Running ...
Marc woke suddenly. It was now a normal occurrence for his eyes to flash open three or four times a night, his body shaking, his mind crawling with the images of the nightmares that wouldn’t leave him alone - even after sunrise. Rolling out of bed, Marc kicked the sheets away from his feet and scratched the tangles in his hair. He needed a haircut.
Shaking hands brought a cigarette to his mouth, but where the tobacco was usually comforting tonight it only added to his tremors. The nicotine was bitter in his mouth and he was in the bathroom puking up what little he’d eaten in the last few days before he even registered his knees on the cold tile. He tossed the cigarette into the bowl and flushed before leaning back against the wall and catching his breath.
Nothing made sense anymore.
Not even his once comforting, drug induced dreams. Once full of inspiration and expectation they were nightmarish - Leslie floating before him, hanging from a noose of her own making, their child in her arms. He reached and reached, running toward her, but always she was beyond his grasp. Always, the baby was kept from him. His father mocked him. His band fell apart. Jared turned away.
Groaning, Marc pulled himself to his unsteady feet. Holding onto the wall, he tottered into the dark living room and collapsed onto the couch. The remote was in reach and he turned on the television and nearly puked at the sudden blue light that invaded the room. When his eyes adjusted, he started flipping stations.
An infomercial.
A late night preacher who sounded remarkably like his father. “Give up your demons. God is waiting. Accept Jesus Christ into your heart and he will save you.”
“Send me a check that’s worth your life savings and I’ll make a point to belittle my gay kid and remind the world that he’s the reason AIDS is rampaging the country.” Marc answered back to the slick minister.
But he watched. He watched the faces of the enthralled. There had been a time when he felt like that, when he hit his knees and knew that God listened to his prayers. When he’d held Jared’s hand and kissed him good-bye and believed that Saint Peter would be welcoming him at the gates of heaven. A time when he truly believed that Christ had died for his sins. Now he didn’t know what to believe. Prayer didn’t work. He closed his eyes to only find terror or, worse, the dark void of silence. Hell itself. Separation from God. His rosary was cold and lifeless in his hands. The crucifix on the wall was a symbol of horror and death instead of the reminder of the sacrifice Christ had paid.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
He flipped.
A rerun of a news program. Yet another debate about homosexuality and AIDS and parental rights. And eyes that he’d inherited staring at him from the television. His father’s millionth interview about religion and good upbringing and how Leslie was being taken advantage of by a media Marc knew she was using and wrangling just like she did everything else in her life. He couldn’t take closing his eyes and seeing Jared gazing back at him. He couldn’t take the questions and the comments and report after report about his drug use.
He couldn’t take the protestors he knew would be outside the stage door at the show later tonight.
As he heard his father launch into the now familiar tirade about how worried he was about the souls of the young fans of Time Machine, Marc turned off the television and again the room was bathed only in the green glow of the numbers from the clock on the table. 4:15 am. Testing his strength, Marc rose again. This time his stomach had settled - the nightmare now replaced by the truth of his daily life. He needed to get out. He needed to run. To fly. To do anything but sit in the stench of the apartment. A quick change into clothes that didn’t smell of bile and sweat, Marc was down the steps of the apartment and onto the dim West Hollywood street. Cautious steps became a light jog. The light jog became a trot. The trot soon broke into a full-fledged run. His muscles burned from ill use. His lungs protested the sudden need for air. The nicotine dragged his system down. The lingering effects from last night’s drug-induced stupor made his vision wander and more than once he tripped over nothing. But he ran. He ran from his father’s voice and from Leslie’s using him and the child who deserved better parents than a drug dealing mother and a dead beat father. He ran from the days spent alone in his bedroom, days spent staring at the ceiling, waiting for oblivion to take him. He ran from the nights on stage, from the devoted fans and from the dogged protestors who were determined to destroy him. He ran from the lyrics that were the same night after night and the fans who didn’t care that they hadn’t written anything new since before Jared died. He ran from the memories of his own rebellion, a rebellion acted out on stage to thousands of cultish devoted who had then grown up and had children and learned the truth about war and life and the responsibilities of their own children. They wanted to bang their heads and then get up in the morning and go to work and pretend they were as appalled as their office mates at the scandal revolving around Time Machine. He ran from his own half finished lyrics, lyrics that tended toward government overthrow and the overthrow of religious fundamentalism more than they ever had in the past.
He ran from Jared’s half-formed and half-forgotten ideas, ideas that were now the basis of his own raving lunacy, a lunacy he kept hidden far away from the eyes of his band mates. He ran from sentimental dribbling that had no place in his mind. Words and chords turned angrier and angrier and angrier.
He ran until he found himself again at his door, sick with exertion. How many miles had he run? How long had he been gone? Stumbling through the front door, Marc collapsed onto the couch, gasping for breath, unable to even get up to get the water his body desperately needed. He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he opened them again, he felt cleaner. He’d finally come to a decision.
Shaking hands brought a cigarette to his mouth, but where the tobacco was usually comforting tonight it only added to his tremors. The nicotine was bitter in his mouth and he was in the bathroom puking up what little he’d eaten in the last few days before he even registered his knees on the cold tile. He tossed the cigarette into the bowl and flushed before leaning back against the wall and catching his breath.
Nothing made sense anymore.
Not even his once comforting, drug induced dreams. Once full of inspiration and expectation they were nightmarish - Leslie floating before him, hanging from a noose of her own making, their child in her arms. He reached and reached, running toward her, but always she was beyond his grasp. Always, the baby was kept from him. His father mocked him. His band fell apart. Jared turned away.
Groaning, Marc pulled himself to his unsteady feet. Holding onto the wall, he tottered into the dark living room and collapsed onto the couch. The remote was in reach and he turned on the television and nearly puked at the sudden blue light that invaded the room. When his eyes adjusted, he started flipping stations.
An infomercial.
A late night preacher who sounded remarkably like his father. “Give up your demons. God is waiting. Accept Jesus Christ into your heart and he will save you.”
“Send me a check that’s worth your life savings and I’ll make a point to belittle my gay kid and remind the world that he’s the reason AIDS is rampaging the country.” Marc answered back to the slick minister.
But he watched. He watched the faces of the enthralled. There had been a time when he felt like that, when he hit his knees and knew that God listened to his prayers. When he’d held Jared’s hand and kissed him good-bye and believed that Saint Peter would be welcoming him at the gates of heaven. A time when he truly believed that Christ had died for his sins. Now he didn’t know what to believe. Prayer didn’t work. He closed his eyes to only find terror or, worse, the dark void of silence. Hell itself. Separation from God. His rosary was cold and lifeless in his hands. The crucifix on the wall was a symbol of horror and death instead of the reminder of the sacrifice Christ had paid.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
He flipped.
A rerun of a news program. Yet another debate about homosexuality and AIDS and parental rights. And eyes that he’d inherited staring at him from the television. His father’s millionth interview about religion and good upbringing and how Leslie was being taken advantage of by a media Marc knew she was using and wrangling just like she did everything else in her life. He couldn’t take closing his eyes and seeing Jared gazing back at him. He couldn’t take the questions and the comments and report after report about his drug use.
He couldn’t take the protestors he knew would be outside the stage door at the show later tonight.
As he heard his father launch into the now familiar tirade about how worried he was about the souls of the young fans of Time Machine, Marc turned off the television and again the room was bathed only in the green glow of the numbers from the clock on the table. 4:15 am. Testing his strength, Marc rose again. This time his stomach had settled - the nightmare now replaced by the truth of his daily life. He needed to get out. He needed to run. To fly. To do anything but sit in the stench of the apartment. A quick change into clothes that didn’t smell of bile and sweat, Marc was down the steps of the apartment and onto the dim West Hollywood street. Cautious steps became a light jog. The light jog became a trot. The trot soon broke into a full-fledged run. His muscles burned from ill use. His lungs protested the sudden need for air. The nicotine dragged his system down. The lingering effects from last night’s drug-induced stupor made his vision wander and more than once he tripped over nothing. But he ran. He ran from his father’s voice and from Leslie’s using him and the child who deserved better parents than a drug dealing mother and a dead beat father. He ran from the days spent alone in his bedroom, days spent staring at the ceiling, waiting for oblivion to take him. He ran from the nights on stage, from the devoted fans and from the dogged protestors who were determined to destroy him. He ran from the lyrics that were the same night after night and the fans who didn’t care that they hadn’t written anything new since before Jared died. He ran from the memories of his own rebellion, a rebellion acted out on stage to thousands of cultish devoted who had then grown up and had children and learned the truth about war and life and the responsibilities of their own children. They wanted to bang their heads and then get up in the morning and go to work and pretend they were as appalled as their office mates at the scandal revolving around Time Machine. He ran from his own half finished lyrics, lyrics that tended toward government overthrow and the overthrow of religious fundamentalism more than they ever had in the past.
He ran from Jared’s half-formed and half-forgotten ideas, ideas that were now the basis of his own raving lunacy, a lunacy he kept hidden far away from the eyes of his band mates. He ran from sentimental dribbling that had no place in his mind. Words and chords turned angrier and angrier and angrier.
He ran until he found himself again at his door, sick with exertion. How many miles had he run? How long had he been gone? Stumbling through the front door, Marc collapsed onto the couch, gasping for breath, unable to even get up to get the water his body desperately needed. He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he opened them again, he felt cleaner. He’d finally come to a decision.