Page 147 of Paint the Town, Dove

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What happened?

Whathappenedwhathappenedwhathappened…

If it were her fault, maybe I’d find some steadiness inside. Some place to put my grief.

You know, it’s so fucked up. It’s so fucked up.

After I found out Jared was the one behind the wheel – oxy and codeine vacationing in his bloodstream – I wandered around junkyards until I found what I was looking for.

An old Yamaha bike. Rusted beyond belief, but after a rough tune up, she rode like a dream.

You wouldn’t think, right. That riding a motorcycle would be the first thing I do.

I didn’t want to talk to anyone – just the air.

I wanted to scream at the wind. Beg for any part of her back.

I found a rush instead.

The same adrenaline Ryden said he felt singing, I feltsoaring.

I dumped all the cheap alcohol I had in the basement apartment.

I vowed never to have more than one glass.

Ryden’s life went from zero to one hundred, and so did mine after Pierce Stanley signed him to Avenue Records.

I knew I’d have to have “social drinks” or whatever the golds said.

One and done. One and done.

None for my Emory. Not anymore.

Ryden was the opposite.

Never wanted to drive. Never bought a car.

Always the passenger.

And he…

He started drinking.

It didn’t help that Avenue Records encouraged it. “Being favourable comes with the industry,” Pierce had said. Didn’t realize that meant boozing up to obtain success.

When her tombstone was set in place a week and a half later, I took a knife to my wrist. Yeah, right where that phoenix branding was, I sat by her grave, bleeding onto the soil, hoping I could restore her back to life.

I thought she’d appreciate how fucked up I was over her. How fucked Ryden’s hobbies had become.

I also thought she’d appreciate that we…

We made it.

But the cost was high, wasn’t it? Was it even worth it?

We made it.

… without her.

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