Page 14 of A Tragic Melody

Charming won’t work with her. All the boys play charming, it’s what she is used to. I have to try something different. Something entertaining. If I want this to work, I have to come across as hard to get.

I know my words stung, she has low self-esteem. She might pretend like she is hot shit, but deep down she doesn’t like herself. Eventually those feelings will catch up to her. With a little nudging on my part, that collapse might be sooner than later.

Her need to impress me will drive her crazy. As I continue to come across as uninterested, she will sink lower and lower. Her self-doubt will consume her. That cool, calm, bigger-than-the-whole-world attitude will crumble.

I don’t want to completely destroy her. I’m not that cruel, but she is dangerous. Playing fair isn’t the way for me to win. I won’t survive if I don’t deal some damage. Call it self-preservation.

It won’t feel good watching her fall from grace. It will be tragic and sad, but with the skill she has, I’m sure she will bounce back. By then, I will have secured my spot as top dog. She will have to crawl back up the ladder while I’m safely at the top.

I would feel worse if I thought she deserved the spotlight. If she can’t control herself, she doesn’t deserve it. She can’t fully enjoy the fame when she can’t even be sober. Clearly, she doesn’t respect the gift she’s been given, so she doesn’t deserve to reap the benefits.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I watch her from a corner before our soundcheck. She spins around in circles to the low radio music playing backstage, her blonde hair flying around her as she laughs like a mad woman. Clearly, whatever that security guard handed her in that brown paper bag wasn’t lunch. At least not a healthy one. It has her higher than whatever she was on at the last show.

Derrick laughs as she pulls at his hands, dragging him into her frenzy. Poor guy doesn’t have the slightest clue he is dancing with the devil. Probably doesn’t care much, either.

I shouldn’t be watching her, shouldn’t let myself see her downward spiral, but I’m determined to witness the wreck. I need to see it so I know what I have to lose. If I get to see the tragedy, maybe it won’t happen to me.

The dullness of the world around me is starting to take its toll as the evening drags on. Blurred memories of wild times dance at the edge of my brain, blurring my vision. I try to tell myself those times weren’t really fun, but being stuck on a bus for two days was boring enough to make me doubt that.

Other clearer memories also try to surface. Memories of happy times with my family. Of the day I found out they died. Just like the drug-fueled memories, I can’t afford to dwell on those memories too much. I have a job to do. Fans to impress. A dream to make come true.

Everyone isn’t getting nearly as fucked up as the night of the first show, but they still drink and laugh among themselves.

I smile and nod, pretending like I belong, but I feel so fucking empty it hurts. The urge to pick up a bottle and let the alcohol take over is strong. The need to black out some of the memories and hide behind the buzz of alcohol or high of drugs is almost overwhelming.

I have a sponsor I could call, some guy called Andrew. He’s been helpful. We grabbed lunch a few times, and he told me all the tips he could. He was a jazz musician back in the day, but the drugs killed any shot he had at getting big. There wasn’t much advice he could give on how to manage the road without drugs, but he let me know I could call him any time I needed.

He would remind me while my issues weren’t directly alcohol-related, drinking would lead me to drugs. He wouldn’t be wrong. I wasn’t addicted to alcohol, but it was a gateway to drugs. Drinking always ended up with me high. Each time had me snorting coke or popping pills until eventually I was needle-deep.

Every time a bottle gets passed around, I crack my knuckles. I try to drown out all the other thoughts by thinking about the fact I get to go out and play on a stage tonight. I try to let my mind picture the fret board, not gravestones.

The hour I get to be up on that stage is worth all the loneliness I’m feeling right now. When I can afford a nice house, a car, and all the guitars I could ever want, I’ll look back at this moment as a triumph.

Andrew and everyone at the AA meetings say it gets easier, promise me it won’t always take so much energy to stay sober, but right now I’m doubting them. I still remember how it felt to be high, vividly. The taste of alcohol and drugs still lingers. I’m not sure those memories will ever go away.

It’s a lot harder when everyone you care about is dead. I try to tell myself I’m doing it for them, but they aren’t here to remind me of that. All I have is their memories and the hope they are on the other side, watching over me. I let that hope keep me going. I need to make them proud in the afterlife.

They are both the reason I started using, and the reason I’m staying clean. How both those things can be true, I don’t know, but they are. I am trying to carry on for them.

For my parents who never once questioned my dream. Who bought me a guitar of my own and new strings whenever I needed them. Who found time to drive me to lessons until I outgrew the teachers. For the little sister who made me promise to introduce her to the rock stars she saw on TV when I got famous. Who wanted me to play matchmaker between her and some washed-up singer. For my grandfather who got me into music to begin with.

They all rest in a cemetery now, but still, I do it for them.

This is my payment for not dying with them. For running to the drugs to escape the weight of their loss. My punishment is to do all this without a crutch now. No liquid courage. No poison in my veins. No mask. I have to do this all alone now. Just me and my guitar against the fucking world.

I just hope they somehow know I’m trying.

When I walk out of the bathroom a few minutes before our set, I spot Tuesday leaning against a wall. Her head is tilted back, fingers pinching at the bridge of her nose. Blood is smeared under her nose and on her lips.

The door shutting behind me gets her attention. Lowering her head, a smile spreads across her face when she realizes it’s me. It’s eerier when you mix in the blood on her face. You’d think the blood would make her look less tempting, but it does the opposite.

“Wyatt.” Her voice is distorted as she plugs her nose. “How many nose bleeds did you get? Aren’t they so annoying?”

“None.” I shrug. “I made sure to cut my shit up better.”

“Or heat it up, from what I heard.” She laughs. I’m not sure how she found out that detail, but I shouldn’t be surprised. While it isn’t out in the tabloids or talked about openly, the people I got my drugs from weren’t the most trusting, so I’m not the least bit shocked to know she has knowledge of my usage. “Shooting up is not something I’d ever do. For that reason alone, I’ll never end up in rehab or like you.”

“Maybe not, but you’re more likely to end up in a grave.”