To Love/Hate the Spotlight

As the thick fog of vodka vapors cleared throughout my awareness, I was actually comfortable with my stirring. For the first time in a oh so very long time, I found myself stretching with a content yawn rising from my chest. I rolled over and snuggled into the comforter, my muscles melting into the mattress. No heart attack, no thrashing, nothing.

I pushed every thought out of my head and focused on my most missed beloved state of being, Peace. I moaned into the pillow and giggled at the tail end of it. This all had to be a ruse of some kind. I couldn't have just been sleeping; I was too relaxed. My patterns haven't seen decent hours of rest in... who knows... I truly couldn't comprehend how I could be so satisfied by myself in bed without doing a god damn thing. Right at that moment, I knew what it was to be beautiful. I had been suffering so long with cold sweat shakes and ragged breaths that this was my relief, my reward for whatever bad I redeemed myself from.

I wish Billie Joe was here to witness this. He could see how beautiful I was with my messed hair and fresh face. Maybe that would put his anger -he surely possesses- to a pause and notice my sweet dreams carrying through to my wake. Clinging to the bottle numbed the glitch in my brain. He wouldn't understand it in words, but maybe if he saw...

I'm beautiful right now. Come and see me.

Flipping onto my back, greed got the better of me and every bit of me reached for the expanse of the bed, jump starting circulation. A background noise, one I hadn't noticed, ruined it. Snoring floated around me. I unwillingly opened my eyes because having acknowledged it, it was coffin nails in a blender.

It was dark -pitch black- when I wormed out from my cozy -now increasingly hot- padding. I must have slept the day away. That means I missed their show. Shit.

The microwave clock glowed at a quarter till six. My eyebrows disappeared to my hairline. Tired much? Oversleeping usually earns me a throbbing headache, but my brain felt for the most part still intact. I could die happy now for that little known fact. A chill swept through me; the tiny hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Returning to bed was such an alluring prospect, but it wouldn't be right without Billie Joe. Sure the undisturbed sleep was heavenly, but I still woke up alone. That's just something I'm no longer accustomed to.

I tried to be quiet -surveying the area around me- except for when my stiffened frame shifted, allowing bones to pop and crack with every other sway of motion. Waking Mike and Tre was the last thing I wanted to do, so my gritty night vision would have to do. I was cold, lonely, and advancing to the front of the bus.

Images and tastes of fury flickered before my path, causing me to hesitate. Was this wise? Wonder if that hillbilly driver was ready to kill me? Bits of dried, russet blood flaked off my fingertips. My fingers flexed, not feeling that power. I noticed the difference compared to then and now: I could open and close my hands without a bottle clattering to the floor.

Another skewed detail: Bluegrass cousin-fuckin' stifled the air then. Now a thrilling slew of percussion and brass made the early morning atmosphere a touch more crisp and lively. The soft licks of cymbals, the hearty thump thump thumping of a cello bass, and gut wrenching sax stood out the most and pulled me in closer. Jazz, insanity on jellybeans and cigarettes.

Teal filled the sky. The almost too large windshield framed the outstretched roadway, trees, and gloomy cars. The steady red back lights and high beam flashes from the on-comers across the median was mind numbing. I moved forward towards the driver's seat. A confidence that otherwise wouldn't be there if not for the tuft of raven hair that peeked above the head rest. His tapping thumb on the wheel paused and his shoulder blades grew tense. He knew I was here.

So with a nice tight clamp on my bottom lip, I slid into the passenger seat and felt incredibly small. Unwanted. I should have hugged him from behind or something affectionate like that. Kiss ass because I screwed up. We're clearly out a driver, and I'm sure I embarrassed him. If only he hadn't have mocked me like that. My family was good reason to stress. They're unbearable.

Keeping my face forward I snuck a glance to wager how furious he was. Where I thought brows would be furrowed out of detestation for me, were merely shadowing his sunken eyes and the dark circles that traced them. Rubbed eye make up had nothing to do with it. Just by watching him do a zombie stare at the road provoked a large yawn rising in the back of my throat.

"Okay," I sighed after what felt like the longest silence the two of us have ever shared. "I'll go without a fuss." He grinned weakly. "You talk as if you have a choice in the matter."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. "... did you know there are three types of Southern? There's Normal, Redneck, and Confederate Pride. My family -the people you're forcing us to see- are sectioned off just as such. Immediately after first meeting my Colombian father, my great grandfather gave my mom his 'opinion,'" I said with air quotes. "He said, 'Robbie, I think Roger's a good ol' boy. He can't help that he's Spanish.' That's just a snippet of the redneck side. I don't want to expose you to that."

Despite his exhaustion, he was laughing over the jazz music and sitting up straighter in his seat. "Expose me? They sound like a riot." His reaction wasn't ideally what I had in mind.

"Don't laugh. They're a headache. Go back to being mad. I'll try to apologize some other way." My arms crossed over my growling stomach.

His amusement dimmed. "I haven't even heard you apologize the first time... You just don't realize how lucky you are to have a family that still wants you around."

"Because they don't know about us! Not about you, not about the last several years, nothing!"

"So? Family is important. Don't throw them away."

"I'm not throwing anyone away. I said I'll go, did I not? We'll lie-no-yes-no- fuck, I don't know..." I heaved and massaged my temples. "Just be mad at me about earlier. I wanna talk about something else."

"Too tired to be mad," he yawned. His fingers raked down his eyelids. "And I don't want to talk about that."

My entire well being perked up. "So... I'm not in trouble?"

"Oh, of course you are. We have to get a new driver, we were late getting to the venue, and oh and the next time you need space, try to be a bit more reasonable." I suppose sarcasm and aggravation didn't count within his lack of sleep's limitations.

"Couldn't we just switch drivers?"

"Yeah, it'd be that easy, you'd think. But no, our old one told MCR's what happened, and he doesn't want anything to do with you either."

All the usual impulses to justify my actions forgot themselves. Yesterday was an angry blur that I just wanted to move on from. Not an ounce of alcohol is touching this tongue...

Today.

"I'm... sorry." The words tasted bitter. A struggling minority within me felt no apologies were needed. Moving to stand behind and encircling my arms around him was safer than allowing my mind to linger that I agreed with the revolt. He absolutely reeked of coffee and cigarettes.

"I'm not the only one you should be saying that to."

"I know, but do you at least forgive me?" His cheek was sandpaper against my lips.

He grinned, eying me and the road. "Yeah, okay."

As strange as it may sound, it'd be better to deal with my family -to field all those familiar questions and control what I am to them- than facing the audience I had yesterday. Those relatives don't know half the things I've done.

Even I avoided Mike and Tre: Waking them up for Billie's sake -by blowing on their faces and then cowering in my bunk behind a flimsy curtain. The good feelings from waking up dissipated as they stirred and groaned and yawned all their way to the front, relinquishing the sleep-deprived of driving.

I think I would have been able to go back to that precious sleep if Billie Joe had slipped in beside me. Go to that beautiful place... My heart sank when I peeked from my safe haven to find him passed out on the couch. And I thought I was really off the hook.

Silly. Me.

*
No Ones POV:

"Come on. Go out and get a job..." Tensed muscles pushing away from the door frame. Hazel eyes squeezed shut in frustration as teeth bared. "Jason open the door and go." The words were there; the tone of voice was strong; the motivation essential to survival; and, like any other discharged ex-sickie, the anxiety held such a high opinion.

He wasn't on the verge of well-fare or the like, but Dr. Roth left him with a specific plan -a replacement one because staying with his parents wouldn't work on both ends: Neither side wouldn't hear anything of the sort.

1. Ensure a healthy, stable place to live.
Check with a 250 a month, third floor, four walled peeling mess. Simple. Crazies deemed fit a life without force fed pills and Hug Yourself to Love Yourself meetings needn't bother with home decor. Surrounding themselves with their personality, especially one like his, wasn't necessarily a healthy nor encouraged choice.

2. Apply for a state ID.
Locked up before puberty, how could he ever find the time?

3. Find a job.
"Save and budget wisely," Roth had told him. Yeah, like anyone would hire someone like him.

4. When enough money is saved, take driving lessons (if you so choose).
Cars didn't excite him. The world around him was so different and fresh; why waste it behind a windshield?

5. Keep up with medications and doctor appointments.
Like there was any choice in the matter.

6. Make friends and enjoy life!
Oh, ha, ha, ha.

Squeezing till the frame groaned and splintered from its old age, he growled and pushed back to stand alone in his barren apartment. Shame on Dr. Roth for expecting too much of him. The sun high over the town. It's too soon. He couldn't do it just yet. Maybe tomorrow he'd venture out into the early morning for coffee. Yeah, coffee.

"I'll do it tomorrow. Promise." He nodded, exhaling a deep breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The whoosh of oxygen leaving his stressing brain knocked him light headed. Nose flaring -greedy for air- and cheeks stroked with pink.

He just had to be well enough for the summer. This must be Dr. Roth's cruel test: The sun constantly shining and the night taking ages to come. His sleep pattern was a mess. Years had been spent on all-nighters, and now were pitted against only ten months of relatively normal slumber. It confused him. The past week went to that lump called a mattress. Stored energy coursed in spurts through his veins. Thudding visible in his wrists. Dark, round scars laced his arms. Dulled fangs ground into a think, pale bottom lip. Suppress the thoughts. Forget them.

"You got out---- the right way. You're- I'm not sick anymore. I'm capable. Stay focused. Oh but I'm so hungry-- NO!"

His spine unfurled to the cold floor. Moist irises staring at the blank ceiling.

Does she notice?
Does she even care?

*

My POV:

To know the feeling of being a ghost is left only for the dead... but I came pret-ty damn close.

Now you see me,
Now you don't.
Don't ask me where I'm at cause I'm a million miles away...

I knew what it was to be a forbidden hell.

When I walk in a crowded room,
I feel as it is my doom.
I know that I don't belong...

Who knew it's nearly impossible to hide out in a bus? Faking sleep till it gave me a maddening headache. They argued about me. Billie Joe and Mike. Husband versus Big Brother. Tre seemed to have only giggled along. From what I heard it was nothing freshly baked out of the oven.

"What are you going to do about her?"

"What do you mean what I am going to do about her?"

"She's your wife."

"She made one little mistake-"

"First night, she gets in a brutal fucking fight-"

"And she won-"

"Billie, you don't know what I saw. What she did to that girl."

"Well, I'm sure it was justified."

"I don't know. She only called me to bail her out. Then she smokes all of Tre's pot-"

"I paid good money for that too!"

"Shut up!"

"She gets so fucking high she has night terrors, then she got pissed off, assaulted our driver and goes of a drinking binge in the woods. Face it, Bill, Becky's changed."

"No, she hasn't."

"I know and that's the weird thing! It's her but then it isn't."

"You're not making sense. Get to the point."

"The point is that maybe- ... maybe she should talk to someone, get her some help."

"No."

"But-"

"Give her some time. She's been catatonic for weeks and now all the sudden we're traveling, meeting new people. She's trying, alright?"

"Fine, whatever."

....................................................

I think I would have bashed my brains in if not for their sound check. Yes, we mustn't ever forget about sound check. It's just so important to practice and make perfect... I can. I will.

All doors locked; the shades drawn; the bus held ghosts of rage and harsh words. They prickles across my skin like half-hearted bee stings, as I stepped into the hot sprays of a cramped tub. The haunting feeling washed away the dirt. For minutes I merely stood there, staring vacantly at the small, bleached tiles. My head, a desolate disaster zone. Lungs, heart, blood, and muscle felt absent; a substitute of an inflamed tumor of something.... just... bad. A pitiful description but that's really how I can sum it up. Tears. I had to cry. Wanted -no- needed to cry. Bleed out every ounce of pain and cleanse my eyes each time like an exorcism... they refused.

My neck cracked, looking to the bathroom door, at the sound of voices. No, no, it couldn't be. One voice. My tongue burned with tap water. I skimmed my finger over my lips moving rapidly. It was me. Then just as I realized, the quiet words stopped. I shook the sensation away, not wanting to know what I -not me- was saying.

With that, I sped through the motions of washing and getting dressed like I was going out. Maybe I would. The butterfly bruise kisses faded to an unflattering yellow. Blacked it up. Red rolled thick atop my lips. Jeans. I reached for a large black hood to hide in but ruled against it. Something in me wouldn't dare touch it.

"Too conservative. Too boring."

I looked in the mirror, finding myself in a purple halter top.

"My god, you look so whorish," I muttered and adjusted the strap that rested on my neck. "The better to see your scars, my dear."

I hated it but left with it on. These past few days have been- I mean... what more shenanigans can I get into? Really, I don't think I can do any worse.