Gerard woke on the battered old couch. He felt maudlin and stiff as he swung his lean body around and dropped his long legs to the floor. He pulled the ashtray that sat on the table closer and lit up. He took a deep drag as he scrubbed his palm across his eyes and up into his hair, all while still dwelling on that car journey to some rehab clinic with Frankie.
He wondered what would have happened if he had made it as far as that clinic. Would he still be here? In this place? At this time? Probablyhe thought to himself bitterly. After all of his successes, friendships and grandiose schemes, he still ended up a drunk – living in shit and sucking the life out of everyone around him with the creeping darkness that had held his soul prisoner for so long.
He went to the small damp, musty smelling tiled bathroom out on the landing which he shared with the unknown occupants of the other two bedsits on his level. He ran the tap until the rust stained water began to resemble clear. He then wet his hands in the ice cold water and splashed his face, trying to rub his face awake. He cupped his hands under the spluttering tap, filled them and rinsed his mouth and spat into the sink. He rinsed his hands again before standing upright, finger combing his wet hands through his tangled hair.
He made his way back to his ratty room. As he entered he looked for his watch, which he was sure – A-ha! There it is! he thought, suddenly spying it on the floor, peeking out from under the sagging green couch. He reached down and picked his way through the deflated plastic bottles and sandwich plates layered with cigarette ash and grabbed it. FUCK! I'm gonna be late again. I can't lose the pay – even if it is crap.
He quickly grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it, checking his pockets to make sure his key was still there. Ah, well…another day, another dollar he mused to himself as he locked the door behind him. He turned on one heel and made his way down the worn out stairs. More like another day, another piece of your soul gone an insidious voice somewhere in the back of his mind corrected. He stopped for a moment, but then shrugged it off as he pushed through the rain-swelled door. He shoved his hands in his pockets and put his head down as he started the cold walk to work.
The steam rose from the huge sink, towering with pots and pans, in front of Gerard. The clammy dampness surrounded him and made him feel sick. To make matters worse, the other sink to his right was also sending up billows of heat with a school kid in front of it whistling along tunelessly to the earphones growing from his head.
The alley door to his left opened suddenly, sending in an arctic blast that made him shudder and turn too quickly. He forgot about the over-sized tray in his numb fingers that were wrinkled from being in the soapy water for so long, and the edge of the tray knocked against a tower of plates. He whipped his head around and saw it all start to happen in slow motion, but he couldn't move fast enough to stop it. He looked to see the kid next to him snicker, then back down at the pile of jagged shards of cheap white ceramic and he knew this would be his last night at this job.
With a groan, he carefully made his way down the steps into the alley, trying to avoid the buildup of grease, which had been his nemesis, causing him to lose his footing and crash into the hard concrete too many times already. He took his lighter from the pocket of his jeans and lit up with his still-shaking hands.
He then checked to make sure the small fold of payoff cash was secure in his pocket as he stumbled down the alley. He would have to make it last. God knows how long it would be before he found another job that paid cash under the table, and he couldn't afford to go on the books properly. There was always the chance that someone would recognize him or his name.
Back home he thought with some relief upon entering his place. He went and emptied the bag of familiar bottles of cheap booze. He put one under the sink and carried the other to his usual place on the couch. He looked around and amended his previous thought –Well, not home exactly, but here anyways.
The van felt more like home he mused and that tour bus! He remembered how they had all bitched and moaned about it, but, damn…that old bus was what he remembered and missed the most. They were always all crammed in together, annoying the Hell out of each other, but loving every minute of it – the knowledge of never being alone. There was always someone nearby…the sound of Frank's breathing lulling him to sleep most nights.
Gerard closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting even deeper into his memory. There were some nights that were special – no…magical. The nights when he would hear Frank 'enjoying' himself – the stifled moans, the heavy breathing that would work into shallow pants just before he would finish. Gerard remembered lying in his own bunk above, unable to deny the arousal from hearing those sounds – touching himself – trying to keep the same rhythm as Frank, making sure he never made a sound. He would imagine they were together, biting his lip in silent abandon.
He opened his eyes back to the cold present. He raised the bottle again, swallowing as fast as he could. His aim was to fall back into those bittersweet dreams that hurt so bad but were all he had.
When he woke in the pale grey morning light, he felt wrong, uneasy and restless – almost caged. He lit another cigarette, feeling the smoke burning his dry throat and suffocating his lungs before he reluctantly exhaled. He reached for the ashtray and failed – knocking it to the floor, the ash spilling everywhere. His hands were shaking more now than the night before, and his skin was crawling, making him want to scratch it off. He stood up, not bothering about the spilled ashtray and stopped only to grab his battered old black canvas jacket before he stomped out the door, slamming it behind him.