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The bong feels like it’s got no weight in Daron’s shaky hands. Outside, LA’s burning under its own relentless city lights, but inside his room, it’s all shadows and dark blinds drawn tight.
About half an hour ago, he took a hit just to feel numb, but all he could see was last night’s show: a sea of strangers screamin’, hands flailing, and roses flyin’ like accusations thrown right at him.
One fan slipped him a letter so thick it could’ve been mistaken for a brick. ‘Your music saved me. Yada yada…’ it said. Daron’s throat tightened. Saved who? Him? The guy who forgot to eat yesterday?
Suddenly, it hit him. It began in his chest. Then spread throughout his whole body entirely, insistent. Daron felt colder than usual until he felt nothing. Like a lifeless wood drifting on a sea of emptiness.
Confusion begot panic. On all fours, he scrambled over the dirty carpet, clawing at the fibers like a child searching for lost Legos.
But nothing registered.
He couldn’t feel anything anymore.
He dropped the bong. It didn’t shatter. Just rolled under his bed, making him feel lonelier than he already was. His hands itched to touch something. Something solid, something real, he bolted from his room.
The hallway blurred walls plastered with gig posters. He found John at the kitchen counter sipping a coffee. To Daron, John felt like a life raft in an endless sea.
John’s eyes lifted, slow and skeptical, taking in Daron’s smeared eyeliner, his wide pupils, his twitchy fingers.
“Can I—” Daron’s voice cracked. “Just need a hug, man.”
John lowered his mug. Steam curled between them. “Seriously? You reek of weed and piss, man. Either fuck off or fuck ‘round somewhere else.”
Daron flinched. John can’t be blamed. He looked like utter shit. Daron would do the same if he were John. Still, the words landed like a kick.
Daron did fuck off. Along the hall, bare feet beating on cold linoleum, past a mountain of unopened fan mail pouring onto the floor. Each one screaming how Daron was their hero, their salvation. But here he was, struggling to fight his own demons. What a cruel irony.
Their scent choked him. Too sweet, too much.
He burst onto the balcony, lungs gulping smog-thick LA air. Shavo leaned against the railing, bathed in afternoon glare, effortlessly charming two girls draped in fishnet and glitter. One giggled, twirling a strand of pink hair identical to Daron’s, but cleaner.
Shavo’s low chuckle rumbled, a practiced sound. Daron opened his mouth, a raw “Dude?” scraping his throat.
Shavo’s head turned. His dark eyes flicked over Daron’s smudged face, his trembling chin.
Daron thought Shavo would understand. Yet, the bassist’s expression turned sour…annoyance? Pity?
Before Daron could form another word, Shavo smoothly slid an arm around each girl. “Ladies,” he began, voice honeyed steel, “let’s find somewhere... quieter. Less tragic.”
He steered them away without a backward glance. The glass balcony door closed.
Silence. Not even the usual roar of the busy 101 freeway from the distance.
The city sprawled below, forming a glittering, silent beast that mocked his loneliness.
Alone. Utterly alone.
No one to turn to.
Daron gripped the rust-speckled railing. Cold metal bit into his palms. But he felt nothing. Like drifting in a black ocean of nothing, weightless and numb. He stared at his hands. Were they even his?
Hyperventilation clawed its way up his throat. He dug his nails into the banister’s peeling paint. Chips flaked away like dead skin. He needed to feel the sting of reality. To pull him back to the rough concrete beneath his feet. Back into the gravity of existing.
“Daron!” The voice sliced through the haze.
Familiar. Anchoring.
Serj stood framed in the balcony doorway, Daron’s Ibanez Iceman guitar hung loosely from his left hand.
Los Angeles sprawled behind him, a blur of smog and sunlight. But it’s Serj who acted like a beacon in a sea of darkness.
Serj’s usual frown deepened, annoyance etching lines around his mouth. “Your guitar,” he started, voice tight with reproach. “You left it lying in the hall again. Someone’s gonna trip—”
The reprimand died mid-air. Daron moved. A sudden, desperate lurch across the concrete. He crashed into Serj before the singer could react, thin arms locking around his waist like steel bands. Face buried hard into the soft, worn cotton of Serj’s white shirt.
Serj had been struck by the smell immediately: the old smell of weed smoke that was clinging to the greasy pink hair, the strong scent of dry sweat mixed with undeniable tang of guitar strings. But it was sadness that reeked the most.
Serj didn’t shove him. Serj would never.
The guitar that clung his other hand was forgotten.
The irritation died away and a cool shiver of understanding came in its place. He could feel the vibrations that ran along Daron’s shoulders, the silent plea radiating off him.
Don’t let me go.
Serj’s own chest tightened. He knew that kind of drowning. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his free arm. His hand came to rest on Daron’s shuddering back. Rubbing circles in a soothing rhythm, “Okay,” Serj had murmured, voice rough but low. “You’re good, man.”
The word landed softly. A tiny anchor tossed into Daron’s storm-black sea.
The smell of Serj: cheap coffee, old vinyl, and faintly, guitar polish, pushed back the suffocating scent of panic.
Daron didn’t lift his face. He pressed deeper into Serj’s shoulder, a choked sob escaping him.
Serj’s hand pressed firmer against his spine. “You’re here,” he whispers gently this time.
A simple truth, yet acts like a lifeline for Daron.
Here.
Not floating. Not lost. Held.
The tightness in his chest eased.
‘Everyone’s drowning. Sometimes, you just gotta reach for whoever’s closest’
The words echoed in Daron's mind. He wasn't sure who said them, perhaps a stoned poet, maybe Serj himself. But Serj was his lifesaver, he realized in the end.
And he was okay with that.