Oh god, it’s like a hole,
Tearing me in two,
And from that wound
Bleeds my life,
Bleeds my heart,
Bleeds the last of my innocence.
From that hole bleeds my soul,
Bleeds my soul,
Thus bleeds my soul.
You see it, all this blood?
Of course you don’t,
Because it only bleeds within,
It’s not the blood that’s red,
The blood that’s hot and wet.
It’s the blood of will,
Blood of peace,
Blood of innocence.
You can’t see this blood,
Can you?
Because it’s only on my soul.
I wish, I wish, I wish,
Oh god I wish I could show it to you,
So you could see the hole you left,
When you forced me to the floor.
So you could see what perfect pain you wrought,
Such perfect pain,
Created by your drunken hands,
By your brutal breath,
Hot on me in that dark,
You caused such agony,
Such perfect pain,
That perfect pain,
That awful, perfect pain.”
I’m fighting sobs by the time the last note of the mandolin fades, and Brayden is holding me up with one arm, mandolin slung around his back, and the crowd isn’t cheering or clapping, only silent, so still and quiet and watching me. I can’t collapse now. I can’t.
“That was called ‘Perfect Pain’. But don’t—ahem—” I have to pause and collect myself, swallow past the knot in my throat, try a deep breath and start over. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you hanging with something that dark. How about one more?”
This time it’s Atticus who starts us off with a single huge hand-drum between his thighs, sitting on a stool to my left, Bray to my right picking a quick lilting tune, Atticus thumping steadily like a dancing heartbeat, Mim on his left with a mic and a stand, ready to sing harmony.
“I don’t know you,
But that’s okay.
I don’t know you,
But I will, soon enough.
There’s just the beat of the music,
And the beat of my heart,
And the touch of your hands,
And the spark on our tongues.
That’s all we need,
If only for tonight,
If only till the hot sun rises,
If only till you see my flaws,
And you see my makeup
Streaked and smeared,
Only till you see me fix my skirt
And forget to write your number down.
It’s enough for tonight,
If only till the buzz wears off,
Till the whiskey all runs out.
I don’t need tomorrow,
I don’t need to know you,
I don’t need your name,
Or even one of your secrets,
I only need you for tonight.
I only need the beat of my heart,
And the touch of your hands,
I only need the spark on our tongues.
I only need the whiskey of your kiss
And the silence as we fumble our way to sunrise.
It’s enough, it’s enough,
It’s got to be enough,
Because honey, it’s all we’ll ever get,
It’s all I have to give,
If only for tonight.
You get me till the hot sun rises,
Till the whiskey runs dry,
Till I fix my skirt,
And forget to write your number down,
Till I wash the makeup off,
Till I change my skirt,
If only until I go out tomorrow night,
And sing this song again.
Because honey, I only need tonight,
And I don’t need your name,
I just need the spark on our tongues
And the beat of the music,
And the whiskey of your kiss,
Only for tonight.”
That’s the song that has the most views on YouTube, the song that everyone knows the words to. Like tonight, it erases the ache of the song that came before, leaving the crowd cheering and carrying on, identifying with me somehow.
Only now, it feels cheap. It feels like all my justifications for how I’ve lived my life up till now have been empty and vain. Like I should have known better. Because all this time Ben was a few miles away.
I let the applause wash over me and keep a smile on my face and wait until Bray gives the cue for us to leave the stage. We pack up quickly and stuff our gear into Bray’s Jeep, Atticus’s pickup, and Vance’s full-size van. We split our pay, and everyone goes their own way. Usually we’d party afterward, but the rest of the band is pissed at me for being late and showing up drunk, even though we fucking killed it…like always. They don’t get it, I decide. Fuck ’em. At least for now. I love them, normally. But they don’t get it.
Brayden drives me home, and thank god my roommates are gone again, at some sorority function, I think. I don’t know, and I don’t care. My roommates are nice enough girls, but they’re vapid at best.
I kick off my boots and peel my shirt off before I’m even in my bedroom, and then I grab the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam from under my bed and take a long chugging swig straight from the bottle as I unbutton my jeans.
“Jesus, Echo. Can’t you give it a rest?”
“Fuck no, Bray-bay. I’ve got demons to chase.”
“You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“Too late for that, buddy.”
He sighs in frustration and disgust. “You haven’t been sober since you got home. Not for one second. You’re gonna fucking pickle yourself. By which I mean you’re gonna end up in the hospital.”
I kick my pants off and collapse onto my bed in my bra and underwear. Bray is just straight enough to run a glance over me as I sprawl on my bed. The whiskey hits me and I let it run my mouth for me.
“Fancy another go?” I say in a fake accent, leaning forward, propping myself up with both hands on the bottle. “For ol’ time’s sake?”
He looks hurt, and pissed. “Fuck you, Echo. We’re friends, and I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I’ll be fine.”
“We have another gig on Friday. Try to be reasonably sober, will you?”
“Not a chance. But good try.” Brayden leaves in a huff of anger and worry, and I’m alone with my whiskey and my regret. I lift the bottle to my lips and speak a benediction into the whiskey: “I’m sorry, Mom. I miss you.” A long swig, and another whispered admission: “I’m sorry, Benji-boy. I’m so sorry. I was stupid, and I let you go.”
Before long, the bottle is empty, and the world is spinning, and I feel sick, but at least the ache of everything is gone.
THIRTEEN: O.D.
Ben
I’ve had her number this whole time, and she’s had mine.