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With a trembling hand, I remove my keychain from my pocket, fingering the small flashlight. When you flick the button on the side, a tiny bottle opener pops out, one of the edges of which is a slender razor blade. I peer into the mirror. The exhausted man staring back is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Always thinking ahead, I came prepared. Lighters aren’t allowed on planes, so I have to be creative. I’ve had unexpected anxiety attacks on airplanes before and let’s just say, using my fingernails or whatever sharp object is on hand is messy business. Reaching in another pocket, I dig out gauze, a few bandages, and a roll of medical tape, tossing them into the sink for after.
With my sleeve rolled up past my elbow, I find a scar I’ve used before. It’s hidden on the underside of my bicep, covered by the large, curling red tail of a dragon. Memories of Abby sitting next to me as I got this particular tattoo, of the way she looked at me when she saw my scars, how she became sick at the sight of them, drives a knife right into my midsection. I gasp, doubling over in agony. Lila, Abby, my guilt, the stress… It nearly knocks me off my feet. Scrambling for something to steady myself, I clutch the doorknob, focusing on breathing steadily in and out so I don’t pass out.
I laugh to myself, imagining the headlines.
“Sphere of Irony drummer found unconscious in airplane john, drugs suspected.”
If they only knew. It’s not drugs I’m addicted to. It’s not the lure of the chemical high or the dark lows in between that make up my demons. No, it’s the knowledge that I destroyed everything I loved—that I still destroy everything I love—that has me crippled with anxiety.
With a trembling hand, I snatch the blade off the shelf and sit on the closed seat of the commode. A few more calming breaths and my hand is steady enough to press the blade to my bicep. A rush of endorphins hits my system when the metal pierces the thin skin. Blood wells up around the sharp blade as I drag it along the line of the decade-old scar. I hold my arm out over the tile floor, letting the dark drops fall and splatter in a random pattern.
It doesn’t take long for the euphoria to hit, pumping through my veins in a rush of pleasure. Every drop that lands on the floor represents a worry, a dark thought, each one bleeding out of my system both metaphorically and literally. I take a moment to just feel, slumping back on the toilet with my head laid back on the wall.
Energized, I clean up quickly, not wanting to linger too long and draw any attention with a prolonged absence. Gavin is a nosy bastard and I wouldn’t put it past him to barge in on me, clucking like a mother hen even though he pretends not to care anymore. But then, of all of us, he knows most of my secrets and has good reason to worry.
By the time we land two hours later, some of the anxiety has already crept back in. It never comes back this fast. Usually cutting or burning will get me at least a few days of peace. The fight with Abby right before we left for the tour and then in Chicago unnerved me in a big way. I was a total dick to her on the phone and I know it. She pulled the psychology card again, bugging me to open up and spill all my secrets.
What Abby doesn’t understand is that talking about that shit won’t make a fuck’s worth of a difference in my life. The accident still would have happened and I would still be a selfish, fucked-up asshole. The only thing that would change is once Abby knew the truth, she would most likely never see me the same again.
And I couldn’t deal with pity in her eyes every time she looked at me.
“I’ll meet you guys at the hotel,” I announce when we reach the terminal at Salt Lake City International. I need another high—something bigger, better. The kind I can only get with a serious adrenaline rush.
“What?” Gavin squawks. He moves to grab my arm, but I duck out of his reach.
“I have a few things to do. I’m going to grab a cab and I’ll see you at the hotel later.” Before he can start an argument, I dart out the doors of the private General Aviation terminal and right into a waiting taxi. Biggest fucking mistake of my life.
* * *
“How long do I have to stay?” I ask the doctor as he shines a light into my eyes.
“We monitored you overnight. You should be good to go today.”
“Can I play at the concert tonight?” I attempt to drag a hand down my face, but a sharp pain lances though my side as if someone jabbed a white-hot poker between my ribs.
“No. I’m afraid not,” he says, checking various scrapes and bruises on my skin. “You’ll need to rest and believe me, the headache you’re going to have when your painkillers wear off will keep you from wanting to be around any kind of loud music.”
I glance around the room, looking for my clothes. “Where’s my stuff?”
The doctor washes his hands in the sink, his back to me as he speaks. “I’ll send the nurse in to speak with you. She’ll get your belongings.”
The doctor leaves and moments later, a way too perky, middle-aged woman in hot pink kitty-cat scrubs breezes into the room. “Hello. Good to see you awake.”
“Yeah, the doctor said I was knocked out pretty good.”
She hums her disapproval. “Yes. Very reckless behavior, off-road motorbiking. I’ve seen quite a few injuries from motorcycles and ATVs over the years. Especially when people think they’re invincible.”
I clench my jaw shut so I don’t tell the nurse off for scolding me like a little kid or admit to her I don’t think I’m invincible but prefer the pain. The pressure from my mouth radiates to my skull, causing a sharp knife to plunge into my eye and through my skull. I swallow back the nausea that swims in my vision.
“I had a helmet on,” I growl, holding back every ounce of venom I want to unleash. I don’t need a lecture from this lady. I’ve heard it all before and I’m not in the fucking mood to be told how stupid I am.
“Good thing, too. Unfortunately, you landed on a pretty large rock that gave you a good whack on the base of your skull. You’re lucky you don’t have a spinal cord injury.” The self-righteous nurse checks various bags of IV fluid and pushes some buttons on a machine.
“Where’s my stuff?” I am beyond done with this conversation.
“The paramedics had to cut your shirt off, so I’m sorry to say it’s gone. Your pants and personal items are right here.” She opens a wardrobe and places a plastic bag on the edge of the bed.
