COMMISERATE
(to feel or express sympathy)
§
A dull ache in your neck that
just won’t go away is what wakes you.
You figure it’s because you slept on the couch in the back lounge of
your bus all night. What you can’t figure
out is why. And then you remember how
Bret had come to you. Pissed off and
hopped up on coke. Spewing out some
bullshit about an argument he’d had with Rikki. You raise your head a bit but Bret is nowhere to be found. That’s okay with you. He’s never really been a morning person.
Rolling off of the sticky leather,
you stand up and stretch, trying to work out the kinks in your neck. You rub at your eyes with the back of your
hands and think that a nice stiff drink would wake you up. But you’re not supposed to drink
anymore. Rikki doesn’t like it when you
do. Of course, there isn’t much Rikki
does like these days. You push that
thought aside and head to the small bathroom on the bus. It’s far too early to be thinking about shit
like that.
Once inside the bathroom you relieve
yourself and splash a fair amount of ice-cold water on your face. Then you look up into the mirror. The person you see there is almost a
stranger. There are dark circles under
your eyes and a slight bruise on your left cheek. So much has happened in the past few weeks that you aren’t even
sure what caused that bruise. All of
the marks Rikki leaves on you have begun to blur together. But you’ve still done nothing to stop
it. You doubt you ever will. You love him too much to be without him.
You exit the cramped space at the
exact time that CC is rolling from his bunk.
He looks extremely hung over and much older than he actually is. Part of you feels almost sorry for him. But now is not the time to lecture him on
his bad habits. How much of a hypocrite
would that make you, anyway? You nod
good morning and walk past him into the kitchen, pulling a can of orange juice
from the small refrigerator. Again you
find yourself wishing for Vodka to mix with it. Sighing, you pop open the can and take a long drink. Just then there is a commotion outside of
the bus. Only mildly interested, you
look out the side window and see Bret banging on the door. Just past him is Big John, Rikki’s security
guard, looking concerned. You figure
Bret and Rikki have gotten into another fight so you make your way slowly to
the driving column on the bus and hit the button that opens the door.
Bret climbs the steps of the bus
slowly, suddenly seeming not so intent on whatever he came here for. You kind of wish he would go away. You don’t like being in the middle of the
things that happen with him and Rikki.
You enjoy Bret, yes. But you’re
not interested in being just another toy whenever he needs you. That’s what you do for Rikki. And that’s only because you love him. Bret doesn’t have that luxury with you. You get some say in what goes on.
“Morning,” you say, your voice
hoarse with sleep. “I’m surprised
you’re up so early.” You turn away from
him and take another swig of your orange juice, scratching your stomach
idly. “You want some juice?” you
offer. “You look a little gray. Have you checked your sugar?”
“Bobby.”
You turn back to him, the
desperation in his voice catching you off guard. Only then do you realize that he’s shaking. Concern hits you dead on. He definitely needs something with sugar in
it. “Sit down,” you tell him, pointing
towards the bench that masquerades as a couch.
“I’ll get you some juice.”
“I don’t need any fucking juice,”
he seethes, unmoving. “I have to talk
to you.”
CC walks out of the bathroom then,
looking no better than when he went in.
“What’s going on, guys?” he asks, pulling at his bleached hair. You’re surprised he’s coherent enough to
stand up.
“Fuck,” Bret says, finally sitting
down. He hangs his head, his long hair
falling in front of his face. Somewhere
not too far off you think you hear an ambulance. Your stomach sinks.
“Bret, what’s wrong?” Your mind scans over the people that could
be hurt. Janna? Lori?
Smoothie?
“I don’t,” he begins but stops
quickly, shaking his head. You still
can’t see his face. “I don’t even know
how the fuck to say this to you.” He
finally looks up. But not at you. He seems to be looking right through
you. Right over your shoulder and into
CC’s eyes. Something must be really
wrong. Bret never acts like this.
“What?” CC asks, sounding like a
twisted version of Joe Pesci and Jerry Lewis.
“What is it?”
The ambulance sounds closer
now. Your jaw clenches. You look up and see it pulling into the
relatively empty parking lot. Breathing
becomes difficult.
“It’s Rikki. He…there’s been…” A single tear rolls down
Bret’s cheek and now you know that something terrible has happened. And you know you don’t want to know what it
is. You want him to stop talking. To get up and leave the bus and pretend like
none of this ever happened. But he
doesn’t. Instead he looks right at CC
and says that Rikki is dead. That Rikki
killed himself. And you don’t believe
him. You can’t believe him. Because if you do that means your entire world
is over. Ended. You will have nothing left to live for. “…He slit his wrists. Smoothie found him this morning in the back
lounge of our bus.” Why won’t he stop
talking? Doesn’t he understand that
this isn’t funny? You don’t care that
the ambulance has now pulled to a stop next to Rikki and Bret’s bus. You don’t care that you see paramedics
rushing around. And you don’t care that
Bret is crying. You know this has to be
a joke. Or a nightmare. Or something. Anything but the truth.
“Somebody fucking say something!”
Bret shouts, biting at the knuckles on his left hand and rocking back and forth
just slightly. The only sound after his
outburst is CC hitting the wall of the tour bus with a dull thud. When he pulls his hand away there is blood
dripping down it. He stares at his hand
as if he is amazed to see that he has any blood left in him. You know you should probably say something
comforting or logical but logic no longer exists and you’re certain that
comfort isn’t possible any more. CC pushes
past you and leaves the bus. Bret
stands up to follow him but quickly sits back down. There’s nothing that he can do, either. There’s nothing that anyone can do.
Your world is spiraling quickly
out of control and you don’t know how to stop it. Don’t think that you can stop it. Having nothing else to do, you throw the orange juice you’ve been
holding across the bus. It hits the
windshield and the yellow-orange liquid splatters everywhere. But in your eyes it looks red. It looks like what you imagine Rikki’s blood
must have looked like spilled all over the floor of that back lounge. You can’t handle this. Your stomach lurches and you run back into
the bathroom with your hand over your mouth.
You empty your stomach and begin to sob all at the same time.
Bret is next to you on his knees,
rubbing your back and crying with you.
But you want him to stop touching you.
To stop sympathizing with you.
Because this is his fault. All
his fault. There’s no other explanation
for it. You don’t know what they fought
about last night but it must have been bad.
And, yes, it must have been Bret’s fault. Because you need someone to blame this on and you can’t fathom
blaming Rikki. “Stop,” you tell him,
trying to regain control. When he
doesn’t remove his hand you shrug him off and stand back up, still crying but
at least the vomiting is done. You
hope. “I said stop.”
“Bobby, I’m sorry,” he offers
lamely, his voice breaking. “I didn’t
think…”
“Shut up!” you nearly scream,
walking back to the front of the bus.
Why won’t he leave you alone?
You look out the window and are faced with the worst image you think
you’ve ever seen. The paramedics are
loading the stretcher back onto the ambulance.
All you see is a white sheet but you know what is underneath it. No, not what. Who.
And all at once everything
snaps. You find yourself running off of
the bus and towards the ambulance. You
don’t care who sees you. You don’t care
who knows. But they can’t take him away
from you. Bret is right behind you but
you block him out. Big John steps in
front of you but you push him out of the way.
The paramedic at the end of the stretcher is your next victim. You grab him by the waist and virtually toss
him aside. He lands roughly on the
pavement but you don’t notice. You
don’t notice anything. Not even the
fact that you are screaming. Your hands
grip the steel bar on the side of the stretcher and you feel Smoothie trying to
pull you away. But nothing in the world
is strong enough to do that now. If
they’re taking Rikki you have to go with him.
Because you can’t function on your own.
He has to be a part of your life.
You can honestly no longer remember a time when he wasn’t.
“Bobby, come on, let it go,” you
hear Smoothie say to you and are amazed at how he can be so calm. Doesn’t he realize what’s happening
here? Doesn’t he see it? They’re taking Rikki. You can’t let them take Rikki. Your right hand holds so tightly to the
stretcher that your knuckles turn white.
And your left hand moves up slowly to pull back the sheet. Everyone yells at you to stop but you don’t
listen. It doesn’t matter anymore. You have to see him. But you aren’t prepared for it. He’s so pale. So sickeningly pale. And
you realize then that this will be the last time you ever see him. Ever.
You let go of the stretcher and fall to your knees, sobbing so hard that
you don’t think the tears will ever stop.
But why should they? Happiness
will never have a place in your world ever again.
You feel yourself being lifted from
the ground and vaguely notice that it’s Big John who has you in his arms. You want to be a man about this and tell him
to put you down but you can’t. Words
don’t come and you’re sure that walking would be impossible anyway. So you let him carry you back to the
bus. You let him put you down on the
front couch. You let him reassure you
that everything will be fine. But you
don’t comprehend any of it. You wonder
if this is what going insane feels like.
Or if maybe you’re just going into shock.
“I’ll stay with him,” you hear
Bret say but you don’t look up. Can’t
look up. You don’t want to see
him. The man that killed Rikki. With that thought you begin to sob
again. You cover your face with your
hands and beg any deity that will listen to just let you die. You feel Bret sit down next to you and hate
that you can do nothing about it. He
puts his arm around you and pulls you towards him.
“This is your fault,” you tell him
plainly through your tears, still refusing to look at him. His arm goes slack and it drops back to his
side.
“You don’t have to tell me that,”
he replies quietly. You’re glad that
you’ve hurt him. You want him to
hurt. For once in your life you
actually want to inflict the kind of pain that you feel upon someone else. And Bret is that someone else. “I never thought he’d…it was just a little
fight…Bobby, I didn’t know…” his voice trails off and you hear him whimper.
“What did you fight about?” you
ask, staring at the floor. Your tears
are present but silent now.
“He saw us together last
night.” Your stomach lurches
again. Jesus Christ, this is partially
your fault. Why couldn’t you just have
been satisfied with what Rikki gave you?
You loved him so much. Why did
you have to go elsewhere? “He said he
didn’t like it.”
“Of course he didn’t like it,” you
bark. “He loved you, Bret. And I completely fucked him over. I took all of his shit. I let him do anything he wanted to me. I loved him so much that I let him hurt
me. And it still wasn’t enough to save
him from you. You god damn
bastard.” You’re quickly losing control
again so you decide to stop talking.
You clench and unclench your jaw and dig your nails into the palms of
your hands.
“What do you mean you let him hurt
you?”
You glance at Bret and see the confusion
in his sad eyes. He didn’t know. Rikki had never told him. And this was the worst time possible to
inform him. But you’d said it now. You had to keep going. Shaking your head you look away. “I love…loved him so much. I loved him in a way that you can’t possibly
understand.” Your voice cracks and the
tears fall from your eyes again but you continue. “I let him do things to me that I would have killed anyone else for
even attempting. All because I wanted
to please him. I wanted to make him happy,
Bret. I wanted him to love me as much
as he loved you. And it never
happened.”
Bret laughs sadly and the sound
makes you want to strangle him. There’s
nothing funny about what you’ve just told him.
“This really is fucked,” he chuckles.
“You’re telling me that you were Rikki’s bitch?”
The word makes you flinch. “Fuck off, Bret. You couldn’t possibly understand.” You stand up defensively.
“You have no concept of that kind of love.”
“I think you might be wrong about
that.” He sounds dejected. He bites his thumb in an attempt to distract
himself from the current situation. “I
had that kind of love. And I took
advantage of it. And now he’s
dead. And you’re right, it’s my fault.”
Your entire body goes rigid. What is he talking about? You know that Rikki loved Bret. But he can’t possibly be insinuating
that…no…you don’t even want to think about it.
But it would explain so much. It
would be the answer to that question you never asked. Why Rikki liked to give pain.
If he was used to receiving it, if he thought that the only way to show
love was to… “You goddamn son of a bitch!” you find yourself shouting as you
grab Bret and pull him to his feet.
“How could you?” You shake him
fiercely and are more than a little upset when he doesn’t fight back. At least not how you want him to.
“He wanted it,” he offers
lamely. “Just like you did.”
“You hurt him!” you continue,
still holding him tightly in your grasp.
“How could you fucking do that?
He loved you so much and that’s all you could give him in return? And then…fuck you, Bret…just fuck you! You knew how fucking much he loved you and
you still went after me! How could you
be okay with that? How can you fucking
live with this? Rikki didn’t kill
himself, Bret. You did!”
“Fuck you!” Bret shouts in return
and you are surprised but almost pleased when the punch he swings connects with
your cheek. You deserve it. You deserve even more. “You cheated on him, too. Don’t act like you’re blameless. You could have told me no.”
You swing back and hit him full
force, knocking him to the ground. Part
of you is fighting because you’re angry with Bret. The other part is so caught up in self-loathing that it doesn’t
matter. You pounce on him, using your
fists to take out every emotion that has bottled up inside of you and he does
the same. Neither of you connect that
often, but the mere act of this fight is what you both need.
“He never would have hurt me if it
weren’t for you. We could have been
normal. He could have loved me! You ruined everything. You and your ego always fucking ruin
everything.” You groan as he elbows you
in the stomach. You feel blood spilling
from your nose but you can see that his lip is bleeding and he has a cut above
his left eyebrow. That is satisfying.
“I loved him!” he cries out,
blocking a punch from you. “He was my
best friend. I didn’t mean for this to
happen.”
“You don’t love anyone but
yourself,” you shoot back, flipping the both of you over and pinning him to the
ground, his arms underneath you. You
lean down just inches from his face and almost growl. “The only person you have ever cared about is
Bret-fucking-Michaels. As long as
you’re getting what you want, you’re happy.
You got your band and your fans and your fame and your fortune. You got Rikki and you even fucking got
me. But it’s over now. Rikki’s blood is on your hands, Bret. I didn’t think it was possible for one
person to screw up the lives of so many people. But you’ve done it. With
one little action you’ve completely wiped out all of our lives. Poison is over. Rikki is dead. The fans
will hate you. And I hate you.”
You stand up then, wiping blood
from you face. You turn around and head
for the door of the bus. You can’t be
there any longer. You can’t be around
Bret.
“Bobby, please,” he reaches out to
you, his voice cracking and his demeanor broken.
You stop only briefly. “No, Bret.
Please nothing. If I ever see
you again I swear that I will fucking kill you. You have ruined my life.
I wish I’d never met you.” You
turn around again and walk off the bus.
Smoothie is standing there, clearly concerned.
“Where are you going, Bob?”
You shrug and continue
walking. “Anywhere but here. Home.
I don’t know.”
“You’re at least a thousand miles
from home,” he says, ever the practical one.
“You gonna walk there?”
“Just let me go, alright? I can take care of myself.” You turn to look at him sadly. “Goodbye,” you whisper. And it’s the most finalized word that has ever come out of your mouth. You’re saying goodbye to more than just a security guard. You’re saying goodbye to everything you have ever known. You’re saying goodbye to your dream. It’s over. Everything is over.