Chapter Twenty-Four
Ryden
“It’s the sun, right? It’s the sun and its skin – wait, the sun and its skin? It’s the beast in the Bronco –”
Arc some wounds never heal no matter how long ago they scarred you.
But if she needed that time, I’d give her that.
At least she’s not here to rip into you about your vices. Those were the voices that calmed me down. The ones that encouraged the drugs, the alcohol – the fleeting feeling of forgetfulness, neglectful to my own self.
I dabbed a coin of powder onto my hand and sniffed.
Fuck.
It burrrrnedddddd.
It electrocuted me.
My nose tingled, itchy for more.
Scarlett’s not here right now. So I gave in.
That floating feeling, that high – so indescribable to people who have never been through loss, through pain – the strong ones who can cope without numbness, covered in battle scars, whereas I, Rock star Ryden Spectre, lead singer of Jaw & Lion, couldn’t function without my red-headed Dove, and a pinch of poison.
***
“You’re not looking too well, Mr. Spectre.”
Morty.
Beside me.
Suburban.
Tour party.
“Mr. Spectre, I can turn this car around.”
“NO!” My voice. Hoarse? Coated.
“Ryden, there will be a lot of people and you perform tomorrow.”
Mallory. Behind me.
Kind voice.
Worried.
“SPECTRE! SPECTRE! SPECTRE!”
Fans.
Cheering.
Outside.
“Grab my arm,” Morty. Sighing.
“We’ll hold onto him. He just needs to show his face, right Ryden?” Hands. Pinching my cheeks. “Smile for the cameras.”
Blinding light.
Everywhere.
My own.
Personal.
Hell.