Prologue
Cologne,
Germany
3
years ago
After all
of that.
Everything.
The secrets
kept.
The
promises made.
All that he
had done for her.
For them.
Mike pushed
his thumb and index finger into his eye sockets and breathed against
the pain. The physicality of the burn in his eyes was nothing
compared to the soul pulverizing drum of his pulse roaring in his
ears.
The
darkness was smothering. Or maybe that was his own thankless breath
that was killing him. His chest was heavy. Like someone had filled
the empty spaces between his ribs with lead. It was dragging,
pulling him forward. He hunched over his legs, letting go of his
face and allowing his head to hang unseeingly towards the floor.
It was
still too easy to breathe. He tried to squeeze the air from his
lungs, wondering at the brown edges around his vision. Wondering if
he could follow the pattern and figure out it's path.
He jolted
from his position when he heard someone walking down the hall.
He stood
slowly, listening for an indication of identity.
The suite
he occupied was massive, plush, beautiful. He had gotten it for her.
Just like the spray of blue cornflowers on the table by the entry.
Gifts. Distractions. Things to fill the void that threatened to
swallow them—him—whole. He'd known he was grasping, scraping
desperately at the fabric of his sanity. Or what was left of it.
It didn't
matter what gifts he threw at her, the words he promised, the images
he pretended weren't there. None of it mattered.
Nothing was
the same.
His heart
stuttered briefly and he wondered if maybe it wouldn't restart. That
would be okay, he decided. But then it continued beating and he
moved his attention back to the sounds in the hallway.
A soft
feminine laugh rippled through him, and, like an undertow, he was
pulled unwillingly to the door. The knob felt cold as he
acknowledged the easy way it fit in his hand, the lack of resistance
it gave him as he opened the door. Like it had conspired with the
universe to bring him to this moment.
The hall
opened up before him and his heart did the stutter again. Just as
the door across the hall from him was falling closed on Ilsa's long
porcelain legs, black skirt swishing just above her knee, her elegant
figure hooked around the waist by a man's arm. Her elongated neck
highlighted by the short and flirty cut of her iridescent blonde hair
tilted to the side as her head rested on the shoulder of...
Of course.
They'd
talked about this yesterday. At least, Mike was pretty sure it was
yesterday. He'd lost track of time when it had all happened. And
there wasn't a whole lot of talking. It was mostly Ilsa crying and
explaining, Mike realizing too late what she was saying. Something
about him being different. Or was it distant? He remembered
thinking how odd that one moment, one breath—or lack thereof, could
alter their lives so intensely.
Then
she'd left.
He
knew she wasn't coming back. Somewhere in his center, he just knew
that it was well and truly over.
Hadn't
it been over already, though? Hadn't he felt the distance for weeks,
maybe even months? Hadn't he seen her talking and laughing with
Sway? Laughing.
God,
he loved her laugh. He was going to miss that.
The
final moments, the death rattle of their love (in a very literal
sense now) came suddenly but not unexpectedly. They'd been
decaying for weeks. She'd finally put it to rest with her broken
words falling from her chapped lips.
He must
have stood in the hall for several minutes. He wasn't sure. But he
knew he had to do something.
She was
gone. And with his band mate—his brother—no less.
Mike wasn't
capable of living with that. Not an overly morose person, this
feeling of utter devastation and loss was foreign to him. Yes, he'd
been broken up with before; yes, he'd experienced the pain of a
relationship tearing apart like flesh ripping from bone. But
something about this moment was different. Something darker and far
more lethal was threatening to take over his mind.
His
thoughts skittered to the obvious solution. Though Ilsa had claimed
that his recreational substance use was what had pushed her into
Sway's arms, he now saw them as his only outlet. His only source of
control in this unfair and unpredictable world.
He wasn't
an idiot. He knew it wasn't his friend. He knew the risk. But
didn't all reward come with risk? He most definitely was acquainted
with the reward. The bliss of darkness, of calm. Like crashing into
a giant pillow and finding sleep.
He hadn't
slept in a week. How could he? All he saw was the accusing eyes of
the hospital staff. All he heard was the abundance of heartbeats in
his own chest and the lack of them in another.
His door
slammed shut on his right. He looked at it briefly, then slid his
phone out of his pocket, texting his contact on the crew who would no
doubt get him exactly what he needed.
He needed
to think. He could figure out how to be okay with all of this if he
could just find some time to think and plan. This would help. It
always helped. Made him feel connected to the bigger picture when he
was usually so wrapped up inside himself.
Besides,
the show wasn't until tomorrow. He had plenty of time.
This would
help.
That's all
he wanted.
Just a
little bit of help.
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