Hold On To Love || Kirk Hammett

Part 33- I'd Love To Take You

"It's over," He said.

"What?" I say the word, but my lips make no sound. I'm numb, somehow. Blinking but seeing nothing.

"It's over," Duncan said from the doorway, "The band."

I looked at him. My best friend. My lover. But he merely just turned around, shutting the door behind him.

No." I exhale the word, exhale the impossibility. He nods. He's disagreeing with me. "No."

"Savannah."

"No," I say. "No. No. Don't be stupid," I say to him. "Don't be ridiculous," I say to him. "Don't lie to me goddamn you," but now my voice is high and broken and shaking, and "No," I gasp, "no, no, no—"

I lean back against the counter. My eyes are filling fast with tears, and I blink and blink, but the world is a mess. I wanted to laugh because all I can think about is how horrible and beautiful it is, that our eyes blur the truth when we can't bear to see it. The ground is hard. Ron tried to touch me, but I think I screamed and slapped his hands away. I felt the revulsion bubbling up and unsettling my insides, but I asked anyway. I was horizontal and somehow still tipping over, the holes in my head tore open, and I stared at a spot on the tiles not ten feet away. I have to hear him say it.

"Why?" I asked. It's just a word, stupid and simple. "Why are you going?"

I'm not breathing anymore, not speaking at all; just expelling letters through my lips. Ron didn't at me. He looked at the wall, the floor, the food, and the way his knuckles look when he clenches his fists, but no, not at me, he won't look at me.

His next words are so, so soft, "She won't let me."

"She?"

"My wife. She said I have to choose between her and the band."

"You choose the band, Ron. I'd drop Kirk for you guys. Duncan would drop his wife for the band. You can't just leave."

"She's pregnant, Savannah. I have to."

My mind blanks. Pregnant? Was there something in the water? Why the fuck is everyone getting pregnant.

"So then, why is she making you leave?"

"She said that I won't be there for her."

"Take her to a fucking mental institute." I hissed, walking away from him. I can't bear to look at him.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "You have no idea how sorry I am."

"Liar," I whispered venom in my voice. I was angry and mean, and I couldn't be bothered to care. "You're not sorry at all."

I glanced at Ron just long enough to see the hurt flash in and out of his eyes. He clears his throat. "I am sorry," he says again, quiet but firm. He picks up his jacket from where it was hanging on a nearby rack; shrugs it on without a word.

"Where are you going?" I asked, guilty in an instant. "You need time to process this and you have no use for my company."

"Please tell me you're not leaving." My voice breaks. My breath catches. "Tell me there's a chance you could be wrong—"

Ron stared at me for what felt like a long time. "If there were even the slightest chance I could spare you this pain," he finally says, "I would've taken it. You must know I wouldn't do this to you."

And it's this—his sincerity—that finally snapped me in half. Because the truth was so unbearable, I wish he'd lied to me. I don't remember when Ron left. I don't remember how he left, or what he said. All I know is that I've been lying there curled up on the floor long enough. Long enough for the tears to turn to salt, and for my throat to dry up, and my lips to chap, and for my head to pound as hard as my heart.