Chapter 35
“Zombie” - Yungblud
Rhett
It’s the last day of the tour. We’ll play our final show tonight, then fly home tomorrow. I don’t even know how I feel about it, because my chest is numb. When Saylor left, she stuck a needle full of oxycodone into my veins and pushed the plunger.
I do everything as if in a haze. I just can’t find it in me to give a shit.
I’m sure that will change eventually—once I get home and forget about how she smells like a summer day, forget the way she felt in my arms, like a fucking daydream with legs.
I might be able to lessen the sting of her leaving, might be able to get feeling back into my body, but I’ll never be the same again.
Like a riverbank that’s been forever changed by the stream, I’ll never be the man I used to be, thanks to her.
The guys are ready to get home. You can feel it on the bus. They’re calling their significant others, and the excitement in their voices is nauseating. Because while most of them have someone to go home to, my condo might as well be an abandoned house for all the life it holds.
I’ve managed to get drunk the last few nights and send more unsolicited texts to Saylor, begging her to forgive me, to call me, to please let me know she’s okay. Naturally, there’s been no response.
I grab a soda from the fridge and retreat to the bedroom for some solitude. I can only handle the guys’ enthusiasm for so long. No wonder people fighting depression stay home. It’s fucking misery to be out there.
I set my drink on the nightstand and throw myself onto the bed. The ceiling is a boring beige color, but I stare at it so long, I’m starting to think it’s the most interesting thing I’ve seen all day.
If Saylor were here, she’d make me laugh and forget about feeling like a wolf has eaten my heart straight from my chest. Of course, if Saylor were here, I wouldn’t feel this way.
She is the wolf. Even if I get my heart back some day, it won’t be the same.
It’ll be a mangled mess of flesh and blood.
It won’t resemble the organ it used to be.
Why the fuck am I still thinking about her? And how the fuck do I stop?
In rehab, they made us face our addictions head-on, admit to them, own them, then make the choice to put them behind us, to rise above them. I thought the whole thing was a crock of shit at the time, but looking back, I think it might actually have been effective.
Maybe I should try it again. Only this time, it feels like my drug of choice might actually kill me, regardless of whether I give it up or not.
I pull out my phone, a sudden idea in my mind. Something Saylor said weeks ago about telling everyone about my addiction rattles around in my head, and I’m hitting the record button before I even think about what I’m doing.
The only thing more powerful than your music is the story behind it.
I can still hear her voice, see her bright eyes in that hotel room as she said it. She always had faith that I would do the right thing, that no matter what, I would always have fans, even if they knew the truth.
It’s time to see if she was right.
I’m recording the video live, because I am a glutton for punishment. I’ve only done a few of these in the past, but the numbness in my chest makes it feel like a walk in the park. Who cares if my career implodes after this? I’ve already hit rock bottom. At least there’s not much further I can fall.
The red light flashes at me from my phone screen, reminding me I’ve already been recording for thirty seconds.
Comments are rolling in, people ecstatic to see me, even if I’m lying on my bed, looking like shit with my bloodshot eyes and sallow skin.
Turns out I need Saylor beside me in order to sleep the whole night.
Apparently, I also need her in my life in order to have an appetite appropriate for my size.
Now that she’s gone, I’m surviving on fumes.
“Hey, everyone,” I finally manage to say after tamping down the Saylor memories long enough to find words. “How’s it going?”
A flurry of comments descends after that, but I don’t bother reading them. I have a mission, and if I don’t carry it out soon, I’m afraid I never will.
“I need to tell you something, something that will probably change the way you think about me. May even make you hate me.” I take a deep breath. “I’m a drug addict. I was in rehab for three months. I’ve been clean for nearly a year.”
The commenters are going berserk, but I don’t pause to read what they’re saying.
“Only a few people know about it. I did my best to keep it a secret, because I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to be a disappointment, and I was afraid of what you would think if you knew the truth.”
I picture Eddie watching this video later and try to imagine the kind of fallout I’ll be facing when I get home. It won’t be pretty, that’s for sure.
“Someone told me once,” I continue, “that the only thing more powerful than my music is the story behind it. I don’t know if they were right; I’ll let you be the judge of that. The truth is, most of my debut album was written in rehab.”
I swipe at my nose and pray I can make it through this without choking up.
God, crying on camera would be even more mortifying than this confession.
“You guys love ‘Take a Chance on Me,’ but I bet you never guessed I wrote it after sitting in rehab for a month. It’s a universal theme—we all want people to take a chance on us—but the truth is, I wrote it about my addiction specifically.
I didn’t want it to define the rest of my life.
I didn’t want it to change the way people saw me.
Just like I hope this confession doesn’t change the way you see me, even though I know it will. ”
I mentally scroll through the rest of my songs, then sniff out a laugh. “You’ll love this one. ‘Burning Through the Darkness’? Literally about being high, but from the perspective of someone who’s no longer high. Listen to it again, and you’ll see what I mean.”
I share the details behind the lyrics of several more songs, including “Electric Heartbeat,” “Fighting My Reflection,” and “Stronger than Yesterday.” I’ve ignored the comments up until now, but I’m curious to see how big the blaze is on this fire I’ve set.
My brother is in rehab right now. I can’t wait to tell him to listen to your album.
This is so encouraging. I’ve struggled with addiction for years and always felt alone.
I want to know more! Did you write “Perfectly Imperfect” in rehab too?
My mouth falls open as I read. Those are just the tip of the iceberg. Saylor was right. People are eating this stuff up.
When I swallow, there’s a lump in my throat that wasn’t there before. I know I can’t end this here. It was never just about the music, or even just about recovery. My story didn’t end in rehab. In fact, rehab feels like the prologue to the real story.
I clear my throat and hide the comments for now.
“There’s actually more I need to tell you guys.
I wrote the album in rehab, that much is true, but I hid that fact from my record label.
They wanted someone without a past, and I knew they’d take one look at mine and decide I wasn’t a good investment.
So I hid it. Didn’t tell them about the addiction or the recovery.
“When they sent me on tour, I knew there’d be drugs and shit. I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough to resist, so I asked someone to come with me. To help me abstain, and all that.”
I rub a hand over my face at the memories that are flooding back as I relive this over a live video feed.
“There was a girl. We knew each other like ten years ago. We had one of those cliché summer camp flings, but then I was a douchebag and never called her after we got home.” I lift the corners of my mouth in a grim smile.
“You’ll find that’s kind of a theme for me.
“When I ran into her again, I knew she’d be perfect for the job.
She doesn’t put up with my bullshit. She doesn’t care about the fame.
In fact, she pretended she didn’t know who I was when we bumped into each other.
” I close my eyes and smile as I picture Saylor in that adorable hat, cheeks flushed with embarrassment as we picked up her stuff at the bottom of the stairs.
“But when I asked her to join me on tour, she said no. I should have respected that. But I’m a douchebag, remember?
So I wouldn’t leave her alone. I pestered her and pestered her until she finally agreed to come on tour with me and pretend to be my girlfriend.
Technically, she was only supposed to keep me from slipping into using again, but since the label didn’t know about my addiction, I needed to give them a reason for her being here.
The fake girlfriend thing was exactly that—a lie to the record label, my band mates, and my fans to hide the fact that I’m an addict.
“It worked. Everyone bought it. They all thought Saylor and I were madly in love. We weren’t, but then somehow, we were.” My voice breaks, and I take a few seconds to compose myself before continuing.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. But have you seen her? It would have been impossible not to fall for her.” I squeeze my eyes shut to prevent moisture from collecting there. I cannot cry on social media. God, I’d never live down the shame of that.
“She made it very clear that nothing was going to happen between us. Her boundaries were very firm, and she is a force to be reckoned with. But I hate it when people don’t like me, so doing what I do best, I douchebagged my way past her boundaries.
I’m not saying I did anything she wasn’t okay with, but—” I stop, trying to find the right words for the next part.
“I screwed up. I see that now. If I could do it differently, I would, but only if it meant still keeping her. Because she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I would do anything to go back and change things so she wouldn’t get hurt the way she did.
I know I don’t deserve her. I’m a fucked-up drug addict who manipulates people to get what he wants. At least now you know the truth.”
I heave out a sigh, my chest lighter somehow. “I guess that’s all I have to say. I’m going to do better. I’m going to be better. If there’s anything Saylor taught me, it’s that we all have the potential for greatness inside us.”
I end the video and let the phone drop beside me on the bed. Shoving my hand into my hair, I play it all back in my mind, already thinking of a million things I should’ve said differently, but it’s too late now. That video will determine the rest of my career, and I couldn’t care less.
My text message chime goes off, and I glance at the screen. My dad. What the fuck is he texting me about?
Dad: Hey, son. Just watched your video. Very commendable. I was thinking, I could fly to NYC to see you before you head home.
My first instinct is to say yes, to tell him that’d be great. But then I remember how it was having him at my show in Nashville, and the interview he gave afterward, calling me “decent” for a newbie. Now, I want nothing more than to tell him to fuck off.
My thumb hovers over the keypad, itching to type out the words, to tell him what a jackass he is. But then the desire vanishes. Instead, I switch off the power on my phone. I won’t reply to him. He’s not worthy of one anyway. He’ll just find a way to twist my words and come out on top.
I sit up and grab my guitar, which is still leaning against the bed from last night.
I never even bothered to put it away. Not anymore.
Starting now, I’m going to be a different man.
A better man. Not so I can deserve Saylor—that’ll never happen in a million years—but because if she ever loved me, she deserves to know it wasn’t completely in vain.
That what she saw in me was there, even if I didn’t realize it until it was too late.
Because if I only accomplish one thing, I want it to be proving to her that she was right about me all along.
I settle the guitar across my legs and start to strum. This time, I’m writing the lyrics down. This song also deserves its time in the spotlight, even if the label drops me. Because Saylor was right—the story behind the song is even more powerful than the music.