All the Flowers of All the Tomorrows
He sat in the middle of the room on an old painted, wooden chair.
He was finally alone.
An hour ago, he had picked up a guitar and had cradled it in his arms, ignoring the noise of the last partygoers as they left. The apartment had finally fallen silent, and he had let the quiet wash over him.
His fingers were still, hovering over the strings, shaping the chords but not sounding them out. He hoped he might be able to conjure some notes and, perhaps, his music might return. But his fingers seemed to abhor the touch of the strings and the quietness in the room continued to mock him.
A musician who had no music.
He tried to remember when he had last woven a melody into a song. So long ago that the memory was hazy. The only music he had played in the last two years was a rehash of past glories that were so tedious he no longer felt any joy, any satisfaction, or any sense of release from something that had once given him life.
He threw the guitar to the ground. It crashed to the floor and skidded towards the black papered walls, the strings vibrating with a sound that sounded too loud and abrupt. The discordance died away slowly, leaving him with nothing except the lurking suspicion that he was turning into a drama queen, and a mounting rage and dissatisfaction with his life.
He hated this apartment. Why did he think that living with so much black would be healthy for him? He hadn’t, of course. His designer had googled him and had come with preconceived ideas. He hadn’t even tried to dissuade her otherwise.
This wasn’t who he was, this disguised creature, passively existing and trying to hide from the child he once had been. Not at all.
Running his tongue over his lips, he felt the yearning for a drink. It never gave up, that yearning. It was constantly grabbing for him. He turned the idea over in his mind. He could drink and it would stop him feeling so empty. Then, maybe, he might be able to play. He grimaced. The music born out of his addictions had an angry and vicious voice but it would be better than that awful gaping silence.
He tasted the synthetic sweetness of his lipstick, and furiously rubbed it off, a black gash now across the back of his hand.
He hated this too. This mask.
Stumbling to the bathroom, he bent low over the sink and yanked the tap fully open. He thrust his head under the violent stream of water, letting it flood over his head, and down his cheeks. He looked up at the mirror and saw a bizarre blend of the painted face with his own natural features. The stream of water was pulling black lines from his eyes down to his chin. He lowered his head again. Ignoring the pain, he ripped the wig from his head. His own hair had been pulled so tight and so confined that his scalp screamed in pain as he raked his fingers through the dark brown strands. He scrubbed at his face, erasing the hateful veneer. Such a fucking clown, he thought, as his false façade ran down the drain.
The face that looked back now was ordinary. Skin pale, but no monster. His eyes looked less cold without their dark frame.
He continued to look in the mirror and found himself looking back, eyes shadowed, blank.
The answer was simple and it wasn’t one he could find at the bottom of a bottle.
He had also done it once before.
Chapter One and Two
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