Ashes to Ashes

Chapter One.

The room is spinning; has been since I peeled my eyes open to greet the day a mere ten minutes ago, but I know better than to try to get up now. At this point I'm no stranger to waking up hungover—still slightly drunk, in this case—and I've found that it's a lot like riding a merry-go-round: you have to bide your time and jump off at the perfect moment, otherwise you're bound to crash and burn.

My blackout curtains are doing a decent job of keeping the blinding rays of the sun away from my over-sensitive eyes, but by the hue of the light streaming in around the edges I can tell it's no longer morning. Which means I've managed to sleep most of the day away. Again.

It would take the fingers from both hands to count the number of days that have started the same in the past two weeks. I'm not coping well—at all, really—but I don't know how to cope; not this time. Normally I'd turn to my music, my band and our growing circle of fans. I'd pour my heart out in a song, disguising my pain in the chords and melodies of our next single. I'd release my anger on stage in front of a group of people who understand and appreciate my soul.

But this was truly different than anything I'd experienced before. For the first time since I was twelve I couldn't expunge this pain with my music. The words wouldn't come, the pages of my notebook have stayed blank and my guitar has started to collect a fine layer of dust. There are no shows to be played, not anytime soon, and I can't even fathom turning to my band mates or my friends for support. My songs tell my story, the lyrics telling the tales I choose not to otherwise speak of, and unless it's through my music I don't open up to many people.

Or anyone now, I guess, since the one person I did let in is gone, all the while I'm stuck here struggling to stay afloat.

A single tear escapes my right eye and I wipe at it hastily, rolling to my side and burrowing under the covers. I squeeze my eyes shut and will the alcohol that swims in my veins to take me under once more so that the hurt can fade away for even a few more hours. But just before it does I become aware of a soft sound off in the distance, what seems to be the click of a lock in my living room. Footsteps sound across the threshold, the soft thud of the door closing moments later before the heavy booted-footfalls begin to inch closer.

There's now only one person who has a key to my apartment, and when my name is called I can't help but grumble under my breath as the deep timbre of Adam's voice echoes down the hall and pierces my eardrums.

"Evie, what the fuck," he groans, his footsteps coming to halt as he stops in my doorway. "Why haven't you been answering your phone? Are you—" he pauses, silence surrounding us for just a brief moment before my blanket is violently ripped away from me and I'm face to face with Adam's crotch as he hovers over me. "Were you still sleeping?"

"How'd you get in here?" I mutter, snapping my eyes shut once more and avoiding his question. I already know the answer to mine, but there's nothing else I feel like saying right now, and I certainly don't want to confirm his suspicions and admit that, yes, I was still sleeping because I drank enough Mezcal to fall into an extended stupor.

"Did you forget you gave me a key?" He's concerned now, as he continues to linger above me and stare. I can feel his eyes on me even with mine closed, can tell what he's feeling by the way his tone changed. We know each other that well. Or, I guess I know him that well. He knows what I want him to know, which is exactly how I prefer it. For all intents and purposes Adam is my best friend—I've known him longer than any of the others and this band is our baby. It's been the two of us since day one. That being said, he's not any closer to cracking me open than the other two guys.

"No, I remember," I reply. "I also remember telling you it was strictly for emergencies, so I guess I'm just a little confused about what you're doing here."

"Well," he shoves my legs over, his fingers rough and calloused from a few decades of plucking at guitar strings, and plops down on the end of the bed, causing the mattress to shift under his weight, "I haven't seen you in weeks, haven't talked to you in days, and you wouldn't answer your phone. You could've been dead for all we know."

"If only," I find myself whispering under my breath, the two words falling from my lips without a second thought. I crack an eye open to find Adam watching me, his head slightly cocked to one side. He looks as if there's something he's dying to say, but with a slight shake of his head he drops it, and I exhale the breath that my lungs were holding hostage. He either didn't hear what I said, or—more likely—he knows better than to pry by asking me to explain.

"Well, now that I know you're alive it's time to get your ass in the shower so we can go. You smell like a bar and I don't think Michelle will appreciate that much."

Michelle. As in the Michelle who's part of our management team. He's most definitely right that she would not take kindly to seeing me in this state—she's a rather straight-laced woman—but I can't begin to comprehend what Adam is talking about because last I checked the only thing on the agenda for today was 'stay in bed and recover.'

"If you'd have bothered to answer any of our calls last night or this morning then you'd know that management asked us to come in to the office today. All of us."

"How did-"

"You said that out loud."

"Oh. Shit." I can't help but cringe, both at the situation and the pounding in my skull. "What's this about?"

"Beats me,"he says with a scoff. "But it's about to be about whatever this is unless you pull your head out of your ass."

I blanch, my jaw falling slack, the slap in the face that his words provided throwing my intoxicated-self off balance.

"This isn't you. And you're not going to start making a habit out of this."

"I-"

"I won't ask questions. I know by now that won't get me anywhere, and that if you want me to know you'll tell me yourself. But this," he gestures about the room dramatically, "isn't going to fly. You're smarter than this. You're better than this. And there are a whole hell of a lot of people out there depending on you to use this experience to write some fucking badass songs."

He's right. We both know it. But between the fresh wound of my loss and the alcohol that won't seem to fade I'm unable to formulate much of a response.

"Get cleaned up and let's head out. Michelle's already pissed that you've ignored her for weeks, you don't need to show up hungover and late, too."

"Asshole," I grumble, giving him a swift kick to the ribs.

"Ow," he groans, a deep chuckle following suit shortly after. In one quick motion he rises from the bed, somehow managing to bring me with him, and I fight to hold down the vomit as I orient myself to being vertical again. "I love you, Evelyn. We all do. So make your sexy ass presentable and let's go deal with the suits together, okay?"

He plops a sloppy kiss on forehead and, in what seems like the blink of an eye, disappears down the hall, leaving me standing alone in my room, dizzy and unsure of how to face the world without the one person who believed in me from the very beginning. And for the first time in a long time—no matter the fact that it isn't true—I feel utterly alone.