POV #2

I hate this silence.

Being the bassist in Fozzy, I've always been surrounded by noise. Constant... constant... noise. But it never bothered me because that's what you'd expect from being immersed in the world of music. And from the loving fans. And it's what I expect from the fans who love me a little too much. However, I never minded the noise. I lived for it. I lived for the drum. I lived for that voice. I lived for those keys. I lived for that acoustic chord. I lived for my bass guitar.

Thirteen years ago, I joined this group. I think I was just attracted to his fervor. The way he sounded so enthusiastic. The way his blue eyes lit up every time he talked about the success we could have. It didn't take long for him to convince me that this was the best thing ever. That joining Fozzy was the best decision I ever made. But—

This silence tells me otherwise. Or maybe it's the haze of the slowly rising smoke that's screwing up my thoughts.

Nonetheless, I didn't always like him. I still don't. Maybe. But, the fact is I didn't always like him. I didn't like the way he was always in my face. I didn't like the way he smiled. Actually, I still hate that smile. It's always happy. No matter what the world does to him, he always bounces back with harder fists and that smile. I thought a lot about wiping it off. Maybe I could beat him down to the point where he could no longer hold that smile. But then it hit me like a freight train—

/When did I start noticing it?/

We were just years apart. That's what makes it worse you know. He's older by two years. That fact just makes it more wrong. That and fact that I still don't like him. Or that smile. Either way though, we joined Chris Jericho and his buddy Adam on their quest for fame. He brought in a friend named Matt Hardy. A quite guy with unparalleled vocal and guitar skills. I liked Matt. I like brunettes. But silence... I hate silence.

Like this one. This silence that has been going on for who knows how long.

So Matt and I never were. And now, while I'm here stuck thinking about our past, he hasn't said a word. He hasn't smiled either. There was a time when we were all sharing a hotel room, and he decided to liven everyone up by modeling in an ill-fitted Afro, and jock strap and a pair of bright yellow heels. And he gave us a mismatched freestyle. Every now and again that memory makes me smile. But it was then that I knew. It was then that I understood why he was always there for me. Why he gave a damn when no one else would.

He wanted something I couldn't give. And maybe I still can't. Because he's not a brunette. Because I don't love him. Because I hate his smile.

Fozzy grew successful and soon WWE Music Productions – the giant of all production houses – signed us to its label. We were given a ten year contract. It's something a lot of musicians only dream about. Just three years in and Fozzy became a super power. I bought my first place after our first tour. And I moved a lot of people in only to see them walk out. He came around every once in a while, and he stayed throughout the night. But every morning I'd wake up and he wasn't there. And that's when it started. This silence. So I got someone who would always make noise. And keep this hated silence at bay.

Two weeks ago we were at a party. It was to celebrate the success of our recent one month tour. Chris was looking upset. More than he ever has been. We all figured he was having problems with his young wife. What could you expect? Marrying someone who's over ten years your junior had to lead to problems. It was textbook knowledge. That's why I decided to play it safe and sign off on the whole agenda. But now thirty, I regret doing that. There were many options out there. Options that were better than the one I chose to shack up with.

Cody and I broke up today. He'd found someone else to fill his time. And I was tired of the noise anyway.

But then he walked in. He pried into my new found quiet life and just kept asking questions. Then he started shouting when my eyes started to fill with water. I wasn't sad about my failure with Cody. I was just sad about the realization that not even silence wanted to be with me. But he kept talking. Then he touched my face to show me that smile. And I finally cracked.

"John" I know it's futile to call out to him, but the cigarette was dwindling down to nothing as the deafening silence ate up our time. "When are you gonna get up?"

After a long pause, "You shouldn't smoke Randy." He speaks from behind a porcelain expression before finally getting up.

I huff on the last bit of the cigarette before tossing it into the ashtray beside me. I turn to look at him. He's already got his clothes on.

"You're leaving me?"

He scoffs showcasing a brittle dimple. "You'll see me tomorrow at the studio."

I stand up solemnly. I was never the type to hold sentiment to wearing clothes at all the times. "And the day after that?"

He throws a shy smile. It's not happy. It's cheerless. "Yeah. We're performing together."

"And the day after that?" By now I'm standing at an arm's length away from him.

I don't like him. It's something I've always told myself during our decade long friendship. But I never got a reason. And even now – after that noisy moment and then this silent one – I still can't figure out why I don't like John Cena. Maybe it's because he's not brunette. Maybe it's because he's always bouncing back. And then it hits me like a freight train.

I don't want him to bounce back. I never have. And it's because I know that he will – because I know that he'll be able to smile the next day, and the day after that – that I've come to dislike him. And that smile.

But I won't allow him to bounce back after this. I won't allow him to carelessly smile away. I won't stop until he can no longer muster up the strength to be happy without me.

"You're just being immature now Randy." He states bluntly. His decadent smile gone. "I'll be here, alright."

"But now you're going to leave me. Because of what I did."

"Randy" He stops for a breath. "This was just— Look, just believe that it was all a case of you wanting a shoulder to cry on, and me taking advantage of that okay?"

"If I don't believe that, what will you do?"

Cena looks at me in desperate confusion. "I'll never speak to you again." He replies with another voice.

I take the moment to nod. "See you tomorrow then."

His smile comes back. I then realize that this won't be easy. I have my work cut out for me. "Yeah." And then he's gone. Leaving behind this damned silence.

I think it's time I practiced on my guitar.