Chapter Nineteen – Logan
I don’t know what made me go to the cemetery and take that fucking guitar. I should’ve known something would happen, that someone would stumble upon me. Stupid fucking me for thinking it’d be quiet, the perfect place for me to play and sing for the first time since…
The first time since I lost everything.
All that I was. All that I wanted to be. All of my hopes and dreams, my lifestyle; everything was taken from me because I… well, because I’m an asshole, that’s why. Because I said some stupid things while in character.
I haven’t picked up a fucking guitar for longer than ten seconds since, just like I haven’t written any lyrics or tried to sing them. Never felt the urge to. I wouldn’t say I was depressed, but what’s the point in doing any of that when I’m just a nobody? Just Logan Crew.
But of course someone happened to stumble upon me, and for some goddamned reason, it had to be her. It always has to be her. It’s like we’re tied together by some invisible string, always happening upon the other when we’re least expecting it.
My sour mood doesn’t dissipate by the next day, so I skip all my classes. I shouldn’t get in the habit of doing that so early in the semester, but, fuck, I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to be anywhere near her. I’d rather be locked up inside this stupid house, alone.
Being alone isn’t something I’m used to. When I was Pope of Black Sacrament, I was never alone. If I wasn’t with the guys, I was with girls—and when I wasn’t in character, I was typically with girls still. Having fun. Living life. Making mistakes. Shooting the shit. All of which I can’t do now.
I spend too much time thinking about Wren.
I should’ve stayed away from her. Taken her home, fucked her like she wanted, and then steered clear of her, but no—I had to push.
I had to make myself at home next to her in class, force us to be in a group together.
I didn’t give her a choice in any of it.
If I would’ve kept my distance, I wouldn’t be so fucked up right now.
The way she stared at me when she saw it was me back at the cemetery… the look on her face, her lips parted ever so slightly, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing or hearing. She liked what she heard. Maybe she was even impressed.
It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
Fuck. Why’d I have to go to the cemetery? If I really wanted to play, I had a whole house to play in.
I hate this house. The rooms are too small, too stifling. I’m used to large, open spaces, with high ceilings. Nicer places. Newer, renovated. I hate living here. I hate going to college like I’m some boring asshole. I hate everything about my life.
And for some goddamned reason, that hate is more easily overlooked when I’m with Wren.
I don’t know why. It pisses me off. I’ve tried to go out, drink, get wasted and hook up with a girl whose name I wouldn’t remember in the morning, but I could never fucking do it.
I blamed Wren, but maybe it’s me. I am the colossal fuckup here.
I skip classes Thursday too, but once Friday rolls around, I figure I shouldn’t let it go on like this.
If I’m not careful, I’ll spend the rest of the semester avoiding Wren.
So, I go to class. I sit through a long lecture in my intro to sociology class before it’s time to go to psychology, and when I step foot into the auditorium, I already see Wren sitting in the front row.
My first instinct is to go to her and take my spot beside her, but the doom and gloom that has followed me ever since she stumbled upon me in the cemetery stops me. I instead take a seat in the back row, and thankfully there’s enough people in the rows between us that I can barely see her at all.
Professor Reese walks in, and as he’s setting his bag down by the podium, Wren gets up and goes to talk to him.
I try not to pay too much attention to the whole interaction, but I’d be lying if I say the warm smile on our professor’s face doesn’t piss me off.
He says something, and though I can’t hear it, I’m pretty sure she laughs.
She fucking laughs, like they’re at a bar flirting instead of in a goddamned classroom.
On my lap, my hands clench into fists. Crazy as it is, my first instinct is to storm down the stairs, head right to our professor, and introduce him to my fists. A bizarre urge indeed, since I want nothing to do with Wren.
She’s not my girlfriend. I don’t do girlfriends. If she wants to flirt with the professor, she can go right ahead. It’s none of my business.
I keep telling myself that, but remaining seated is just about the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
After a long minute, Wren goes back to her seat. She doesn’t see me in the back row; her head doesn’t turn in my direction. Why would it? She doesn’t seem to be missing my presence at all. That pisses me off more than I care to admit.
How can I be this fucked up while she’s completely fine? It should be the opposite. She should be the one pining for me while I go on with my life, oblivious to her and her desperate need for me. The tables have turned somehow, and I don’t appreciate it one bit.
Class begins, and I spend the entire time seething. Professor Reese starts his lecture, and unlike Wren, he actually scans the entire auditorium. Maybe it’s all in my head, but I swear the motherfucker spots me and lingers on me a few seconds too long.
Fuck him. Fuck everybody. Fuck Wren, too—just, you know, not literally. Did that once, don’t need to do it again, even if it’s been on my mind too much lately.
Class cannot be over soon enough, and I’m the first one out when class ends. I don’t want to risk Wren seeing me and trying to talk to me. Not yet. Not when I haven’t gotten my head cleared.
I know, I know, I’m a pathetic piece of shit, but it’s like the whole world turned upside-down and is refusing to right itself.
She’s a nobody. I shouldn’t care. She’s not even my type. I much prefer the kind of girls who trip over themselves to get to me.
I get home and lock myself in the dark. What I wouldn’t give to have something to smoke right now, some kind of pill to take—or, fuck, even some powder to snort.
Anything. I’d take anything to make me feel better.
The most I’ve been able to find in this city is weed, and while weed might help mellow me out, it’s not strong enough.
My phone buzzes while I’m sticking my head in the refrigerator, wishing I had something strong to drink. With a sigh, I pull my phone out of my pocket to see who it is, and for some stupid reason, that dumb box in my chest sinks when I see it’s just my brother.
I meander to the living room and plop down on the couch as I read the message: How’s it going at MSU?
My brother has never been one to reach out, not really. He’s angry and avoidant like me. Still, when it comes to family, we’re both trying to be better. We talk now more than we did when I first got kicked out of Black Sacrament.
I send him a message back: I don’t know that I’m cut out for this shit, bro.
The dots appear, like he’s typing something, and then those dots stop, like he changed his mind about whatever he was going to say. The words that eventually pop up on my screen are ones I don’t expect: You ok?
Just two words. A simple question that should have a simple answer, only it doesn’t.
My immediate reaction is to type out a single word, yes, but then I hesitate before I send it, and I end up deleting those three letters before typing two different ones in the form of the word: No.
My brother responds by calling, and I groan.
I’m not really in the mood to talk, but…
maybe it would be nice to offload. Maybe talking about it to someone who’s not actually here, someone who can tell it to me straight, would make me feel better.
There are only three people in the world who can possibly understand what I’m going through, and my brother is one of them.
I answer the phone and lean my head back on the couch, staring at the ceiling as I say, “Hey.”
“Logan, what’s going on?” My brother’s voice is worried, the concern laced within each word.
Deacon is what he goes by at Black Sacrament.
It’s crazy how something might not be your birth-given name, but when you use it enough, it’s what it feels like.
Hell, I probably respond quicker to Pope than I do Logan.
All I do is sigh, and Deacon is quiet for a while. I can’t help but wonder where he is, if he’s with the others… or if he’s with that girl, Angel. The one who took my place. The one who’s dating all of them simultaneously.
Eventually, I say, “This shit is just harder than I thought it would be.” I chuckle, although it’s a sound full of bitterness and self-resentment.
“Who knew going to fucking college would be harder than going on tour?” I close my eyes as memories flash in my head, vivid as if they happened just yesterday.
“What I wouldn’t give to be on tour right now. ”
“That’s because when we went on tour, you fucked around all the time. You only put in the work when you were on stage.”
Hmm. I don’t really remember it being like that, but I do remember the drugs and the pussy were always better when you were on the road.
The actual performing part was miniscule.
Still, his easy response makes me wonder if, perhaps, I saw things with rose-colored glasses when it came to Black Sacrament.
After a few moments of thought, I mutter, “Maybe you’re right. I…”
“What’s happening? Just spit it out.”
I close my eyes. “I can’t fucking shake the anger, man. Not at you and the others, but… at the whole damn world. Being Logan again after so long—” I run my hand along the side of my face as I sit up and hunch forward. “—I feel like an imposter in my own skin.”
“Maybe you lost yourself too much in Pope.”