The Things We Leave Behind

I had to try. "This isn't for us, Jon. It's for you."

He laughed again. "Sure, kid. Whatever."

"Look. I know I might come off weird saying this, but...I know one thing for sure. That song you were playing a while ago? It has to be out there. The world needs to hear it."

"Because?"

"Because...it was the last one you've ever composed with Rob Davidson. All these years you've been playing it over and over, like a damned broken record. God knows for how long."

That caught his attention.

"And what the fuck would you know?" he seethed. Years of pent-up rage, despair, all bottled up and hidden away.

"I know that they all tried to lock Rob away, if only to move on. They probably don't even talk about him anymore—not even about better days. It was necessary. I get that. But you never did let go, did you? You never could."

The tiny room began to shrink, compress around me. It was getting harder and harder for me to breathe. I slipped my specs off. My hand was trembling as I wiped them with the cuff of my shirt.

I should be back in the hotel by now, getting my well-deserved rest. But that would be wishful thinking. As soon as my eyes would close, the dreams would come again. If not tonight, then the following night. The anticipation made it worse.

I began to cough. "Excuse me..."

At once I felt the strength of the current dragging me away and under, water filling my lungs...

It's all in your head. All in your fucking head. I repeated that over and over. It worked before, but it wasn't doing me any good now. I balled a fist and pounded it against my chest hard as I could.

"Excuse me."

I gasped for breath, clutching at my shirt. I tasted salt in my mouth. Storm's up ahead. Clouds are turning gray and dark, roiling...

I stood up, and made a mad scramble towards the corner. Fluid bubbled out from my mouth—saltwater, spittle, blood.

"Oh, shit! Shit!"

Jonathan Mendez stopped playing immediately. As the melody tuned away, I felt the constriction in my chest begin to ease. He helped me up to my feet and back onto my chair.

I swore I saw him as he once was then. A young man at the height of his career, eyes ringed with black liner, brow glittering with beads of sweat. "This is it, man. We've made it."

"You alright now, son?"

I blinked. The hanging bulb swung back and forth. A trick of the light, that was all.

I gestured towards the dark stain on my chest. "I'm okay. Just need a fresh change of clothes."

"Listen, I don't know how you knew about that," he said, much calmer now. "No one in the band knew about this song aside from me and Rob."

"Personally I think it's great. Shame you never came around to releasing it."

"I might do that. Once I'm done with it."

"But that's just it. You'll never be done. It's been fifteen years too long now." After a short pause, I told him: "I could help you finish it. I could. Then maybe that'll give you the closure you need. And you can come back."

"Desperate, aren't you? I never met anyone so determined. Except maybe..."

Not surprisingly, Jonathan Mendez burst into a fit of bitter laughter. I knew then how he saw me. Tall, gangly, pale, with a mess of dark hair—but that was where the similarities ended between me and Rob Davidson.