The Artist: Silence Is Tumultuous

Zacky had always been an introverted and rather shy soul. When the guys went out on parties and stayed there until ungodly hours of the morning, Zacky would have been long-gone, slumbering away on behalf of his bandmates for their hedonism-induced lack of sleep. Jimmy, at first, would be the one who could coax him out for a night or two of... wilderness, if I may. They were kind of polar opposites, and that made them good friends, the two. Of course, the rest of the guys were also brothers to both Zacky and Jimmy. Johnny was their little lovable punching bag (don't get me wrong, they love him), who was always a little pissy but never quite got angry. Matt was the peacekeeper--he partied, yes, but never once took it too far; he was an anchor. Synyster was second-in-line to the Party God, which was Jimmy. But then Jimmy passed, and everything changed.

Syn did not take up the role of the where-there's-booze-weed-boobs-there's-me dude; instead, he rid himself of his hedonic habits. When he drank it was alone or with his closest friends and, when he's had just enough to be a little past buzzed, he became sombre and often philosophical, becoming wiser and heavier than Zacky had ever known him to be. It wasn't the Synyster Gates he knew. Synyster fell into some sort of hibernation that bordered on death, coming back to life only on stage and nowhere else. He was just Brian. Brian Elwin Haner Jr., and he would not have it any other way.

Well, he wouldn't be Brian Elwin Haner Jr. at all, if it weren't for Michelle.

Johnny Christ drowned himself in a sea of Jack Daniel's and sweat and women. He went clubbing at every possible opportunity, often returning with the ever-present smell of booze more intense than it had the night before. When he wasn't ecstatic and at the clubs, his temper was a notoriety. One false move, one particularly noticed twitch or smirk or shrug could send his blood just about boiling, his fist just about flying. Into someone else's face, of course, if not a (very unfortunate) wall. Johnny's eyes were lined with dark, heavy bags, and his face seemed to be aged by the abyssal, bone-crushing weight of sorrow and regret. There was no Christ in him anymore. He was just drunk, angry Johnny Seward, with a myriad of his own demons.

Poor, poor Lacey endured every last drop of his desolate anger. She pieced him back together every time he tore himself apart.

Zacky was just sort of.... Zacky, you know? He sulked in his room, occasionally drank, and cried a whole lot. It wasn't too far a swing off what he usually does, but it was still considerably more glum behavior than his usual shy introversion. Zacky still went out to clubs sometimes, but all he'd do was sit in the corner with a drink in hand and watch humans interact unbound. Other than that, he spoke little, smiled little. He reverted back to borderline reclusion.

Gena soothed him back out of it. Sometimes she even had to yell to get Zacky out of the house, but what must be done shall be done.

Matt, well... Matt just stayed Matt. He was shaken at first--shocked, sad, and who wouldn't be? He cried some, sobbed some, sulked some, and was a little bit touchy in the following days. After Jimmy's passing, none of the remaining Avenged Sevenfold members wanted to do anything. Brian only gave sad, longing looks at his beloved guitars, maybe skim his fingers over the fretboard once in a while, but refused to play. Zacky sulked in his room and played with his headphones on, careful to avoid any Avenged songs or any of Jimmy's favorites. Johnny wouldn't even look at his bass. All their women were complaining about all of that to Matt. He and Valary were basically the therapists. They were stable. They were determined.

Zacky didn't resist much when Matt convinced him to finish Nightmare--he took well to Arin, as well. Matt rewarded Zack's good behavior with shitloads of sweets. And all was well. Brian was skeptical and gave Matt weird looks, but then nodded and gave a mischievous little grin of approval--then he gave Arin the weird looks and the poor kid got spooked. Matt fixed this, too, and all was well. Johnny was insufferably, irreconciliably angry for a while and wouldn't accept another drummer--but then he met Arin and decided it wouldn't be fair to be mean to him for something he didn't do; Johnny still sulked and yelled sometimes, but he quickly returned to his pissy-but-never-quite-angry demeanor. Matt made sure Johnny knew he was doing great. And all was well once more.

The coming years was peaceful--life was good and Avenged Sevenfold was in one piece. They got another album out, it was great. They toured, it was great. Brian was unfathomably wiser than any of them had ever seen him--they even considered uploading videos of his drunk ramblings on Youtube to see how many religious wars and existential crises they could start on the comments. Zacky had his little inside jokes that nobody understood--and that's okay, because they didn't need to know why the elephant had a trunk. Johnny was smitten with Lacey, and forgot exactly how to be angry. the boys had their fights sometimes, and Matt was always referee. Nobody questions the referee. All was well, and all were happy. Everybody loved everybody, and they all were part of a lovely, dysfunctional family.

But then Matt passed, and everything changed.

It was nothing--nothing like what happened after Jimmy.

*********

Her voice was soft, but it echoed throughout the death-silent halls when she spoke. She leaned her head against the oak door and her slender hand perched upon its silver handle. A blink. A breath. A heartbeat. No response. She called again.

"Zacky?"

There was no hiding the worry in her voice. She shifted uncomfortably upon awaiting her husband's [yes, husband, get over it] reply. He had reclused himself for days now, and did not speak a word to even her. But it was Sunday morning, and they were to attend Matthew's funeral. "Zacky, darling, are you coming to the funeral?" she asked through the door. Her voice was buried under silence--silence that the whole house had lapsed into, like a tar pit that had swallowed a mammoth. A grunt and a click shattered said silence, and the door swung open with a heavy creak. Zacky, black-clad from the tips of his feathery hair to his neatest black-in-black-out suit to his leather shoes, stood in front of his wife for an infinitesimal second before he brushed past her without so much as a glance.

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, then scurried to catch up with Zack as he started the car.

The hum of the car was supposed to be familiar. The curious sound of Guns N Roses blaring out from its speakers was supposed to be soothing. Zacky's silence was supposed to be something comfortable.

But it wasn't.

The hum of the car was not a hum at all--it was a roar; it was the indignant rumble of a volcano. The usually-soothing sound of Axl's strangely high voice was more like the screech of tires against asphalt--fingernails drug violently across a blackboard; it was foreign and awkward between the unspeaking motionlesness that they had fallen into. Zacky's silence was unlike any silence she had felt--it was horribly thick, a mix of poison and smoke that seeped into her pores and up to her lungs [where it asphyxiated her], then down to her abdomen [where it took a hold of her stomach and twisted it into knots], and then into her veins [where it burned her blood into dry ice]. The trees and buildings passing by then seemed to spin and warp, and it made her nauseous. Her fingers fidgeted endlessly with the edges of her plain black dress, twisting the outer lace and then the silk under. She took a shaky breath.

"Zack--"

"What, Gena?" The rasp in Zacky's harsh snap made him sound almost animal. Gena flinched back in shock and fright; his now dull-green eyes landed upon her like a viper's fangs upon her flesh, and the anguish within them raced through her veins like venom. Though the glance lasted only an ephemeral fraction of a second, the frigid stab it inflicted upon her left gaping, decomposing wounds. Her mouth went dry.

"I..." she stuttered.. Her throat, tongue, and mind would not cooperate with each other--she stumbled upon words and tripped over thoughts. Her voice was a squeak bordering on a sob. "I, uh... I--I..." she paused. In truth she had only meant to break the silence, hoping conversation would come naturally. Unfortunately, the forces of the Universe were not so eager to gift her conversation. Gena scoured her mind for something, anything to say. "How are you?"

A crackling laugh startled her--his laugh. The sound was, however, everything but joyful. Amused, maybe--amused in some morbidly sardonic way. He sounded intensely derisive. It was the crack of a whip, the shrieking clap of thunder, the slash of a razor across her veins. "How am I?" he croaked, hitting a right turn. His voice rose, and she shrunk away. "How am I?" the Church was only a turn away, and his breathing was faster and more erratic. "You want to know how I am?" Another sarcastic laugh scraped his throat. They entered the parking lot. "I'm fucking great, Gena! I'm fantastic! Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic!"

Zacky had yelled the last of his words--spat them out like vitriol just as he whipped the car into flawless parking and slammed the brakes. A strand of his unkempt raven hair fell over the left side of his face, just barely hiding the feral glimmer in his eyes. This was the first time in days that Gena had seen Zacky's face fully; he looked more of an angry corpse than anyone she knew, let alone her husband. She flinched back, and Zacky retreated. He sunk into himself and raked a hand into his hair. Gena felt warmth seep through her clenched fists, and promptly opened them. Scarlet crescents had formed in her palms and vomited bloody puddles around the tips of her trembling fingers. Zacky was coaxing feelings from her bosom that she didn't know he was capable of eliciting. It churned inside her like hot acid, and rolled around her head like boulders. For the first time in her life, Gena was scared of Zacky.

She cleaned her palms with wet wipes and cast her husband a longing look. He was staring straight ahead, fists clenching and unclenching with each ragged breath he sucked in and then forcibly pushed out. She considered entertaining her impulse to place a hand on his shoulder--it was a familiar gesture, and if there was anything she needed then, it was familiarity. But Zacky's presence was foreboding, and her body refused to draw nearer to him.

Calm the fuck down, Gena, she chastised herself. This was Zacky, for the sake of decency. Zacky, her own husband. I'm not scared of him.

This, we know, was a blatant lie. But she couldn't help it. Gena drew in deep breaths and gathered courage to draw her hand to his shoulder. But--alas!--by the time she glanced back at him, he was already rushing out the door. She followed as they walked towards the great doors of the Church, not at all feeling that she was in the home of God so much as she was on a razor's edge.

This was how she felt for much longer than she was supposed to-- but we don't know that quite yet.