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That’s when I turned to them: the pills and booze that helped dull the trauma, but now they’ve become a prison. My family looks at me with such pity and disappointment in their eyes. But they don’t understand the demons I face. They don’t hear the screams at night. This is my cross to bear, and it’s crushing me but unfortunately not killing me.
It’s all I have to silence the memories and dull the pain, even if just for a little while. Can you blame me? I never asked for any of this. But there seems to be no way out. I’m broken, maybe beyond repair.
Do I have a death wish? I wouldn’t call it that, but I also don’t follow basic safety rules. Like not driving my motorcycle and smashing it against a wall. Not taking pain meds while pushing my Ferrari to 120 miles per hour . . . or my favorite—going to an underground fighting ring to get beaten up by professionals.
And doing the last two at the same time . . . Well, that’s exactly why I’m here. Crestwood Medical Pavilion. One of the most exclusive hospitals in New York in a big ass private room.
According to my older brother, Bartók, I went through some “remodeling,” as he jokingly put it when I came out of surgery. My guts needed adjustments. Some bones have new hardware and other medical shit I didn’t understand.
Ellington, his twin, wasn’t as funny or understanding about it. “Either you get your shit together, or I will,” he said bluntly.
Honestly, I don’t know what that means, but my current situation isn’t ideal.
My band is over my shit since we keep canceling or rescheduling tour dates and recording time. They’re about to kick me out, and maybe it’s for the best. My heart still bleeds music, but playing in venues isn’t something I love anymore.
If I had a choice, they should’ve left me in the ditch and just picked up my corpse next spring. Though it sounds fucking dramatic, feeling like I’m suffocating and desperately needing something to ease the pain is harrowing. And to top it all off, my body is shivering uncontrollably.
Every breath I take feels like labor. My entire body is a map of pain—sharp jolts from my broken ribs, a deep throb in my fractured leg. The room is dim, but I can make out the plaster cast encasing the leg, the bluish hue of bruises peeking out from the edges. The sterile scent of the hospital room assaults my senses, but it’s the silent scream of my soul that dominates my attention.
And then there’s my left hand, pinned and braced in some contraption I’ve never seen before. Panic claws up my throat as I realize I might never play guitar again. Without my music, my lifeline, I’m nothing. No one. Just a hollow shell.
My heart hammers against battered ribs, each frantic beat sending fresh waves of blinding pain through my broken body. I’m fucking useless like this—a discarded marionette with severed strings.
When Joplin was here, he relayed how news outlets proclaimed I’ve beaten the odds by pulling through. Yet surrounded by monitors and wrecked by pain, I can’t see this as a victory. My little brother meant well, sharing how everyone says I should be grateful to have survived. But as I stare down a bleak recovery, barely clinging to life, all I feel is cheated—cheated of peace, of relief, of an end to this unrelenting suffering.
The cruel irony is that the one thing that can ease my pain is forbidden, thanks to my history of addiction. The doctors refused medication, as did my family. So I’m trapped in agony—the relentless throbbing of broken bones and the desperate craving for relief.
Feverish heat radiates from my injuries while cold sweat wracks my body. I shiver uncontrollably as memories flash through my mind—the slick road, my car spinning out, the world upended. Then darkness.
Tears pressure the back of my eyes, threatening to spill, blurring my vision. They’re the result of not just the physical torment but the emotional maelstrom churning within.My family’s faces haunt me—their disappointment, their lingering hope that I can still turn things around.
As I’m about to call a doctor and beg for some relief, there’s a soft knock on the door before it opens. It’s my father giving me that pity-disappointed glare that he’s been perfecting since my first accident. I didn’t think he would visit me in the hospital. Joplin said this time I’m on my own. The funny thing is that I’ve felt like that for years—alone, abandoned.
“Well, at least this time you didn’t kill anyone, and I didn’t have to fix your bloody mess,” he says, his faint English accent tinged with bitterness.
Honestly, I’m not sure how to respond to that. Sorry I’m such a disappointment, but I wish you could understand how much my soul hurts?
Once upon a time we used to get along. He was so proud of me, my choices, even considered me the best of his children. But these days, just like me, he probably wishes I had died in that plane crash.
I close my eyes, trying to avoid his scrutinizing glare and block out the past, but the memories keep forcing their way to the surface.
“Don’t start, Dad,” I hear Ellington speak up in a warning tone. When I open my eyes, he’s hovering closer, looking at me with concern. He’s holding an envelope in his hand. “How are you feeling?”
I meet his gaze, seeing my own anguish and exhaustion reflected back. How do I feel? I feel like I need some codeine if not morphine, anything to numb me, I want to respond. No, I want to beg for it like an addict who needs his next fix, so as I’ve done for so many years, I stay quiet. I can’t remember when I started having two different conversations at the same time—one with myself and the other with the people around me.
They barely know what I’m actually thinking or feeling. I doubt I’ll ever be able to tell anyone the dark, twisted thoughts that cross my mind. The urges to find oblivion by any means necessary. I can never voice the demons that haunt me.
Ellington watches, expecting a response. I force indifference, concealing the vortex within. How can I explain the cravings coursing through my veins, the reckless impulses, the part that wants to self-destruct just for some fleeting control? He’ll never understand this compulsion to chase the nightmares, to court death again and again.
My brother presses his lips together, nodding slowly. As if he understands my silence. But I doubt he comprehends the true magnitude of what’s going on in my head and the torment wracking my body.
“As you recall, the doctor told us your recovery is going to take a long time,” Ellington pauses as if waiting for that to sink in. “We might’ve found an excellent rehab facility that can assist you. They’re making the necessary accommodations.”
My eyes narrow into slits as I regard him blearily. Rehab. Again. Pointless. Hasn’t worked so far no matter how many times I’ve tried. Why would this time be any different? I need something they can’t offer. My will is weak, and my vices provide escape. One more time down that hole . . . who would really care if I never returned?
My father growls at something I can’t understand.
“I know, I know,” Ellington says. “Been there, done that. He has an entire closet with t-shirts and memorabilia from each place he’s visited.”
