn’t shut me out, and you are. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, keeping my eyes on the neck of my ESP. I knew this was going to happen, after what I remembered from last night.

When I was drunk, I could love on my boyfriend and be the life of a party. When sober, it was a completely different, depressing story. Physical contact made me cringe, as did wearing my heart on my sleeve. Sometimes I wonder how Isaac even kept dating me. I loved him, but an invisible wall made it nearly impossible to show. Sometimes, things would be okay, but when my brain revolted--usually from environmental situations--it was nearly impossible to get anything out of me, verbal or physical. Now, was a perfect example.

Only a month ago, I had to sit behind my younger brother, Jack, in a courtroom and listen as the judge sentenced him to ten years without chance of parole while my egoistic father sat in the prosecutor's seat, smug face busted to pieces by his son’s fist.

Only two days before I flew to the Netherlands to prepare for tour, I had to hug my brother goodbye as he stood in shackles with wardens watched us like hawks, as if my brother would attack me too. Even though he was now a prisoner, Jack didn’t want to let me out of his sight until he knew our father couldn’t touch me. My brother, my oldest friend, was now labeled criminally insane and rotting away in a jail cell while I had to keep myself together on two month long world tour.

Would I tell Isaac of that? Absolutely not. Isaac knew nothing of me pre-collegiate years and I wanted nothing more to keep it that way. My life before I attended University of Amsterdam--and met Jessii--was filled with humiliation, helplessness, and terror that was to never be revisited. I took such precautions that not even my own band members--apart from Jess--knew what lay in a tiny little box in the darkest corners of my mind.

“River, you know you can tell me,” Isaac tried again. Bless his soul. He could read me, he knew when I was troubled, and this was why I never stayed in close relationships for long. You were expected to open up to your significant other about night terrors and old wounds. They would figure out what made you tick, but not why, and that would become frustrating when they refused to share the broken pieces that tainted your soul.

“Actually, I can’t tell you,” I said, ceasing my playing to look at him. “I’m not going to tell you so just drop it.”

“You promised me last night-”

“I was drunk, Isaac.”

“So that’s what your relationship is going to rely on? You plastered and leaving me empty promises.”

“Just don’t believe any of the shit I say when I’m drunk,” I said.

“So when you told me you loved me last night, I’m not supposed to believe that either.”

Well, shit. “I’m just going through some personal things right now.” Trying to dodge a very dangerous bullet. “I’m dealing with it.”

“Alone, though,” Isaac continued, stepping closer. Sincerity radiating in those beautiful browns. “River, that’s why I’m here. I want to help you through whatever it is that you’re going through. As your boyfriend, its part of-”

“No, its not,” I snapped. “I don’t want you getting involved-”

“Hey, love birds. If all you’re going to do is bicker, do it off stage so the rest of us can sound check,” Yves, Epica’s bassist, smirked.

Obviously, he hadn’t heard the intensity of our conversation.
“Sorry,” I said shortly and unplugged by guitar.

“River, can we just talk about this?”

“No.” I walked across the stage, brushing past Yves, whose smirk had dropped, seeing that we were in a legitimate heated couple argument. I heard him apologize to Isaac as I stomped down the ramp.

Scott, my guitar tech, was chatting with some of the other crew when he saw he approaching. He quickly hurried forward to take my guitar from me. “Easy there, Ry. You’ll break the beauty with that grip.” He smiled, white teeth against his midtone skin as he pried the ESP from my hands. “Everything okay?”

I said shortly that everything was just fine and strode off for the exit to the venue. Pulling my cellphone from my jeans, I pressed “2”.

On the third ring, I was greeted with the familiar and loved gruffness that I was desperate to hear. “Gateway City Crematorium. You kill ‘em, we grill ‘em. How can I help you?”

I closed my eyes, pursing my lips to suppress a giggle. “Fuck, wrong number. I was calling for the brothel.”

“Oh, no. You got the right number. I run that too. I can give you a two-for-one deal. You kill the hooker, I can get rid of the evidence.”

“Mac, you a horrible human being.”

“A good person with a horrid sense of humor, is what I prefer. How’s Blondie doing?”

I leaned against the cool wall, enjoying the shade on a mild Swedish day. “Blondie is fucking up.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You fucked up your playing?”

“No way,” I smirked. “I don’t ever fuck up that way.”

“Now, don’t get cocky on me,” said Mac, fatherly tone coming through. “Even though you have every right to be.” I grunted in agreement as I scuffed the toe of my boot against the asphalt. What are you fucking up then?”

I sighed heavily and leaned my head back against the building. “Isaac.”

“Ah, yes. Your Belgian friend.”

“He’s my boyfriend, Mac.”

“I’m aware. What’s going on?”

I nibbled at my bottom lip, trying to figure out a way to explain it. “I love him a lot, but I can’t...I just can’t.”

“I know, kiddo,” Mac sighed. “But you’ve been with this guy for almost a year and half…what’s the hold up? Did he do something?”

“Of course not.” I’d talked over Isaac’s compassionate personality with Mac in the past, how someone so loving and perfect could want anything to do with me. Mac quickly shut me down and blamed my lack of self-worth. I had plenty of that to go around. “I just can’t open up, Mac. Not just to him, to anyone. Jess is all that knows and you know that she wouldn’t have been involved if I wasn’t a fucking retard-”

“Okay, calm down, Blondie,” Mac said. “I understand and I’m never going to be able to say sorry enough…”

“You don’t have to say sorry,” I said tightly.

“But if you care about this guy like you think, there’s gotta be communication. Trust me, I’m the king of not communicating. Reason why I have an ex-wife and moved to Shitway.”

“Your wife was a bitch.”

“Because I didn’t communicate.”

“I get it. I suck at talking about my feelings and shit, but I want Isaac to know me for what I am, not what I was. That’s what I want it to be with everyone.”

“River, no one’s going to treat you any differently if they know.”
“I doubt that. I have to deal with looks of pity all the time by those that know. I don’t want pity. I don’t want people to know that I was my dad’s punching bag during my childhood or that I used to shoot up coke or that I used to shove my fingers down my throat because it was going to make me likable. I just want people to understand that I don’t want them to know.”

Mac was silent for several moments. If it wasn’t for the Megadeth playing in the background, I may have thought he’d hung up.

Finally, he sighed heavily and said, “I’m gonna be honest with you and you’re not going to like it.” I tensed for impact. “If you like this guy as much as you think you do, you can’t keep that big of a part of your life a secret. Same as with your bandmates. River, they’re your family. They have a right to know.”

“They have a right to know when I want them to know,” I said, glaring at the perimeter fence around the venue as if that was to blame for my pain and confusion.

“That they do…” Mac sighed again; he knew he wasn’t getting anywhere with me. “If you’re not going to take my advice, why are you calling me at ten-thirty at night?”

“Because you’re the one side of my conscience I don’t have.”

“That’s kinda scary, don’t you think?”