Page 55 of A Tragic Melody

“I thought you said you weren’t doing drugs for twenty-five hours?”

“Change of plans. Drug me. Now.”

Quinn looks at me, studying me for a moment, before looking down at her. Sighing, he turns and walks down the row of bunks.

“I wish you could see how fucking pathetic you look right now. I should take a picture to show you just how disgusting you are. Covered in sweat, vomit, and shaking like a wet cat, begging for drugs. It’s utterly pathetic.” My voice is harsh as I speak, but she needs harsh right now.

“I get it!” she yells. “I get it, but unlike you, I’m not ashamed to be at the whim of others. Drugs. Boys. My mother. I don’t care if they control me, I just roll with it. But you’re too pathetic to accept your shitty outcome. You want to try to be better, but just wait, you’ll break at some point. End up dead with a needle in your arm.”

“Jesus, Tuesday,” Quinn says, reappearing with her bag of drugs. “You’re a fucking bitch sometimes.”

“And yet you still want to fuck me. Just admit it, Quinn. Doesn’t matter if I’m high or a mess, you want to put your dick in me just like the rest of them.”

Quinn doesn’t say anything to that. Just tosses her bag of drugs on the floor and walks away.

“It’s so much worse watching you be mean to someone else,” I mutter.

“I bet. At least you have the balls to be mean back,” she snaps, opening the bag. “At least you don’t get off on hurting me. You just do it because you can.”

She unscrews the lid to the container that holds her coke. Her hands still shake, so she moves slowly.

“Help me. Please, Wyatt. My hands won’t stop shaking.”

“Not happening.”

“God!” she cries, spilling a little out onto her mirror. Her labored breathing makes the drugs blow off the mirror. “Fuck,” she sobs.

It’s sad. I almost can’t stand to watch, but I force myself to stay put. It’s a little reminder of what I once looked like. Hopefully it will help keep me from slipping back into it.

She pours more out, placing a straw in her nose and inhaling the pile of drugs. She sobs once she is done, pressing her hands into her eyes.

“Oh God.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Feel it, Tuesday. Really absorb it. You are a fucking addict.”

She sobs some more as I throw the paper towels in the trash and walk past her.

“Congratulations,” I say as I tower over her again. She glances up at me with tear-stained cheeks. “And welcome to the club.”

I leave her there alone, crying, once again.

I keep to my bunk as much as possible until we get to the next show. It’s easier to avoid Tuesday that way. I’m not happy about how all that turned out. Leaving her to cry again took a lot, but if detoxing wasn’t enough to convince her to get better, she is truly a lost cause.

When I walk backstage at the next venue, she looks like she always does. Beautiful and high as hell. She laughs at something Michael says, sitting on the arm of the chair he is in. Of course, she would be talking to my ex-bandmates.

She flashes me a grin when she notices me. Clearly, she is trying to get under my skin. Not entirely sure it matters at this point—there is no way I’m winning against her now. She has Hendricks on her side and drugs that fuel her. That might as well be a noose around my neck.

God knows what happens if he finds out we almost had sex. Or if Tuesday implies we did. I’d be cut from the label in record time. Or even worse, he’d lock me away somewhere to write music for bands I’d never be a part of.

I can’t imagine that. It would be hell to have to create songs and get none of the glory. That would break me. I’m not sure I could live my life solely making music for others. I’m pretty sure that would make me relapse if Tuesday doesn’t do it first.

She gets up from where she was perched, walking towards me.

“Haven’t seen much of you lately.” She presses her hand to my arm. “Which is odd, given we’ve been trapped on the same bus for the last little bit.”

“Funny.”

“Were you hiding from me?” She places her hands on her hip, staring at me.