When one is limited in one’s existence, where does one travel to escape? What if the only option open to one is the creation of an escape within one’s own mind? A utopia, the closest one can come to one’s own nirvana.

At what point, after the establishment of escapism, does said utopia become a quasi-reality of vast proportions? And once the line between dream and reality becomes blurred, where does it stop? Is there a tangible horizon to the madness? And can that horizon ever truly be reached, or is it simply a safety net illusion meant to make the Creator of that Reality feel as though some door of exit remains open to them, even long after the portal between this world and theirs has been shut, locked, and sealed.

When does the difference between two worlds become less obvious and more abstruse? Ultimately, do the two realities collide and merge, then coexist in the Creator’s mind? As it becomes increasingly more difficult for the Creator to tell the worlds apart, how does it end? How does one escape from the prison of the reality of their own device? And once logic, reason, and accountability are taken away, what remains? Only the original dream, at it’s first conception, is left. Where decisions and creations and dreams lead us, in the end, there is still the initial jumping off point, that unstable ledge between madness and sanity. And where one may fall into the rift that divides the two, there waits another to take his place. Square One will always exist, either in this world or the next, and another fool will always play the part.

Without fail, nirvana will become samsara.

* * *

Two tablets, the letter ‘X’ etched into their pink surfaces, were cradled delicately in his palm. JC fixed a hard stare at the pills, silently vacillating back and forth, teetering on the edge of temptation, standing at the crossroads to higher ground and the road less traveled. Two tablets, one concert, and the deafening roar of an impatient crowd.

His knees wobbled slightly, and JC sank easily to his knees rather than continue to shake like a leaf in the wind. He let his forehead rest against the cool formica of the makeup counter he knelt in front of, and still the pills taunted him, a mute invitation to relief.

A quick glance over his shoulder proved JC had but a few meager moments until he allowed himself to be herded onto the stage, a puppet minus strings but not set entirely free from the ties that bound him to his existence. His bodyguard stood watch outside the dressing room door. The clipped footfalls of a production assistant could be heard in the not-so-far-off distance, undoubtedly coming to urge him along.

JC squeezed his eyes shut as the footsteps grew louder, closer, almost to the door. Raising his head, JC looked himself in the eye as he searched his own face for permission. Not breaking the gaze, his suddenly clumsy fingers fumbled to unscrew the cap from a bottle of Evian at his right hand. A knock sounded on the door.

“Mr. Chasez, we need you! Ten minutes until curtain!”

JC brought his left palm up to his open mouth, catapulting the two pink tablets inside. With a well practiced smile, though strangely grim, JC tipped the rim of the plastic bottle at his reflection and gave a little salute.

Another tap sounded at the door.

Bottoms up.

“Mr. Chasez -”

“Everybody calls me JC,” came the answer as the door swung open to reveal one fifth of the night’s show. “You must be new.”

“I am, Mr. - JC. I am new around here, and I’d like to stay very much, so if you could just come this way? Please? There’re only nine minutes-”

“-’Til curtain. Yes, I know.” JC flashed a grin, then patted the new stage assistant on the back. “Look good out there tonight?” he asked as they sprinted side by side along the backstage corridor.

“Fucking fabulous!” the young man affirmed with an excited, toothy smile of his own.

“Alright, then,” JC gave a little wave as he skidded to a stop beside Justin.

“It’s about time,” the curly haired performer hissed.

JC shrugged but did not offer an apology. “I had something to take care of, no big deal.” He glanced down and found himself oddly captivated with the way the technician’s hands flew across the buckles and straps of his harness, securing JC for the sizable heft above the stage in their opening sequence. The tech’s fingers blurred slightly, wavering about in the dim light until finally, they settled back into shape.

Justin smirked and shook his head. “You know, I’ll never understand why you need that shit to hype you up. Just listen, Jace, listen to that crowd.”

JC closed his eyes, letting the dissonance wash over him. “That’s exactly why I need it, Justin.”

The younger man’s gaze narrowed as he appraised his friend. “Sure. Whatever, man.”

“Don’t worry,” JC said softly as their feet left the ground collectively. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

* * *

Later that night, sequestered on the bus with nothing but the slumberous noises emitting from Joey’s bunk to keep him company, JC gazed unseeingly out the window from where he sat on the couch. They were in the middle of a barren stretch of highway, some place between Portland and Los Angeles. The pavement wasn’t particularly smooth and every so often the bus would hit a pothole that would send a lick of bourbon sloshing over the side of JC’s glass.

Remarkably, the stars were visible in the shadowy night’s sky, and the way they twinkled made JC think back on the benefit concert they’d given that night. After the concert itself, they had paid a visit to the local pediatric cancer ward, a move that public relations claimed would help them appreciate the good they were doing on behalf of poor afflicted children, everywhere. The light that shone in the kids’ eyes bore more than a passing resemblance to the celestial scape outside the bus, and even though JC wasn’t fond of playing philanthropist, it had been nice. More so than usual, anyway, because somewhere along the line charity work had stopped being about giving back and started being about publicity and a cranky inner voice that whispered viscously in the back corner of JC’s mind, saying, You’d rather be anywhere but here, now wouldn’t you? C’mon, admit it. Inevitably, JC would be suitably chagrined at his own intolerant thoughts before pushing them away. He, and the other four, knew it wasn’t really about altruism. Not when you got the the heart of the matter.

That was a small part of what kept him awake at night. The niggling doubt that had begun to seep into the darkest corners of his mind, questioning the longevity of his career. If he were to be honest with himself, JC was no longer worried about the fickle fan base limiting their time at the top. Rather, he found himself wondering how he would last the duration of the convoluted path fame forged.

As Joey’s snores grew steadily in volume, JC summoned the courage to confess to himself that what he longed for was an escape. And not the kind clichéd rock stars often turned to. The last thing he needed to deal with was a substance addiction, despite whatever habits he’d succumbed to before a concert. He didn’t have to indulge in X, at least he did not feel compelled to ingest the stuff. It was a matter of sanity, really. If he planned on holding onto all of his marbles, something had to be done. Help arrived in many forms, and it was just his luck that brought a new stock of small, circular pink pills every seven cities or so.

Still, there was the matter of an escape.

JC’s hand clutched convulsively at the tumbler of bourbon as his thoughts took a macabre turn. It was not the first time such inclinations had entered his awareness. And likely, it would not be the last. But no matter how sporadically they came, the intensity with which they flooded his mind was akin to the rush he sometimes felt when security guided them through a gauntlet of questing hands belonging to overeager fans, people who would do anything to get what they wanted. Underneath it all was an element of fear. A certain understanding that if he stepped out of line once - just once - he might end up shredded or torn or perhaps some even less desirable fate.

When nothing else could worm its way into JC’s alcohol addled brain, it was interesting to think about. Death: the ultimate escape. Now only a little drunk, JC continued to stare, though no longer through the window but at the window. Specifically, his faded half-reflection.

JC had once thought the very best way to die would be in his sleep, the comfort of his own bed cocooned around him with the reassuring warmth of a homey fire. But now, he was not so certain. The idea of living until he was too old to do anything but lay there and let death take him at its leisure was mortifying. JC just knew all that waiting around would be apt to drive a man insane, and would probably be a great deal worse than death itself.

The novelty of a tragic accident wasn’t much better, due to its entirely unpredictable nature. While JC knew he’d never be able to die without *something* pending in his “inbox”, he hated the idea of having unfinished business and he knew without question that he’d be the sort to die having just said something horribly unforgivable to *someone*, probably Justin, and JC didn’t like knowing he’d then have to transition into the afterlife with the stain of an argument marring his soul.

While the semantics of death and dying were liable to keep JC wondering for hours on end, he realized there was no perfect way to die. Except, perhaps, by his own hand. But even then, a problematic decision of method awaited him. So, he was left to contemplate but never execute, having far too much fear of the unknown closeted within.

Silently, on still, dark nights such as this, he let himself believe in a theory borne of Southern Comfort and a particularly boring stretch of Route 405 some years ago: death, was the ultimate release. A natural high, JC fondly considered the possibility that all of a body’s energies, when unleashed suddenly (as in death), would create a near euphoric state of being; literally, one of pure and unadulterated élan. A high unlike no other. One that could not be duplicated by tiny pink tablets, or heavier drugs, or even a string of powerful orgasms. Death, JC speculated, would bring with it a split second glimpse of true nirvana.

A rough patch of pavement disrupted the bus’ easy pace and rattled the vehicle’s innards like a tiny earthquake might. The faint curses the driver muttered were colorful and imaginative and enough to make JC stir from his spot on the couch. Setting his half empty glass in the metal sink basin with an audible tick, JC began to weave his way through the kitchen and down the hall edged with bunks. He could still hear Joey murmuring and breathing deeply in his sleep. In the cramped bathroom, JC flicked on the tiny overhead light before unlatching the medicine cabinet over the sink. He stared unseeingly at the row of prescription bottles lined up like toy soldiers on the middle shelf. Running a finger along the ranks, he forced his vision to focus, thereby finding the bottle with the correct label. Valerian.

The safety cap gave him pause but after a minute and a grunt of impatience, JC managed to palm the offensive white lid off the jar, then shake out two elongated capsules. They were a funny shade of pistachio green, and left a horrible aftertaste, but they helped. After dry swallowing his dosage, JC reached out to replace the bottle. He stopped, hand still extended as he stared at the canister that fit perfectly in his palm and at the white cap that still lay on the counter-top.

Though he moved slowly and deliberately, JC barely registered his own actions as he committed them. Setting the container beside the sink, he squatted down until he was eye level with the prescription label. With utmost care, he poured the entire contents of the bottle into his right hand. Delicately, he fingered each pill as he began to line them up in succession on the surface of the counter. In all, there were eighteen. Eighteen pistachio green capsules, nine nights of uninterrupted, tranquil sleep. Green, on white tiles. Green, like Lance’s eyes. Green, like-

“Jace? You okay in there?”

JC jumped to his feet and fought the sudden wild beating of his heart, a result of Joey’s untimely intrusion. With inexplicably shaky fingers, JC hastily gathered the pills, shoveling them haphazardly back into the bottle where they belonged.

“C? Come on JC, open up. I gotta take a leak, man.”

JC shut the medicine cabinet quickly and wiped a bead of perspiration off his forehead. He opened the door.

“Hey,” Joey greeted him casually.

“Hey, Joe. I wake you up?”

“Nah, my bladder did. Shouldn’t have had that beer before bed, you know?”

“Yeah.” JC began to inch past the bulkier man.

“Um, C? Were you, like, okay in there?”

JC paused. “Oh. Oh, yeah, totally. I just had to like,” JC gestured vaguely toward the sink and the mirrored box hanging above it, “you know. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah,” Joey patted his bicep comfortingly. “Well, better luck this time around, okay, man?”

“Thanks.”

“ ‘Night, JC.”

JC smiled. “Goodnight.”