Page 82 of Paint the Town, Dove

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But what did I fucking do to her? What was so wrong about writing her a song? How was any of this my fault?

It is your fault, you fuck-up.

You’re such a fucking fuck-up you couldn’t even keep your mom –

My fist found the glass of my mirror, shattering the bottom half to pieces.

I was used to broken glass, used to shards of crystal in my knuckles.

I was used to pain, but not this, no –

I wasn’t use to my Dove being gone.

Even when she wasn’t around, I could feel her presence, you know? Like a guardian angel, the lock to my key.

But I couldn’t –goddammit!I couldn’t fucking feel her.

Bits of blood dripped into my whisky. I chugged it back.

Not the first time I tasted blood in my mouth.

And then I was back, staring at a distorted version of myself in a broken mirror, doing up my tie, completely and utterly alone.

I had an inkling as to where Scarlett went, where she’d always go when she needed time to think. I didn’t say it aloud; some wounds never heal no matter how long ago they scarred you.

But if she needed that time, I’d give her that.

At least she’s not here to rip into you about your vices.Those were the voices that calmed me down. The ones that encouraged the drugs, the alcohol – the fleeting feeling of forgetfulness, neglectful to my own self.

I dabbed a coin of powder onto my hand and sniffed.

Fuck.

Itburrrrnedddddd.

It electrocuted me.

My nose tingled, itchy for more.

Scarlett’s not here right now.So I gave in.

That floating feeling, that high – so indescribable to people who have never beenthrough loss, through pain – the strong ones who can cope without numbness, covered in battle scars, whereas I, Rock star Ryden Spectre, lead singer of Jaw & Lion, couldn’t function without my red-headed Dove, and a pinch of poison.

***

“You’re not looking too well, Mr. Spectre.”

Morty.

Beside me.

Suburban.

Tour party.

“Mr. Spectre, I can turn this car around.”

“NO!” My voice. Hoarse? Coated.

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