Page 12 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

Totallyfine.

As the song transitions into the breakdown, I bang my head, knowing the beat by heart. I could play with my eyes closed while sick as a dog. I’m not doing this tonight. Every nerve in my body fires off, my feet moving almost too fast for the song.

Fuck him. Fuckhim.

I lose myself in the last thirty seconds, time seeming to stand still. He’s right there, watching me like he’s never seen me before. Maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he was always too fucking high. Jorge does his final growl, the stage vibrating with its sheer force, and I slam my hands down as hard as I can with the final note. The screams and cheers are muted. I take a breath, eyes bouncing everywhere.

“We’re Dreadful. Thank you for coming! Let's hear it for Headhunter and Dark Wing!”

I shoot out of my stool. They will need me to break down my kit so Headhunter can come on in fifteen minutes, but I need a moment. I wave to the crowd without looking, darting backstage with speed. Leon and his singer chat over on the couches while their guitarists tune their instruments. I rush to the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I slam my back into it, raking a hand through my sweaty hair. I have to go back out there. There is no time for me to have a mini breakdown. Fuck do I want to, though.

Growling low in my throat, I dart over to the sink, wet my face, and then head back.

It’s bright now that the show is in between bands. People flood outside to smoke, the floor clearing out just slightly while people buy t-shirts or go piss. I don’t look out there. Terry, our driver, and one of our fans rush out onto the stage to help me break down my shit. I don’t remember the girl’s name, but she smiles sweetly and gets to work. The entire time, I feel eyes on my back, like clawed hands scraping my skin. I grind my teeth, not wanting to admit how much I like it.

“Some guy is staring at you. Like…creepy,” the girl murmurs, squatting down beside me. “Do you want me to finish up?”

I sigh a little, shaking my head. “Probably a fan. It’s fine.” It isn’t fine. Eli knows what he’s doing. Taunting me, letting his presence be known without fucking doing anything about it. With his new boyfriend ten feet away from me, completely oblivious.

“He looks…mad. Fucked up, maybe?”

My hands pause in their movement. He’smad? Nope. I don’t care. Whatever his issue is, it isn’t my problem anymore. He dumpedme. Leftme. I go to instruct her how to get the snare stand broken down because it’s janky and I need a new one, but she gets over-confident, brushing my fingers instead of waiting for me to finish. One of the legs snaps clean off, and my drum goes rolling.

“Shit! I’m sorry!” She moves to get it, but I stop her.

“It’s alright, help Terry, yeah?”

Steeling myself, I get up, face the crowd, and my stomach plummets. Eli is palming my drum to keep it from falling off the ledge. Several people watch us, and then, just like last year, someone recognizes him.

“Holy shit! It’s the camboy!” The guy is drunk, wobbly on his feet, while he pulls out his phone.

I snatch the drum from Eli, our eyes locked in a two-second, heated exchange. “Hi,” he says.

I don’t answer him. Instead, I set my drum behind me, turn around, and hike my fist. Jorge is on me before I realize it. “Woah! Chill, man. Chilllll,” he holds the drum and ushers me away. “Devon!”

I’m shaking horribly, unable to swallow, and I keep trying to get back over there so I can fuck him up.

I don’t know why I’m so angry. Maybe it's because I'm being recorded again? Maybe because he showed his face? Maybe because he has the audacity to fucking do this to me and then stand there like some goth prince ready to make it all right again with his magic dick. I want to cry. I want to throw up. I want to run back home with my tail tucked between my legs and sleep with Helios for another year, wishing it’d all go away.

Jorge gets me safely backstage while I seethe, teeth bared. He grabs me by the back of my neck and forces our foreheads together. “Breathe. Breathe with me, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Iambreathing but like a bull. I nod fast, following his lead as he works me through my anger. “This is why you can’t bottle shit up,” he tells me.

The entirety of Headhunter is watching us—my chin trembles. “I’m good,” I yell, shifting away from him. “I’mgood, Jorge. Fuck.” I rip myself from his hold and storm off.

There wasn’t anywhere for me to go, so I ended up sitting outside the venue near the bus.

I’ve been on this curb, smoking my vape, for easily fifteen minutes, trying to decide how I want to handle my current situation. The easiest solution would be to ignore Eli because giving him any attention is sending the wrong signal—even hitting him. He’s the kind of person that craves it. I don’t think what kind of attention matters either. I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the scars and haunted looks he would get, so I know there’s some shit going on beneath the surface. But the one thing he made clear from the get-go is that we aren’t those people—the kind thattalk.

Back then, I guess I was okay with it because I’m not a huge talker. Iwill, under the right circumstances, but with Eli, I never had to. He knew what I needed, and I knew how he wanted me. Looking back, that shit wasn’t healthy. Nothing about our relationship was. It was like drinking poison and convincing yourself it’s just soda. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t all in. That doesn’t mean I didn’t try my damn hardest to make it work. I’ve never had that kind of lust-love before, and I got sick with addiction from it.

I’m still sick.

I glance at the streetlights, my chest is hollow yet somehow tight. People say you can’t understand crazy—that there’s no point in trying to put logic to it because crazy leaves no room for logic. I don’t know if that makes me the crazy person or the logical one. Most days, I think I’m crazy because I’ll lay awake at night, wishing that he’d reach out, hoping that he’d say all the right words and we’d go right back to before. Other days, I try to understand him. Why did he say all the wrong words that night—why did he shove me away?

As hard as I try, I can’t make it make sense. It all fell apart so fast.

And now here I am, attempting to survive this tour, knowing he will be around every corner, down the block, a tour bus behind. Does he even know how shitty that is? Does he even care? All he has to do is sit around, get his dick played with and look pretty. Meanwhile, I have to juggle keeping my head straight, my family drama, the band,andensuring I don’t fuck up on stage in front of hundreds—if not thousands—of people. Is he really that selfish? I rub my eyes with my thumb and index, knowing the answer.

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