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Written by
Quai-Dian
Fuck, it's cold. I should have
taken my coat. But, hell, the pub is just across the street from my flat. Five
minutes of freezing my fucking ass off isn't the worst of my problems. That and
it's well worth braving the cold for the numbness the alcohol affords me. It
seems no matter what I do, nothing ever really kills the pain. Just dulls it.
The pain killers don't make much of a dent anymore, the cocaine is the same, and
the alcohol... well, after everything I feel physically dead. But the pain never
really goes away. Ah, hell. Fuck it. Right now I feel empty and completely
exhausted and more or less like hell, but it's better than the way I feel sober.
Dan was not a great drinking partner tonight. Nice guy, but he can't keep up. There aren't many who can... who ever could. I guess Phil was close, the closest by far, but he's not doing that anymore. None of them are. But fuck them. Fuck them for trying to change me. Fuck them from bailing out on me and fuck them for trying to tell me what to do.
Fuck! It's cold!
The door knob is fucking freezing! And my fucking brain can't fucking focus long enough to fucking unlock the God damned door! Fuck, fuck, fuck! The one time it'd be nice for Janie to be here... Christ! That bitch never leaves me alone, but tonight...
Finally. I thought the door would be my undoing. It's warmer in here, thank God. At least I won't freeze to death.
God forbid.
I need more pain killers... No. I don't. I can manage without them, I can go without... Fuck it. I want them.
Calm down, Steve. Just take enough to help you sleep. They are to kill the pain, and you feel pain. Don't you? Yes. When is there not pain? Never. So take them... Codeine. Thick, white tablets. Amazing how such terrible little pills can cause so much... relief? No, not like that... They're just covering the pain. It never goes away. God, I'm never going to live without the pain.
How many of these fucking things have I taken? I can't remember. I don't even want to. God, I'm so tired. So fucking tired.
I'm so angry. I hate recording. Hate the studio, Pete Menche's fucking voice. And Joe's. And Mal's. And Phil's. Bitching at me, telling me to sober up, so we can record. I hate recording. I hate Phil's incessant fucking whining.
"Steve, please stop. You're killing yourself..."
Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.
And Mal.
"I love you, Steve. You can hurt me as much as you want, but you're hurting yourself..."
Maybe I deserve that. To hurt. I always have.
"If you continue this way, you're going to kill yourself."
Thank you, Dad. Since when have you given a fuck about me?
Did I take my valiums today? I don't know... I hate them. They make me sick. They kill my appetite. The make my mouth dry. Fucking things. No good fucking drugs. They don't do a fucking thing. I still hurt. I always hurt.
God, I'm going to be sick...! I'm going to be... No. I'm not. I need to lay down. On the couch. Just for a second... Maybe two...
I can't believe they sent me home. I honestly can't believe it. Fucking Joe, thinks he knows what's good for me. "Get well," he says, like I have a fucking cold. Fuck him. He doesn't understand. Him and his fucking perfect life.
No. Phil's the one with the perfect life. Fucking gorgeous wife. Beautiful, perfect son. Happy fucking birthday, Rory. Rory James... One year old and he already has more of Phil's heart than I ever will. I wish he hadn't been born...
No. I don't. I love Rory... I love Phil... I love...
Lorelei. Whatever happened to Lore? She was so... Lore. And Janie is so...
I hate Janie.
I love Janie.
Oh, my head... I feel so dizzy. Lay down, Steve. Close your eyes.
I love my Gibson. The black one, the sunburst. All of them. I love the feel of the cool strings beneath my fingertips. That's when I'm truly alive. When I can stop... Feeling. There is only music. I am music. It is me. We are one, unbridled and free. Fuck, better than sex, better than love, better than life.
Phil knows what I mean.
God, I miss him. Phil. Philip. My brother, my twin. He knows me and I don't even know me. God, I miss him so fucking much.
I hate Phil. I hate the way he begs me, like a fucking child. He wants me to be like him. Wife. Kid. Happiness. It's so fucking easy for him. Stop drinking, he says. It's so fucking easy, isn't it, Phil? Fuck you. Fuck you, you worthless piece of shit. I hate you.
I love you.
I hate me.
I miss Pete. Pete would never have deserted me. We'd be dying together. Fuck Pete. Pussy. Worthless bastard. Fuck him.
Fuck all of them.
Oh... God... Oh, ouch, my chest hurts. More pain, but different pain. And... Can't breathe! Can't...
Yes. I can.
My fingers are gone.
No. They aren't. I just can't feel them... I can see them, but I can't feel.
Good. I don't want to feel.
I miss Phil. And Mal. And Joe. And Mal.
Poor, Mal. My friend, guitar tech, baby-sitter. Poor, poor fucking Malvin. Too bad he had to meet me. Too bad they all did.
It's Sav's fault. Sav knew Pete and Pete knew me. That's why I'm here. That's why I'm not there, in Dublin. It's Sav's fault...
Everyone loves Rick Allen. He's the hero of the fucking day. Lose your arm and you're a hero. Crash yourself into a fucking wall and you're a hero. Fight your own demons and you're a freak, a psycho... Worthless. Might as well be dead.
I wish I were.
Phil? Where are you? You are always there to wake me up...
They put me in an institution. I hate them. I fucking hate...
I'm so tired... Why can't I sleep?
Where is Janie? She wants me to marry her. I don't want to get married. Ever. Mum wants me to get married. I want to die.
I want to sleep, God dammit!
I want to talk to Phil. Phil Collen. I miss his voice, I miss his laugh...
I hate his incessant fucking whining.
Moving to the rhythm of your heartbeat...
Is my heart beating?
No... Yes. Yes. Barely.
I want to talk to Phil... I'll call him.
It's too early.
It's too late.
Tomorrow. I'll call him tomorrow.
I'm too fucking tired. I'll call tomorrow...
I just need to sleep. Just for a second... Maybe two...
~ The End ~