—Charles Dickens

I hadn't checked her stories in three months, and once I finally did, I regretted it.

"See, bro, I told you." Devon scoffed. I couldn't take my eyes off the laptop screen on the Tucson Telegram's website.

"Yeah," I agreed to avoid conflict, but it didn't really seem like something Brooke would have done, regardless of our falling out. Had I really made her that angry?

"Lying media whore." Devon sneered, whilst running off at the mouth. "Of all the birds to get caught up with. You sure know how to pick 'em."

"Shut your fucking mouth," I snapped. If he had said another word, I wouldn't have hesitated to hand his arse over to him.

"Chill out," said Devon. "You know what you need."

Whilst I had my internet browser running, I searched for Blank Slate Publishing House—the company that my half sister Elizabeth supposedly inherited from Riley.

"Not before the show." My fingers traced the keys.

"You're going to need it, mate," Devon said from the loo. "I'll be back in a few. Think about it whilst I'm gone."

"Right. In a few." I just wanted to be alone with myself for a minute. He couldn't have left quickly enough for my liking.

We were somewhere in Australia, the hell if I knew exactly where, but it was two hours until show time and I couldn't have cared less. My thoughts were wrapped up in an Arizona girl, as I scrolled through all of the hundreds of photos of her on my mobile phone—some that she never even knew I had taken. Her looking out the passenger window and smiling, for instance. That one was my favourite.

I was one miserable son of a bitch, yearning for her whilst she was most likely getting it from Eric at that moment. The sick bastard in me wanted to know how I compared. Probably terribly, I decided. Truthfully, I had nobody to compare Brooke to, but that meant bugger all to me. I wouldn't ever want anyone else. I didn't need to try another, to know that Brooke was the best I'd ever have.

Although it would have been easy to place the blame on others for Brooke's detachment, in all honesty, I could only chide myself.

At one time, ostensibly long ago, I was pretty sure that Brooke loved me. Wanted me. She had been infatuated with needing me to call her my girlfriend. After all of the trips, after all of the countless hours talking by computer and mobile, after all of the promises, she still wanted that word to fall from my lips—like everything else was just building up to the grand finale of making it official in everyone else's eyes. Incorrectly, she assumed that my rejection of it was based on her level of worth to me. When, actually, my aversion derived from the fact that I never wanted to lose her, because nothing and no one could have ever been worth more to me.

Girlfriend and boyfriend—childish phrases that, to me at least, couldn't capture what we shared. To say that we were seeing each other almost implied something ephemeral.

Seeing someone was temporary.

I'd never known anyone that had a lasting relationship with someone he called his girlfriend. What a silly title for a woman who meant so much more to me. Somehow, in my fucked up mind, we would never have been able to break up if we never started "dating"— in the sense of using labels and titles. If I just didn't call her my girlfriend, I thought, maybe, just maybe, we could circumvent an inevitable demise.

What rubbish. Fancy how that turned out for me.

Once again, I fucked up, but what else was new?

The only one who ever wanted me, no longer had it in her to care.

Wife would have been a title that I would've ever so proudly called Brooke, but I was never positive that she was ready for that. There was an inkling of hope in the Maldives, at the Boduberu show. That Sofie or Soofie or whatever had planted the idea in Brooke's worried mind, and I noticed her rubbing her bare ring finger. Doubt was clear across her face, as she wore every emotion on her sleeve.

I wanted to tell Brooke that I would marry her that night. Then I remembered all of the married people who had been so madly in love, only to later get divorced, and I couldn't lose her. I still can't, I thought.

But somehow, I had.

What the hell had I done to myself?

Worse yet was that I saw Brooke going all googly-eyed over that infant as well. If there were any woman in the world that I would have loved to make a baby with, or three or four or five, it was my Brooke. But how could I have a child with her, when I didn't know if I'd ever have it in me to be a good father?

Being a dad had to be learnt, didn't it?

I never had the opportunity to be taught.

Still, I loved Brooke so much that I would have tried.

But my love for her felt so inherently placed in me, simply destined to be that way, and I couldn't be positive that I would have automatically felt love for our unborn child, too. What if the kid turned out fucked up like me? Would I have passed along my destructive tendencies? To risk breaking Brooke's heart again was not something I ever wanted to do.

From her perspective, it might have appeared as though I was backing away, as she was wanting more commitment, when that couldn't have been further from the truth. More than anything, I wanted the same. I was just so afraid. If I could have gone back in time, I would have changed everything. But nobody could go back, not even the homeless orphan, turned wealthy touring musician, turned drunk junkie slob.

I never played the sympathy card with anybody. I had always taken my past in stride and swallowed it all down. But internally, the overwhelming desire to feel wanted battled the overriding feelings of inadequacy. Nobody wanted me, not even my parents, so why should Brooke have been any different?

If I had never been in this godforsaken band, would she have even spoken to me?

Without it, would I have even met her?

I never belonged in her world. Honestly, I must've been about as thick as two short planks to ever believe I did. She was so beautiful, so unbelievably gorgeous, slightly older than me, accomplished, strong, educated, could outwit anyone, with artistic creativity shining through her. She was too good for me, always was, and she only proved it by doing what I always knew, deep down, she would do—she left me.

Where the fuck is Devon? I thought. I needed to stop caring, and I knew only one way to accomplish that.

My sober mind continued to wander whilst it still could, and drifted into family territory. I always said there was no such thing as a coincidence, and that included aspects of my dead father and nearly dead mother. I had torn Eileen apart for her sickness, as I willingly did the same to myself. The big difference, I decided, was that I wouldn't hurt anyone else in the process of my self-destruction—just me.

And what were the chances, really, that I had chosen to use my middle name, my father's first name, as a guise when necessary? It was a sign, I was sure of it. I wasn't hiding from the fans, I was hiding from myself. Riley died alone, sick and alone, and so would I.

Fucking hell. I did like a good moan, didn't I? Even if it was all internal.

Wallowing in the pain was all that I could do, if something stronger wasn't coursing through my body.

Devon unlocked the hotel door and came inside again, right on cue, thereby putting an end to my mind's useless wandering. The pain would soon be sucked into a black hole, where it needed to always stay, because I couldn't deal with it any longer.

Not on my own. Not without her.

"What do you think? Want some before we hit the stage?" Devon asked, as he placed his rucksack down on the bed and unzipped a compartment.

"Do you think anyone will notice?" I couldn't believe I was actually considering it, but I was itching for a hit, or three.

"No, bro," Devon laughed the words. "Want to shoot?"

"Only if you'll do it for me." I couldn't stand to look at the needle, but the high was better and faster that way. For the previous two months, I'd mostly been doing it intravenously, with Devon's help. If he wasn't around, I snorted it.

My tolerance had built up to the point where I was having H in the morning before I'd have a coffee. I couldn't even have a fucking coffee without thinking of her, because we liked it the same way—white and super sweet. Until that day, however, I'd never gotten high before a performance. Everything that had previously been utterly unacceptable and disgusting to me, was somehow becoming my new version of normal. That was when I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that I was out of control. It took such little time to get to that point, but I didn't care enough to stop it.

I put my arm on the table, squeezed my bicep, and awaited Devon as he filled the syringe.

Around my wrist was the bracelet that I would sometimes put on during my moments of sobriety. Although I'd read it so many times before, I couldn't stop myself from reading it again.

.

But I had already said goodbye, and all I wanted in the world was to forget. I was sure that she already had.

So I pulled off the stupid thing and tossed it over toward my bag.

As Devon came closer to me, I looked away. I didn't look back again until I felt the warmth travelling up my arm, toward my head, then downward, throughout the rest of my body.

"There we go," Devon said. He began filling one for himself. Whilst flicking the tip to remove any air bubbles, he joked with me. "You're paying for the next one."

"Whatever." I didn't care if he took all the cash from my wallet. Left me skint. The moment the poison hit my bloodstream, I nearly felt my knees buckle from the paralysing pleasure.

I could barely see through massively dilated pupils. My heart was racing, but simultaneously, my whole body submitted to the intense sensation of complete relaxation. I struggled to even keep my eyelids open.

Two hard knocks on the door shook both of us, and Devon threw his bag under the bed in a frantic haste, then ran to the peephole to see who it was. He let out a long sigh and unlocked the door, letting Tommy inside.

"What the fuck are you two doing?" Tommy's eyebrows pulled together, forming a crease between them.

"Chill, Tommy," Devon said, as he locked the door behind them.

"Chill? Look at what the hell you're doing! People are talking, Devon," Tommy explained. "Look at your bandmate, for fuck's sake!"

"What about me?" I barely lifted my head from the bed, and almost didn't even care enough to ask.

"What are you doing, Jules?" Tommy was suddenly standing over me, looking down at my face. He looked weird from where I lay, with upside-down features. "You need to quit this shit. It's killing you. If you don't put a stop to it, I will."

"I don't need to stop." My speech was sluggish and raspy, but lucid. "I don't want to stop. Just leave me alone."

"You don't know what you're saying, because you're sick. You're sleeping all the time. We never jam anymore, and you've stopped writing. Come to think of it, we never see you unless we're on stage," Tommy said with empathy. "I'm going to ring your girlfriend if you don't quit it, Jules."

"I don't have one." And in the moment, I really didn't care.

"Right," Tommy answered sarcastically.

"And you." Tommy pushed Devon's thin body backward, against a wall. "I know what the fuck you're both up to, and don't think I'll pause for a second to out you. Cut the shit out, now."

"Julian wants it," Devon offered the explanation. If I had cared enough, I would have agreed with him, but I couldn't be arsed. So, I just stayed there, silent, on the bed.

"You know I'm not talking about Julian, you low piece of shit." Tommy shoved Devon's back into the wall again, this time with a bit more force. "Ruin your own lives, but don't bring Jules down with you."

The door slammed shut.

Finally, some quietness again.

I went on the nod and started having amazingly vivid dreams. For well over an hour, I was in and out of reality, with moments of clear and terrifying consciousness, followed by a comatose state of numbed knowing. Aside from the fact that I couldn't swallow, and felt profusely itchy, everything was right in the world. Nothing could have been more beautiful than the white paint swirls on the ceiling.

Although I never really found it again, I was forever chasing the power of my very first high. Each subsequent one was a divine escape from reality, but it fell a bit short from the first time. So, I would have more, and more, and more, and more... In searching for it, I had become someone else.

I was a stranger to everyone who knew me, but most of all, I was a stranger to myself.

Every part of me wanted to stay in that unresponsive state, but something was urging me to come to. I knew I wasn't alone anymore. My eyes didn't want to open, but they did when I felt someone touching my thigh. I struggled, forcing myself to look. When I did, my eyes focused on a topless blonde, wearing only her knickers, as she straddled me on the bed and kissed my neck. Instinctively, I rolled her off of me.

"Who the fuck are you?" I tried to stand up on the ground that seemed like it was shifting beneath me.

"Alexis." She smiled at me through smeared, red lipstick.

"Why are you touching me?" I looked around the room but Devon wasn't there. "How did you get in here?"

"Devon invited me in." She shrugged and walked up to me, pressing her bare breasts against my t-shirt.

She tried to kiss my lips. I didn't kiss her back. Her mouth tasted like ashes.

"Get the fuck off me." I stepped back, trying not to touch her. "Get out of here."

"What are you, gay or something?" She giggled and I felt nauseous.

"Get out of my room." Dizziness was making me almost blind.

"You must be gay." She reached for my jeans, between my thighs, and didn't find the physical response that she had wanted.

"Get your goddamn hands off me," I warned her. "I'm not going to say it again."

"That's cool," Alexis said, whilst slipping back into her top and skirt. "Your friend's cuter, anyway."

...

Before I went on stage that night, I was starting to come down a bit, but still had enough in my blood to get me through the set. For good measure, I took four big swigs of the strongest proof vodka I could find.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, I accidentally glanced into a mirror before soundcheck. For months, I had been afraid to really take a good look at myself, and for good reason.

The person reflecting back at me had red scabs sparsely littered on his sickly, white skin. Yellowed eyes. A thin, weak looking frame. My hair was longer, rumpled, and dark with grease—apart from a few sprouting greys. Where the fuck had they come from? I was swimming in the fabric of the black jumper that I used to completely fill.

Despite this, when I pulled up the sleeves of my jumper and took note of the track marks along my arms, I decided to start using other body areas to shoot up for a while. The veins in my arms, especially at the creases of my elbows, had mostly been used anyway, and with them collapsing, it was getting really difficult to hit anything there.

Fuck. I had become a stereotypical junkie, dead insides reflecting outwardly, and worse yet was that I didn't even care.

The irony, I'd decided, rested in the fact that I had lived through the abuse of a corrupted orphanage, and I had lived on the streets as a teenager within a grimy storage unit, but I had never been in more danger until I'd made it big, as a minted, touring guitarist.

Stability should have surrounded me.

Integrity should have become me.

I could have provided for myself anything at all that I wanted, but as I'd soon learn, pounds and pence could not provide the three things I most needed: time, joy, and love.

Somehow, I'd made it through the performance with only a few fuck ups—hitting a couple of wrong strings here and there. I'd been starting to feel uncoordinated on guitar from the drugs, but because we were playing live almost every night, my fingers still remembered the chords well enough to fool everyone... Well, everyone except...

Tommy had been eyeing me on stage, and all I wanted to do was get back to the room to shoot up again. I didn't need his disapproving stares any more than I needed a kick to the bollocks.

Long after the show ended, I still heard the ringing from the crowd.

The screams reverberated against my throbbing eardrums.

The noise pierced through my thick skull, straight into my frying brain.

But even that was not loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

Before, Brooke had been the volume dial, always there to stifle the earsplitting sounds that would bounce around my electric brain. But without her here, only one thing made the world fall quiet for me again. And I needed more of it.

Every time the H wore off, I felt a deep malaise. I had no appetite, so I hardly ate a thing, which made using the bog a lot of fun. Duvets were pulled off and on all night, with the hot and cold flashes, and I'd often feel short of breath. Every time I had a wee, my urine was pale and foamy, and my joints were always swollen.

Ironically, I'd been taking heroin to make me feel better, but there it was, breaking down my body and making me feel like a zombie each time it wasn't circulating in my blood—which, of course, only made me want to take more of it. And that was how it hooked me. Nobody could have understood the vicious cycle unless he, himself, lived it.

Subconsciously, I knew what I was throwing away. Contrary to popular belief, heroin didn't make me see lands of purple fields and bunny clouds. No, it kept me closer to reality. It just made that reality look a lot better, made me feel a lot better, and made me not give a fuck about the bad things within that reality.

At the time, my reality was that I had been given two opportunities of a lifetime and I had chucked both away. The first being the chance to perform for crowds in every corner of the world, travelling by a private jet, living lavishly, and being showered with praise for our work. The second was related to, but directly in conflict with, the first: a chance to be in a relationship with the most incredible woman I'd ever known, and to have been loved for who I truly was. No projections, no television interviews, no radio plays to sway her. Just me.

Ultimately, I had set fire to both of those opportunities, and urinated on the dimming flames.

Devon said I was lucky. Not once in all of the months I'd been using daily had I had a bad trip yet. I focused on the way he said yet, like it was an inevitable, inescapable truth somehow. It seemed like Devon had way more control over the substance than I had, sometimes going a week or two without a single hit. That made me somewhat jealous.