Page 1 of Grave Dissonance
CHAPTER 1
Marley
Iwake up with what I can describe as an energy drain. This always happens the morning after a show. Onstage, my fragile mind stops being consumed by a paralyzing sense of dread. When I’m playing the keys with thousands of cheering fans, a euphoric rush courses through my veins, filling my brain with a boost of serotonin. There, under the glaring spotlight, I’m offered a small reprieve from my constant pain and bathe in the momentary joy and vitality. I would do anything to prolong the technicolor in my mind. A much-needed respite from the usual fog thatimprisons me.
“Morning, big bro.” My sister’s jovial voice booms through the cell phone. Monica doesn’t have an annoying voice, but at ten a.m. she may as well sound like nails dragged across a chalkboard. “Hello? Marley, you there?”
I hate how the pitch of her voice changes from happy-go-lucky to freaking out in less than sixty seconds. Monica’s been on edge and worrying about me since she was fourteen years old. No matter what she’s doing or who she’s with, she calls me every morning. One time I didn’t answer her call because I lost my phone, so she flew out that same day to come see me. She got an eyeful when she caught me in the middle of an orgy. She told me I was disgusting but she was glad I was breathing. A week later, she emailed me the bill from her therapist with a cute note attached.
Marley,
I needed extensive brain rewiring done after seeing my big brother fucking all those people. Can you believe they don’t make brain bleach? How do I know, you may ask? Because I went looking after I saw your weird human pretzel sandwich.Someone should come up with that. Brain bleach. I’m sure the kid sisters of rock stars would keep them in business. Please use protection. Actually, use protection and then Saran wrap that shit. Do they make penis bleach? If they do, get some. I love you.
Mon
I suppose it’s nice to discover that amidst the apathy in the world, there’s one person who genuinely cares whether I live or die.
“Yeah. I’m here, Mon. I just woke up. Give a guy a second, okay? You think there’s any way we can have these calls later in the day?”
“Nope. The early bird gets the worm, or better mental health,” Monica says. “So, how are you feeling today?”
“Great,” I sigh into the phone. “I’m fuckin’ great. I’m rich, I’m hot, I can get all the pussy I could ask for. Life’s good.”
I say the same rehearsed lines every morning. My ass should’ve been an actor, not a musician, with how much passion I put into the words Ispew to my kid sister, praising my indulgent rockstar lifestyle. Rolling over, I grab the dented pack of Marlboros and light one. I inhale the toxins deep into my lungs, wishing cigarettes functioned as a numbing agent. My hands shake with hesitancy as I nervously trace the piano keys etched into my skin, a reminder of why my sister calls me daily.
“Ewww, I don’t want to hear about your sex life. What city are you in?” she asks.
My sister always starts the conversation by asking about the tour or my music. Monica once told me I’m happiest after I finish a set and walk off the stage. She’s right. I’m confident that if Monica could keep me on the road for the rest of my life, she would. She understands it’s the only place where I’m not fuckin’ drowning. While I stand on that stage, I’m rewarded with a sea of people who don’t think I’m a useless piece of shit.
When touring, I’m too busy to think while I’m playing show after show. There are no still moments, times when I’m trapped with the voices that suffocate me. WhatI despise is the suffocating emptiness that engulfs me when I wake the following morning.
“Chicago, I think.”
“You think,” Monica echoes. “How do you not know where you are?”
“Dude, I don’t know. We play a show and then get on a bus and shuffle off somewhere.”
Last night we landed on the steps of another posh hotel and I barely registered anything. I grabbed a blonde chick and marched to my room. I stumbled into the room, made the chick put on a shirt that belonged to another man, along with a gas mask, and then I fucked her until we both passed out. Seems like all I do now is fuck these girls in order to run away from a night that should never have happened with my best friend.
I smack the side table and grab the menu, hoping it will tell me which city I’m in. Waldorf Astoria, Chicago. “I’m in Chicago.”
“Another wild night, bro,” Monica states. She tries to keep the worry out of her voice and even laughs, but the chuckle is nervous-sounding.
“You know how us rock stars roll,” I say, keeping my voice light.
There is a silence, not an uncomfortable one, but a stillness of being. “I want you to know that I love you.”
“I know, Mon. I love you too.”
“Have a good show tonight.”
I disconnect the cell and toss it on the bed, ignoring the bleached blonde in my bed, and puff on my cigarette. I must’ve been high out of my skull to let her crash in my hotel room.
There’s no joy in fucking groupies anymore. My lackluster desire for them has gotten so bad that I only fuck them in the ass, force them to wear his t-shirt, and only call out his name while I’m balls deep in them. The only plus in this situation is that wearing clothes belonging to members of Gutless Void is a turn-on for them. They even get a kick out of wearing the mask when I ask. Sometimes they get upset about anal, but that’s rare. When they complain, I send them packing.
“Five more minutes,” the girl mumbles as she rolls away from my touch.
What the fuck was her name again? Jenny? Joanie?