Chapter 47
FORTY-SEVEN
DECLAN
I'd like to consider myself a high-functioning addict.
I've never traded favors for drugs or lost my livelihood like I've seen happen to others. Even when I'm high, I still show up for work and put on the best show possible.
Those two hours I get to be on stage are an escape all by itself, and I don't need drugs to get through it. Hearing my fans scream my lyrics back at me is enough.
I may not be able to get through my day without the frequent bump of blow, but at least I'm lucid and able to show up for the things I need to do.
I don't have a problem. I'm fucking fine. Something I assure myself numerous times a day.
So fucking fine.
Being in New York again makes my skin crawl. The moment we crossed the state line, the demons and baggage I left behind welcomed me home, clinging to me like a second skin as if I'd never left.
When we arrived last night, I was so desperate to escape the memories haunting me that I called a number I had saved in my phone for years. Part of me hoped the number would no longer be in service, but while I sat there praying, my prayers were ignored and cut short when Tommy's voice came on the other line.
Two hours later, he was meeting me at my hotel room, and then I spent the night passed out.
This morning was supposed to be better, but I woke from a dream about Luca. The memory that had played in my mind was so vivid, and when I opened my eyes, I could still hear his voice in my ears as I tore my hotel room apart, searching for him and screaming his name.
I'd fallen asleep after that, my dream long forgotten. When I woke for the second time, my mind was consumed with thoughts of Andy.
Andy's naked body writhing beneath me.
Andy's lips pressed against mine.
Andy's laughter in my ears.
She tore herself apart for me during our conversation on the phone, reliving a traumatic moment in her life to make me feel better about myself. Hearing that I saved her made me feel like scum because all I wanted was to tell her that she saved me too, but that would be a lie.
A lie I desperately want to be true.
I've realized the only person who can save me is myself. How ironic is that? I have to save myself from myself.
The biggest threat to me is me.
The fucking irony.
Hearing Andy's story should've been the moment that I decided to clean up my act and get myself better, but that would be too easy, and apparently, I like doing shit the hard way.
Instead, I loaded a spoon with powder and water and cooked it with my lighter until it was bubbling. Then I added the cotton and loaded my syringe, keeping it steady so the needle didn't touch the spoon. Instead of shooting up on my arms and risking anyone noticing the fresh track marks, I wrapped the belt around my calf and shot up in the vein at my ankle.
I've always preferred the white powder over the black tar I got from Amber. The white powder is purer, and the high seems to hit differently.
The high hit instantly, relief washed over me, and I was fucking floating. Mind free from worrying about everyone that I was letting down.
I was floating.
Down, down, down, into the darkness I went.
The high wore off too quickly, but I hadn't shot as much as usual, considering I needed to be ready for my show.
See?
I'm responsible and perfectly fine.
I'm functioning.
Sure, I may have been late to the venue, but I'm here.
After a shot of vodka and a line of blow, I'm bouncing backstage, mumbling lyrics to myself as I prepare for our first show in New York. It's been years since we've performed here, and despite my feelings about this goddamn city, I'm determined to make this the best show yet.
"Hey, Dec." Adam approaches me, eyeing me cautiously. "You good, man?"
I stop moving, standing still as I stare at the man who has been my best friend and been by my side since I was sixteen.
An easy smile spreads across my lips. "Of fucking course, man. I'm great!" That might've been a little enthusiastic, but I'm excited. Anxious to get on that stage and give our fans the best night of their lives. My foot taps, arms wrapping around myself as I scratch at my forearms.
Adam stares into my eyes, shaking his head at what he sees in me.
I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
Does he see what a fuck up I've become? Or have always been? I'm sure I've always been this way.
I've always been nothing.
A waste of space.
"You're high, aren't you?" He shakes his head, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. After that night in Seattle, he never said anything to Benny, Cole, or Damon when he caught me partying. He's tried talking to me about it, but I've avoided him as much as possible. Luckily, he hadn't tried talking to me while on the tour bus either, considering we didn't have privacy.
I click my tongue at his question, rolling my eyes at the accusation. Before I can tell any lies, he interrupts, "You are. We both know you are." He sighs, yanking a hand from his pocket and shoves it through his hair. "We're going to have a talk once you're sober because I refuse to talk to you when you're like this. Just know, you're letting yourself and everyone around you down. You're fucking better than this." Sadness fills his eyes, and I know he's disappointed.
I am, too.
"Don't do anything else tonight. You need to sober up and then be sober after the show. Please, Declan. Be fucking sober after the show."
I hold up my hands in mock surrender. "Yes, Dad." I salute him. "I'll be sober. Whatever you say."
He doesn't look convinced or amused by my response. "I'll be watching you tonight. Just—" He groans, running his fingers through his year once again, something he does whenever he's feeling frustrated. "You have to be sober tonight. It's important. Please." He pleads with his eyes. I get the sense that he's not telling me something, but I don't push for answers.
Instead, I nod, then follow him to where Damon and Cole stand beside the stage, waiting for the lights to lower to illuminate the stage which will be our signal for us to come out on stage.
The moment we make our appearance, the crowd goes wild, "Hello, New York! Welcome to our show, thank you for fucking being here!" I place my finger against my lips to silence the roaring, sold-out crowd.
"Tonight, we're going to do shit a little differently. As everyone knows, we always begin every show by playing 'Rockstar.' Tonight, though, I want to kick us off by playing a song we haven't performed in years." More cheers erupt, and I wait, letting the noise fade before I continue speaking. From the side, I can see my bandmates glancing at each other, unsure what to make of this sudden change.
I should've warned them ahead of time.
"I wrote this song when I thought that was the lowest point of my life." I chuckle, shaking my head at the memory. Back when I was twenty-four, battling depression and swearing that was the lowest point in my life, little did I know that one day I'd tumble even lower and fall into darkness that made my struggles at twenty-four seem easy. "You all know that I've struggled with shit in the past, and I know that many of you have, too." Screams fill my ears, and they are so loud I can hear them through my earpieces.
"Someone recently told me that this song saved her. So, I'd like to sing it for you tonight in hopes that it can help anyone out there who is struggling. I know it's hard, but fight to live another day because brighter fucking days are ahead!" I turn to face my bandmates, and they each give me a nod, knowing exactly what song we're about to play. "This song is called 'It's Over Now', and as we play, I want you to imagine I'm speaking to you directly rather than a crowd of people." I remove the microphone from the stand, walk toward the edge of the stage, and then jump down.
Security wrangles the jumping crowd as they rush toward me, arms outstretched and attempting to grab hold of any piece of me they can. I stand in front of the metal gate barrier, one hand gripping the mic and bringing it to my mouth while my other hand reaches out into the crowd, grabbing the outstretched hand of the boy in front of me.
The dark-haired boy can't be older than twenty-one, his shaggy hair sticking out of the red beanie. His black Riot T-shirt is faded, with holes lining the collar. There's a sadness in his teary eyes that calls out to me, tugging at my heart as I feel his pain.
Looking over at him, I notice the too-short jeans he's wearing and the checkered vans with a hole on the top that his sock-cockered toe peeks out of.
Staring into his eyes is like staring into the eyes of my younger self. Based on his appearance, I'm guessing he's either homeless or living in a less-than-ideal situation. Instantly, I'm curious how he managed to get tickets to our show, but that's an answer I can get another time.
Keeping his hand held firm between mine, the first note of the bass rings out into the screaming room, but I remain staring into the eyes of my younger self as I begin singing.
What's the point of being here if all I feel is pain?
Am I living, or am I existing?
The demons in my mind call out to me, promising sweet serenity.
A bullet to the brain can provide relief.
Sweet, sweet, relief.
As expected, the show is fucking epic.
After we finished our first song, I'd told one of the security guards to bring the kid backstage after the last song, so I wasn’t surprised when I walked back and found familiar wide brown eyes staring at me like I was the reason for the stars in the sky.
The kid rocks on his heels, hands buried in his pockets, jaw dropped as he watches the four of us step backstage.
"What's up, man?" Damon greets him, a smile on his face as he embraces our fan in a hug. Every tour, we do meet and greets at as many shows as possible. This time, since we only have two weeks of shows lined up, no meet and greets were scheduled. And I'll be honest, I miss the close connection with our fans.
Luckily, my best friends know me well enough that they know I won't bring someone backstage unless I feel it's important, so they don't question me. Not yet, at least. I know they'll have questions once we're alone, but right now, in front of the kid, they're fulfilling his every fantasy, judging based on the look in his eyes.
I join them after my three best friends introduce themselves. "What's your name?" I ask, stepping into their circle.
"Aiden," the kid says. Deep dimples pierce his cheeks when he smiles.
I return his smile. "Thanks for coming to our show, Aiden." He holds his hand out, unsure if he should shake my hand or greet me in any other way.
Just like my friends, I open my arms for a hug, and the kid nearly knocks me down as he rushes toward me, his arms tight around my bare torso as he hugs me, shoulder shaking with silent sobs.
He's nearly as tall as me, though his build is much smaller. He's tall and lanky, and his baby face shows how young he is.
Adam pats me on the back, disappearing from sight with Cole and Damon by his side as he allows us a moment, sensing that Aiden is clearly going through some shit and needs this moment.
I don't rush him or say anything. I let him hug me with silent cries and hold him right back.
When he's ready, he pulls away, wiping away the tears from his face. "Sorry about that," he says, shyness creeping in as he looks everywhere but at me.
"Don't be sorry for needing a moment. Want to go sit?" I nod toward the black leather sofa. When he nods, I lead him over, pulling two bottles of water from the mini fridge and tossing him one. He catches it before sitting on the sofa while I drop myself into the chair across from him.
"What's your story, kid? How old are you?"
"Nineteen, today, actually." He shrugs. "It's my birthday. Riot has been my favorite band for years, and when I heard you guys were coming, I had to come to see you." He removes the beanie from his head, showing his fingers through the damp sweaty strands. "I won tickets on a radio show. Took three days of calling, but I won. Then, I camped outside for eight hours to ensure I'd be the first one in the door. I love the way you capture the crowd and tear open your soul each time you perform. One day, I want to be just like you." The majority of our shows are general admission, and every time, there's a line of people who arrive early for the chance to be in the front row when the doors open.
I'm not a fucking role model, but damn if I didn't wish I was worthy enough to be one. "Happy birthday," I say, choosing to not acknowledge his comment about being like me. I unscrew the lid off the bottle and chug half at once, the bottle crinkling and popping with my suction. Once I'm done, I screw the lid back on and wipe the water from my mouth. "When I saw you out there, you reminded me a lot of myself at your age." His eyes widen in surprise.
There's not much posted online about my past. No one knows about my life prior to forming Riot and blowing up what seemed like overnight. The only pieces of my story I've given anyone are in my lyrics, and speculation formed from that, but I've never confirmed anything.
Something about this kid has me wanting to share, so I open my mouth and do just that. "I had a pretty fucked up childhood. Mom was an addict. Dad wasn't around. Foster care and group homes were my life until I met Adam, and we ran away. We were homeless for a while until we met Cole and Damon. Cole lived in his dad's garage then, and he moved us all in. The four of us have been through a lot of shit, but we believed in ourselves, and one day, it paid off."
He stares intensely at me, soaking up everything I have to say. "I know a little something about addiction," he mutters, staring down at his hands in his lap. I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees, waiting for him to continue. "My dad died of an overdose, and my mom kicked me out when she found out I was using. I've been staying with friends and on the streets." My assumptions about him being homeless are confirmed.
Fuck. This kid is too damn young to be doing drugs, but who am I to judge? I've been using since I was thirteen. "What are you on?" I ask, swallowing as my throat becomes dry at seeing him. Taking in his disheveled appearance and long sleeves, I realize the answer is pointless. "You're on H, aren't you?" The whispered words hang heavy between us.
Aiden's head pops up, pulling the frayed sleeves of his shirt down over his pale hands. The fact that he's wearing long sleeves in summer should've been a good indicator, along with his itching and twitches. I'd be the one to know, considering I'm on the same fucking shit.
"I don't want to be, but it's the only way to escape reality. My life is pretty fucked up." Fuck, he even sounds like me. I've used the same tired excuses time and time again.
"Drugs are not the solution,"
I realize I'm a walking fucking advertisement for D.A.R.E. I have no room to give anyone advice when I've never been able to take my own. "No matter how big your problems are, kid, you can't risk your life by doing that shit. H will fucking kill you, and you have your entire life ahead of you."
He pins me with a dark stare. "You did. You were on drugs, so don't tell me that they're not the solution. You wanted to escape just like I did." He refers to my use in past tense. Little does he know, I'm currently in active addiction. I have a baggie of coke in my shoe right now, and H is sitting in my duffle bag at the hotel.
"You're right." I run my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots. Standing, I make my way over to the couch where Aiden is and sit down beside him. "I made a lot of fucking mistakes. Even overdosed once, too. Had it not been for my ex-wife carrying Narcan and getting home in time, I wouldn't be here right now." He turns his head to look at me, eyes widening at the confession I've never shared with anyone apart from family and close friends.
"I don't want you to be like me. Be better than me. Clean up, believe in yourself, go home to your mom, and have a future. Put this shit behind you and live your life. You're too fucking young to be willing to throw it all away for a temporary high." His eyes fill with tears, the tip of his upturned nose turning red.
"I'll help you, Aiden, if you let me."
"You would do that for me?" he asks in a small voice.
I nod. "It's fucking hard and may feel like it's impossible, but I will help you. You can go to rehab and take it day by day." He scoots closer to me and wraps his arms around me, giving me another tight hug.
Wow, look at me. Sponsoring a nineteen-year-old kid for fucking rehab.
The hypocrisy isn't lost on me.
I'm willing to help him, but not myself.
I need to help myself.
Like Aiden, I can't spend the rest of my life being this person.
When my friends eventually return, Aiden sticks around for a while with us, and we load him up with all of our band merch. We paid for one of our drivers to take him to a hotel for tonight since he didn't have a place to go, and then I called Benny to fill him in about the kid and ask for help getting him into a rehab program.
After Aiden left, I went into the bathroom, dug the baggie of white powder from my shoe, and flushed it down the toilet.
How can I make someone else see their worth if I can't see mine?
I watched the drugs disappear until there was nothing left.
Wish it made me feel better, but it didn't. I felt numb as I hoped this would be it.
This has to be the end.
I can't take this life anymore.