I (Don't) Need Your Forgiveness

I stood backstage at the arena with one hand on my hip, the other on my forehead. I didn’t know how I was going to go out there, in front of all of these people, and tell them that there wasn’t going to be a show tonight.
“We can do it electronically,” Pogo told me, being sympathetic for once.
I sighed heavily. This was all my fault. I had driven our bass player away. It was what I always did- alienate and push away anyone who got close to me. I guess the root of it is the fact that everyone leaves me.
“Marilyn, he might not come back,” John 5 said softly.
I wanted to punch John, but deep down, I was afraid that he was right.
Two weeks ago, the five of us had been on the bus. John and Ginger Fish, our drummer, had gone out for some time alone, and Pogo had been enjoying his prostitutes. Twiggy and I had decided to indulge in whatever drugs we could find that we’d squirreled away.
Late, we were both lying in the same bed as we often did, and he’d turned to me with glazed eyes and told me that we had to talk. He was scratching his arms and head the whole time, like he had lice or fleas or bedbugs or something. I think it was a bad trip, but he never acknowledged it. Anyway, he told me that he loved me, and I took it as funny. Sure, we loved each other. Best friends do. It’s not unusual.
Twiggy had started crying as soon as I had started laughing. He’d said that he was serious, that he really loved me. That he was in love with me. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Instead, I kissed him. In our drugged out state, it was harmless, really. It was nothing new.
Somewhere, the line was crossed. I had no intention of leading him on, letting him think that I loved him back in the way he loved me. I pushed him away, and yelled at him. Eventually, I started throwing things at him, but he wasn’t getting the message. I used the telephone as a weapon, and managed to both choke him with the cord and hit him with the receiver at the same time. I said things, mean and terrible things, and started slapping him hard.
In the middle of the night, I threw his clothes out of the window, and shoved him out into the cold, bleeding and sobbing. I just wanted peace. That was all I wanted. To enjoy my high, and then, to go to sleep. I went straight to bed, knowing that in the morning, he’d be back, and we’d be okay again. We always were. No matter how hard we fought, Twiggy always came back to me, always said he was sorry, even if he’d been the innocent one.
Morning came, and Twiggy was gone. We tried to find him. We postponed tour dates while we searched, but after a few days, everyone had just given up. I called his family and friends, and no one had seen him. I became paranoid that he was lying dead or dying in a gutter somewhere. I didn’t want to have to go to the police, but after a week, I finally did. They were of no help.
Now, it had been seventeen days. We couldn’t put off any more shows, and Twiggy had vanished. No matter how much I wished for him to be there, I wished more that he was safe, wherever he was. I couldn’t bear to believe that what the police and the rest of the band thought was true. He was alive. He had to be. We were so close, I would know if he had died…wouldn’t I?
John rested a hand on my shoulder, snapping me back to reality. “Let’s go out there, okay? It won’t be the same, but we can make it work.”
I nodded miserably. The show had to go on.