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Z
Iwakeup,all1.9 metres of my gangly body cramped on the wet shower floor, sicker than a fucking dog. My skin is on fire, despite the cold droplets splattering up at me from the ricochet of the waterspout.
Groaning, I reach an arm up and shut off the icy water. My clothes are completely drenched, hair plastered to my throbbing skull.
Why do I do shit like this? Further sink myself into trouble when I’m already barely passing as a human being?
Like a monster from the black lagoon, I crawl out of the shower, my fitted trousers and long-sleeve shirt squishing from the amount of water they’ve absorbed. I snatch my phone off the bathroom tiles and check the time.
Eight in the morning. Last time I checked, it was just after three A.M. That means my water has been running for five solid hours. Dread curdles in my gut at the thought of opening the next notice from my landlord. She’ll definitely cut me off.
There’s a text message from Hail that I failed to answer last night before passing out. My heart thuds painfully at his apology, but I know I need to keep him at a distance. I have to fight against this urge to delve into whatever he thinks he needs from me.
I have nothing good to offer him.
After dragging my aching body into my bedroom to change into dry clothes, I saunter into the living room and find a hand-written notice shoved under the front door.
My stomach churns. Yeah, I’d say my landlord is pretty pissed off over the fact that my first month’s rent check bounced. I log into my bank account on my phone and sigh in defeat. Of course it’s in the negative.
How do I explain to my landlord that all of my royalties are going toward my mum’s bills and that she’d rather lie down in oncoming traffic than have me step foot in her house again? That I was too daft and strung out at the time to set up a will for my brother’s quid, never imagining I’d lose him so young. That mum would blow through his savings without a care, demanding I fund the funeral because everything was my fault.
Even if she would accept me back into her life, I don’t think I can step foot in that house without being haunted.
Gripping the ends of my hair, I run through my options. Pick up a side job and hope some other landlord will overlook my piss-poor payment history when I get evicted from this place. Ask to crash on Selma’s couch until I can finish the damn songs I owe artists. Find more local scenes to perform at, ignoring the fact that I spiral out pretty hardcore afterward. Admit defeat and hole up in my bathroom until my landlord calls the police to physically rip me from shelter.
The gnawing emptiness in my stomach becomes priority number one. No one should have to make a difficult decision while hungry.
I scrounge through the musty kitchen cabinets with sluggish limbs. How can my body feel like I’m roasting under a heat lamp when I spent a chunk of my night drenched in cold water?
Discovering a package of noodles, I boil and season them until they no longer smell like cardboard. Then I polish them off, slurping down the salty broth.
Fuck. I’m still hungry.
My head drops down to rest on my dining table as my fingers pick at the edges of the late notices that have started multiplying, the one I just received this morning from my landlord, along with the others I refuse to open. Doesn’t matter what they say inside, I can’t pay them.
How did things get so fucked up? Five years ago, I would have laughed if someone told me this is what my life would turn into. Only, I’m one hundred percent to blame for my situation. Nothing’s going to change the fact that my brother’s dead and my mum’s life crumbled, thanks tomyselfish decisions.
While I sometimes toss around the idea of dying, it would leave mum high and dry. Death may be a solution to my problems, but it’s not a settlement for the debt of pain I still owe.
Which leads me back to my need to acquire income.
I pick up my phone. With shaking fingers, I type out a message to Hail Koval, asking how we could make things work. What this collaboration might look like. The buzz of a phone call startles me a second after his read notification pops up in our chat.
“Hey!” Hail answers, out of breath. The fucked up part of my brain convinces me that he was in the middle of sex. What else do metal gods do in their spare time except seek pleasure? Man or woman, the visual of his exquisitely toned body thrusting makes my already overheated body flood with desire.
“Z? You there?” he asks, a note of worry in his tone.
“Hey.” My voice is barely audible when I croak out an answer. “Look, I’m… I’m not promising anything…”
If I could be honest with him, I’d explain that I’m not in the proper mental state to accept work from anyone right now. Ishouldkeep my distance, but as long as we keep things professional, I think I can survive a few songs together. I’ll have to be clear that our partnership is temporary.
“Are you home? Can I pick you up to chat?” Hail asks eagerly.
I slide my nail along the corner of an envelope. It slices the tender skin underneath, and I watch as a tiny bead of red appears. “I’m actually pretty sick, I think.”
The admission burns in my throat, but if anything will keep a vocalist away, it’s the threat of catching a bug.
His silence picks at me.
