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“No, it’s okay, you can go without us. We’re tired,” A soft, yet masculine voice spoke, leaning against the hotel door frame.
“Okay, hope you guys feel better for tomorrow,” A shorter figure responded, closing the room door and walking away.
I heard the slightest creak on the carpeted floor of the cramped hotel room. In fact, I could hear everything—the sound of the air conditioner, the buzz of the refrigerator, the tiniest noise that the cracked window let in. I could hear my friend’s footsteps as he walked closer to me, or I was getting closer to him. I couldn’t tell. I felt warped and trapped like a mouse in a trap. I knew I was sitting on the queen-sized bed, with my back against the headboard. I could see a face in the opposing mirror to the bed, whose face changed with every glance. It couldn’t have been me. It was a different version of me, in a parallel universe, looking at me as I looked at him. I could see myself looking at that version of me, as if I was living in third person.
Not in my body, not belonging where I was. What I was able to feel was the individual strands of my blue sweater, seemingly stabbing themselves into my skin.
I felt the opposite side of the bed sink down with more pressure. Through a choice that wasn't my own, I looked over at my friend, looking at me with eyes filled with an emotion I couldn't recognize now. He said something. I looked at him and nodded. I wasn't sure what he said. I wasn't sure he spoke at all. He had a strange sense of familiarity to his presence, but it was unclear to me.
I couldn’t recognize him.
He reached for a book on the nightstand beside him and opened up to a bookmarked page. I continued to look at him, but his face was blocked with a mop of dark brown hair. I seemed to have forgotten what his face looked like, he could've turned around with any combination of facial traits, and I wouldn't have been alarmed. I went back to looking at the different version of me in the mirror. The harsh light illuminating my face was irritating, straining my eyes. There was a slight flicker every once in a while, I counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Flicker. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Flicker. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Flicker. It was an unenjoyable inconsistency.
I closed my eyes to shield myself from the irregularity of the lights. Away from the uneasy world, inside of myself I found a strange empty feeling associated with it. It was similar to hunger, that I was very familiar with, but different at the same time. I found it to be more miserable than anything else. I opened my eyes, and was met by a spinning world, and soft white snowflakes that didn't seem to fade for a few seconds until I blinked rapidly.
I had enough, I looked over at my friend, who was still on the same page of the book he started. He seemed to have noticed my staring this time and looked over at me.
I still couldn't recognize him.
His owl-like eyes, square jaw with impossibly sharp cheekbones, along with a pleasant nose and plump lips that covered crooked teeth were traits I knew he had, but put together, it wasn't him.
He opened his mouth to say something, but I hadn't processed it. I slightly parted my lips to speak, but there was a stray signal, and I couldn't connect my brain to my mouth.
He said it again, clearer this time.
“Are you sure you're okay, Thom?”
That was it, that was my name. I seemed to have lost it for a bit.
I shook my head, unable to know how he would help. He got up, and switched off the flickering lights, opting for the bedside lamp. He closed the creak of the window, sitting back down on the bed. He fetched his small music player, with two connecting earbuds. He put one in my ear, playing a chaotic, yet cohesive combination of piano, saxophone, piano, soft drums, that was pulled together by the bass guitar.
He spoke about the artist, and why he's found them interesting to listen to in-between playing rock songs he found to lack the fluid structure of jazz.
With some initial hesitation, I thought it was nice. I certainly wasn't distracted by my disconnection between my body and soul, nor my placement of me on this earth. I simply listened to the music, staring at my friend's long hands, holding his book. They would be nice for guitar, or piano. I looked back up at him, moving his well-conditioned hair, so I could look at him.
I couldn’t recognize him again.
“Thom?” I could hear him say.
My hand twitched and shook against his head. His owl eyes became filled with peculiarness. I could feel his skinny, yet broad and tall frame wrap himself around me, as he pressed his weight against mine, and my head fell against his shoulder. I began to feel more present in this world again, and the heavy weight of reality began to slowly seep into me.
The man holding me was the lead guitarist for our band, and we had just finished a show. I didn’t remember where, or what songs we sang, or how well we did. It all blended together, the basic rock songs with the crowds of people that pestered us, with the obnoxiously bright lights that burned my retinas, and the constant sounds of music, interviews, talking to people, that exploded my brain.
I looked back at the man in the mirror. He didn’t belong to a parallel universe, he was me. What I found was a broken, and tired man, who couldn’t control his anger and grew into a debilitating depression. The worst part was this was the life I dreamed of having, touring around the world after creating a critically acclaimed album, but I hated it more than anything. If only I could convince our EMI managers to let us have a break, but they wouldn’t let us. Those exploitative pigs would milk us dry long after we couldn’t produce anymore product.
A hand was placed on the top of my head, stroking his hand through my short and dark hair in a repetitive motion. I felt this before, I think. It calmed me before, and it worked again, before my short temper could be broken again.
“Was today bad again?”
I looked up at the figure who spoke.
I could recognize him.
Jonny looked at me with sympathetic eyes, I could see his visible eyebags and tired expression that paralleled mine. His graphic t-shirt had belonged to me once, before I opted for a different style of clothing. I nodded my head.
“When we finish touring, it’ll be the best feeling you’ve ever felt. We’ll all get through this,” Jonny comforted in his soft tone of voice.
“I need a smoke.” Was what I managed to croak out.
He reached out to the nightstand again, grabbing a pack of Seven Stars and an accompanying lighter. I took the cigarette from a box, passing him one and putting one in my mouth, while he lit them. I was careful to not get ash on the man that held me.
Now that I was back in reality, I mourned for the times I couldn’t remember anything. It felt like I was a naive little kid, curious about everything around me. Everything is easier when you’re disconnected from the world that’s killing you.
Smoke rose from our cigarettes and, and spiraled around us, as if we were faint fire. Jonny exhaled a puff of smoke from his mouth, he closed the book he was reading. He hadn’t made any progress with it. He took out his side of the headphones, stopping the jazz music. I had forgotten it was even playing in the first place.
Without making eye contact with me, he spoke, “I'm worried about you, Thom.”
I took a deep breath. “I don't think there's any real reason you have to be.”
“Do you think I'm dumb? Do you think I haven't noticed how you've completely changed? You used to be happy, excited to share your skills with everyone.” His voice was so gentle, even when he tried to interrogate me.
I look over at him, taking a hit from my cigarette, and then shaking my head.
“You can't keep living like this. You'll die,” He swept his thick hair to the side. I've noticed he does it when he's particularly nervous. “You're not eating, you don't talk as much, you're growing depressed and angry, and I'm sure many other things I can't pick up on. Music was the thing that made you the happiest, now you're not even excited to perform.”
“It's not your problem, Jonny,” I shot back at him. I didn't appreciate the interview of my mental wellbeing. I think I've lost track of how many invasive questions in real interviews I’ve faced like that.
“Thomas…” The taller man pushed his half-finished cigarette into the ashtray. I frowned. What a waste. “All I want to do is help.”
His eyes met mine, his brown irises with green splashes of color were so clear that I could make out my reflection in them. I didn’t want his help; I didn’t want the pity or attention either. If I wanted to disappear into a dark space of my mind, then that choice was mine, and I don’t want anyone invading my personal autonomy in order to change me.
“I’m not sure how you could do that,” I looked away from his glass-like eyes that filled me with despair. I felt a twinge of regret in my previous thoughts, as if he could read my mind.
He pushed me closer to his chest and stroked my hair again. In complete honesty, I wasn’t sure what to do. One on one hand, I wanted to cry into his arms and tell him everything that makes me want to end my life. On the other hand, I wanted to yell at him for caring. I wanted to tell him how much easier it would be for the both of us if he ignored my episodes. I wondered what it would be like to live in complete dissociation, to never know who or where I was. Then maybe the overwhelming dread of everyday life wouldn’t eat away at me like worms on a decaying corpse.
“I don’t know either, but I’ll be here for you. The rest of the band is too. You’re not alone.”
I lifted myself, giving my cigarette one puff before accompanying it with Jonny's half-used one. My mouth stayed still, and I wasn’t able to respond to him.
After a prolonged period of silence, I noticed how Jonny leaned forward to me, looking for a sign of acknowledgement. As he stared at me, I stayed silent. In my stomach, grew a pit of emotions that made me want to puke them all out. There was a strong heaviness in the air that loomed over us.
Jonny lifted his hand from my arm where it was resting, and picked up his book again, opening to the same page he was unable to finish. A strong sense of guilt brewed in my chest, only adding to my nausea. It threatened to consume my entire being.
In a shaky tone, I uttered the words, “I want to fix myself.”
“You don’t have to fix yourself,” He smiled at me, showing his uneven teeth that he was insecure of. “We’re all here to support you.”
I made my way back into his arms, clutching on more tightly this time. I realized that throughout all of this pain, all of the touring, all of overbearing depressive thoughts, I didn’t have to be a dog that licked its wounds. Instead, I could allow myself to accept help. Jonny closed his book again, still with no progress in it, and held me tight.