I don’t get to stay here much. Having my own bed, complete with decent pillows and unmade, unclean sheets, feels like luxury after months in the studio. The bedroom still smells like my girlfriend, her perfume and her pussy and her cheap cigarettes. I breathe it in deep, but it’s not that comforting. She left hours ago, complaining that my mind was somewhere else.

Wind sweeps through the half-open window, making the temperature drop and pushing at the marionettes suspended on their nooses from the ceiling. They swing and grin, their shadows dancing menacingly on the wall. My wife used to complain about that, said it was morbid. For the longest time we used to have sex in the living room because sleeping in here gave her nightmares. I wasn’t very sympathetic about that. I live off my nightmares.

I don’t enjoy smoking, but I’m using the cigarettes my girlfriend left behind anyway. Seemed like the thing to do. My throat already feels rough with the need to cough, but the smoke looks impressive rising towards the ceiling.

I feel drugged.

It happens, after I finish a score. I’m left hollow, listening to the ringing silence in my head. Compared to the music, it feels sluggish. It’s usually a blessing, letting me catch up on sleep. Now…

Easing out a breath, I tap the ash of my cigarette into an empty carton of Chinese carryout. I was calm, I was numb, and I damned sure refuse to lose it.

There’s something beautiful about serious sleep deprivation. It makes everything look glassy, slow. My eyes burn, and my throat aches. My thoughts get poetic when I’m like this. People look at me like I’m dying, whisper about the ‘poor sick man’ wandering around the restaurant, drinking in the world. They jump when I laugh. It’s interesting.

The best part, though… the best part is, after I’ve gotten enough sleep to keep me from passing out but before I feel human again, I reach the point where I can’t feel a thing. And then I can look at things objectively.

He haunts me, sometimes.

I’d like to say that I have a logical explanation for it, but I don’t. It’s insensible, and stupid, and probably impossible. Should be, anyway. I shouldn’t wake up with a woman curled up beside me and a man taking up residence behind my eyelids. Damn him for it. He tasted my blood, took it, and I took his, and now it’s in me like some kind of fucking cancer-

Calm down. That’s the objective here, looking at this calmly without any distractions. Find whatever’s causing this and tear it the hell out. It’s simple. All it takes is a little concentration.

I thought it would go away with sleep and sex, but it’s still clinging on. Obviously it went deeper than I thought. Which is all right, I can still take care of it. Once I figure out why this is happening, I can justify and repress the motherfucker so deep that it’ll leave me alone. Easy.

I’ve got it easier than most in this situation. I’ve fucked men before; on tour, any warm body becomes acceptable. But therein lies the problem. A warm body is just a warm body, used and tolerated and easily replaceable. They’re not supposed to go popping up in my head when I don’t want them there. I don’t want anybody there but me. It’s simpler that way.

It’s not even that he’s attractive. He’s not ugly, but I’ve had better, much better, without even a passing attachment afterwards. Him and his goatee and his pasty skin and his scrawny ass and his stupid hair are no fucking exception. They shouldn’t be. I’m better than that. I’m better than him.

Bastard.

Closing my eyes, I drop the cigarette into its makeshift ashtray and fold my arms behind my head. The taste of the smoke lingers in my mouth, reminds me of him and the delirious night when I bit him, high on adrenaline and anger and something else I refuse to think about. I tasted his blood and the sweat on his neck. Marijuana smoke had been clinging to his clothes, his hair, his skin. I didn’t know what I was doing.

And now I have to wonder what he tastes like everywhere else.

The lamp beside my bed crashes into the wall with a sharp sound of glass shattering, leaving me in the dark. My heartbeat sounds loud in my head, and I think I’m going insane. This must be what it’s like. I know why I feared this.

My hands tremble when I reach for the phone. After dialing, I cradle the receiver in both hands. I think I’m rocking back and forth. Outside thunder grumbles, and I flinch. Child in the dark, afraid of the monsters in his head. How in the hell has he done this to me?

Three rings, four, then a click. Half-asleep voice on the other end of the line. “Mmphzat?”

For the first time in years I bless my agent. “I need an address.”

“Huh?” Slightly more awake. “Danny, what the fuck…?”

“Tim’s address. I need it. Now.”

“Are you on something? It’s three in the morning-“

“I need it now!” When all that gets is echoes and thunder, I add painfully, “Please.”

He sighs. In the background I hear rustling. “Hold on.”

A moment later, the precious numbers are being rattled off. I sketch it out in the dark and drop the phone with a hurried thank you. For a second, I crouch in the shadows, debating. Then something else takes over, and I’m moving.

Lightning flashes against the window, casting shadows against my face. Over my head, my marionettes grin and swing and swing, their silent laughter mocking.