Lately waking up was something I wasn't comfortable doing. And for some reason it never seemed to happen in my own bed. Alright, so it was only the second morning in a row, but still...
It was barely light outside, but I was awoken by a wave of alcohol-induced nausea, so I shot out of the bed and ran around as quietly as I could in search of a bathroom. I managed to find one, emptied my stomach and went back into the girl's - what was her name again? - bedroom to put on the clothes I'd scattered over the floor as quietly as I could before more or less sneaking back out of the alien apartment.
The buzz still hadn't worn off completely but I did manage to find my Sidekick and call the cab-company Brent had put in my speed-dial. I had to walk a few hundred feet to find out the name of the street I was on and I was relieved to find that while the combined ass-ache and bruised tailbone still hurt it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been the day before. At the reminder of the pain, though, I found the bag from the pharmacy in the pocket of my hoodie and popped another two pills dry before getting out my cigarettes and lighting one while waiting for the taxi.
Sadly I was sober enough to think, which was less than pleasant. Nothing I'd done the night before had helped me recover whatever it was I'd lost. No amount of alcohol or sex could give it back to me. It just helped me forget for a few hours. Had it been worth that? A few hours of freedom? A part of me protested, but the desperate side of me kept insisting that until I found a way to fully understand my situation; what I'd lost and how I'd get it back, this solution was good. Even if the chick whose name I still couldn't remember hadn't been all that good and didn't look nearly as pretty when I woke up as she'd appeared the previous night. But when do they ever?
******
"Ryan! Ryan! You need to get up! We have sound check in an hour!"
I groaned and buried my face even deeper into the pillow at the sound of Spencer's insistent yelling. Just that simple movement made my head hurt like shit. It was pretty much clear to me that the previous night had earned me a hangover from hell and I wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but after a moment or two the seriousness of Spencer's words got to me.
And so I forced myself out from underneath the warm covers where I'd collapsed, still wearing the clothes with the bits of puke and alcoholic tint from the night before as soon as I came back to the apartment. With another groan I decided to eat another two pills and finally comtemplated stripping out of the disgusting clothes for a shower. In the end I decided that the clothes needed the shower as much as I did and trudged into the bathroom, emptied my pockets on the counter, turned on the shower and stepped in, still fully dressed.
The logic you can expect from someone too hung over to think, huh?
Half-way through the shower I got rid of the clothes to start working with the soap. But in the end, like the day before, I ended up exiting the shower feeling just as dirty as I had before entering.
I dried myself with a towel and went back into my room to find the appropriate clothes. Boxers, off-white shirt, brown vest, another pair of pinstriped dress pants, brown tie, snakeskin shoes and the Oliver Twist hat. It took quite long to put it on, mostly because my backside still annoyed me slightly and because me head was all fuzzy, but after putting it all on I trudged back into the bathroom, changed the band-aid and started working with first the lotion Brent had gotten me at the pharmacy, then concealer. The black eye was glaringly obvious and I needed to tone it down as much as I in any way could. It didn't exactly conceal completely, but it made the swelling and color less striking and the rest was camouflaged more or less by the shadow of the hat.
"Ryan!" I heard Spencer yell again.
"I'm up!" I yelled back annoyedly, lighting up a cig even as I exited my room.
I was met first by Spencer's stern gaze as he was about to tell me we were going to be late, then saw it change into sympathy and concern as he apparently caught sight of my injury.
"What happened?" he inquired.
"Nothing," I answered curtly, heading for the ashtray to flick some ashes off the end of the cigarette.
"Ryan..." There was that calm warning in his voice, the silent message that we both knew there were no secrets between us. Spencer knew me better than I knew myself, I think.
"I walked into a palm tree," I finally answered. I hadn't come up with a better excuse so it would seem less conspicious to stick with the old one, right?
"Sure you did..." He paused, letting me know that he knew exactly what had happened. How was it that Spencer always knew everything? "Didn't know Brendon had palm trees for fists, though."
I ignored him, took another huff of my smoke and simply stood for a moment. "Car?" I finally asked.
He sighed, knowing that while I wasn't ready at the moment, I'd tell him the details he needed later. "We're letting it stay in the parking lot. Brent's picking us up."
I nodded and started to walk toward the door. Might as well wait by the street, right?
******
I'd ruined the band. I was sure of it by then.
We were supposed to be on in that moment, but how could we possibly go on stage without a lead singer?
Brendon hadn't shown up for sound check and nobody had been able to reach his phone.
Brent thought he was simply running incredibly late.
I'm quite sure Spencer was having the same suspicions I did.
So there we were in our stage clothes, standing just back of the stage and hoping that Brendon would, by some twist of fate, turn up for this local show we were having.
The owner of the venue walked up to us, a grave expression on his face. "I'll be able to stall for ten more minutes, boys," he told us. "If you haven't gotten a hold of that damn singer of yours by then, I'll have to cancel and you'll have to make sure I don't loose any money on this. People didn't come here to see that warm-up band." He paused, looking more or less angrily at us. "Got it?"
"Got it," Spencer answered for all of us.
The owner stalked off, radiating anger.
Then my best friend turned back to me, a serious look in his eyes. "Ryan if Brend's not coming, don't you think Brent deserves to know why we may not have a lead singer anymore?"
I sighed, looking down at my shoes with a newfound interest. When there are things I want to avoid thinking about, I think about my shoes. I think you may have noticed that.
But Spencer was right, Brent did deserve an explanation, and with that realisation I let myself slip to the floor to sit against the wall, arms resting on my guitar and still looking down. This wasn't exactly going to be the most comfortable conversation ever.
"Brendon..." I trailed off, hating that I'd have to relive all of that.
I gazed up at the clock. Nine minutes left and counting.
"What about him?" Brent asked, looking very curious and sort of concerned.
I opened my mouth to answer to explain all of it when I was interupted my the sound of running steps.
"What the hell are you waiting for?" Brendon asked, looked over each of us, a look of mixed loathing, hurt and sadness in his eyes as they briefly met mine.
I was the one to look away first. And for the life of me I wished his eyes could've reflected pure loathing and none of the sadness and hurt. That would've been so much easier to deal with. Then we could both just hate each other and I wouldn't have to feel bad about what I'd done.
"You!" Brent answered angrily.
"He's here, it doesn't matter, let's get on stage," Spencer replied quickly, a look of deep relief on his face even as he sent the singer a scowl.
I took Brent's offered hand and let him haul me off the floor. "Tell you later," I muttered as I brushed my pants off.
Meanwhile the owner of the venue had shown up again, the relief on his face matching that on Spencer's. "I'll go announce you," he told us. "And feed them some story about technical difficulties or something, alright?"
"Fine," Brent answered as he slung his bass over his shoulder and adjusted the strap.
******
Being on stage this way was odd. Usually we were all happy to be right where we were with the exact people we were there with. This day we could barely find a common beat and half of the time it felt as if Brendon was running his own show on the side. He barely interacted with the audience and as opposed to the usual, he didn't say a word to me. It was what I'd expected but I never knew it would affect the way we played and I think the audience was noticing it. They weren't as into it as they mostly were and a few even seemed to have slightly disappointed looks on their faces. Who would've known the loss of closeness would be this obvious to outsiders?
We were a few songs into the concert and according to our regular set plan we were supposed to play Camisado. 'Supposed to' being the key word.
Brendon crossed the stage in a swift take while the rest of us were still playing the outro of the former song. He came to a halt in front of me and gave me a look designed to freeze my blood. He held his mic out of reach of his voice with one hand and covered mine with the other. "How about I start being my own voice?" he asked slowly, a cold, unhappy smile stretching over his face and never reaching his eyes. Then he turned around and walked back to the middle of the stage just as I played the last chord of the former song.
I knew something was up and I knew I wasn't going to like it. But I also didn't know how to stop it, so when Brendon started talking there was nothing I could do about it.
"Lying is the Most Fun a Certain Guy Can Have Without Taking His Clothes Off," Brendon screamed, half looking at me. So many emotions were etched on his face in that moment and I suspected he'd lost it. But somehow that wasn't the matter, it seemed it was nothing more than the usual stage euphoria mixed with the abundance of emotions he must've been going through. Still didn't mean he had to ruin the show, though.
But the thing is, to ruin a show completely it took the whole band. One loose cannon could be dealt with simply by following their every whim.
So, as such, I turned halfway around, gave Spencer a nod and pounded into the start of Lying, Brendon's voice following a moment later.
"Is it still me that makes you sweat?
Am I who you think about in bed?
When the lights are dim and your hands are shaking as you're sliding off your pants"
I missed a chord, but quickly regained my composure. It was now clear that the name of the song wasn't the only thing he'd twisted to serve his purpose. It was the whole set of lyrics. MY lyrics had been altered and turned in order to be used against me. The thought angered me so much that I nearly missed another chord, but I managed it and tried desperately to take my attention off his words. But one of my constant problems is my almost morbid curiosity. And so I couldn't help but listen as he kept singing.
"Then think of what you did, and how I hope to God it was worth it
When the lights are dim and your heart is racing as your fingers touch your skin
I've got more wit, a better kiss, a hotter touch, a better fuck
Than any girl you'll ever meet, bastard, you had me
Dude I was it, look past the sweat, a better love deserving of
Exchanging body heat in the passenger seat
No, no, no you know it will always just be, me...”
The looks he sent me told the now different story behind the song, made me clearly aware of how much he was hurting and how he tried to hate me as much as I did him. But his gaze held me transfixed and it was with difficulty that I remembered to step up to my own microphone to actually fucking aid him in wrecking my lyrics to become a small taste of what revenge I could expect. "Let's get these teen hearts beating faster, faster"
"So testosterone boys and harlequin girls
Will you dance to this beat and hold a lover close
So testosterone boys and harlequin girls
Will you dance to this beat and hold a lover close"
The rest of the song worked out the same way, minor changes that to other people could've just been the slip of the tongue, but to me they hurt and they mocked and they justified my anger because once again I was helpless, had to pretend nothing was wrong while I was helping him changing a song that had been perfectly good the way it already was.
Nevertheless, the show did go on. I managed fake smiles and complicated riffs with an odd indifference and we managed to wrap up the concert.
******
"How the hell can you not know the lyrics yet?" Brent yelled angrily. "Or the fucking set list?"
"I know both things perfectly well," Brendon answered cooly, seemingly unaffected.
"So you ruined the show on purpose?" the bassist asked again, still more or less shouting.
"It wasn't ruined," the singer argued with a shrug. "The audience didn't seem to have a lot against the change and I'm pretty sure the people who needed the different message got it."
"Brendon..." Spencer was taking over Brent's part in the conversation. "I know you've had a hard couple of days, but you can't go changing the songs to fit your mood. And you have as little right to manipulate his own words as you have of fucking hitting him." The drummers voice had fallen to a threatening low. He was clearly on the edge of starting a fist fight.
And he was talking about me as if I weren't there. I'd always hated that. Hence, my mood got even shittier.
Brent looked from Spencer to Brendon to me, a confused expression on his face. "What's going on here that I don't know about?" He asked slowly. "And was Brendon the one who hit you?"
I opened my mouth to start talking about the palm tree again, but everybody would know I was lying and by lying again I'd be working with the claims Brendon made in his version of 'Lying' and that was the last thing I wanted. "It doesn't matter," I answered.
"Ryan, you got fucking stitches, you're on painkillers and you can barely open your eye and 'it doesn't matter'?" the bassist asked incredulously.
"I don't want to talk," I growled angrily, finding my cigarettes and the lighter before turning around and facing them with the lit cig in mouth, already feeling how it was starting to calm me down.
"Somebody's going to have to," Brent said again. "I don't enjoy being left in the dark, you know."
"Get it out of Brendon, then!" I yelled, feeling like I couldn't stand being in the room anymore. "And Spencer can tell you my side. I'm going out."
Brent looked like he was about to protest, but one look from Spencer silenced him.
The drummer sighed, sending me a worried look. "Will you be home before sun-up today?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I wouldn't count on it," I muttered, a devious smile suddenly crossing over my lips. The way we were talking Brendon wouldn't be able to avoid getting what I'd been doing the previous night. And what I'd most likely be doing this night as well. And it would hurt him and the angry part of me, which was in charge at the moment, relished in that fact. I might have been whoring myself, but I put him down with me for every time I got easier, cheaper and stopped looking for anything special. In the words of one of my greatest role-models: 'Just a notch in my bedpost.'
"Try to take care of yourself, alright?" Spencer finally asked, knowing better than to stop me when I was in this mood. I didn't get pissed off easily, but when I was, you'd be stupid to interfere with anything.
"Of course," I answered, sending the three other teenagers a theatrical smile. "Nighty night, boys."