Nine Kinds of Pain

Nine Kinds of Pain
By G Money

         Matt was relieved to find the building deserted. No late night crew closing up or mixing a night’s work. His band mates were just starting their day jobs and wouldn’t be around until the evening. They would be recording material from their regular gig at the club. The thought of the club made his stomach churn, the scar on his tight abdomen ache. He sat down behind the worn practice kit in the sound room, looked at his bandaged hand, ran his fingers over the damp blood spots that were forming. He picked up a pair of sticks off the floor, tapped one on his leg with his left hand, and twirled the other in his right, watching the bandage turn crimson as he waited for inspiration. He started with a simple jazz groove, closing his eyes, trying to let the music flow from his mind to his limbs as they moved gracefully around the kit. He felt the heat of the lights, heard screams in his ears mixed with sirens. He stopped playing and squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The stomach wound burned as if the bullet ripped through his skin and muscle again. There was a snap. He opened his eyes, taking slow, deep breathes, the broken drumstick clutched tightly in his bandaged hand. His old watch ticked loudly as he got up from behind the kit, tossed the broken stick into a corner and went into the hallway.

         He adjusted the collar of his jacket as he pushed open the doors to a conference room. He had thought he was up to playing again, but his first gig back in the spotlight last night had been a disaster. Finding him after the gig, Mack had set up this meeting, saying it was at the label’s request. Matt shuffled over to the conference table and politely extended his unbandaged hand in greeting.
         Dr. Stanly Stevens introduced himself and shook Matt’s hand, glancing at the hastily wrapped bandage on the other.

         “Look, Dr. Stevens,” Matt said.

         “You can call me Stanly. Please, have a seat.”

         “Okay. Stanly. I don’t…”

         “What happened to your hand?” Stanly interrupted.

         Matt looked at the bandage and swallowed. “Oh. I…uh…cut it. On a glass.”

         “The glass broke?”

         “Yeah.”

         “Must be difficult to play.”

         Matt ran his hands nervously through his hair as he sat down. “I manage.”

         }“How long have you been playing?”

         “Almost six years. I started in college. It’s more of a hobby than livelihood. We just happened to get lucky with the demo and the record deal.”

         “Ah.” Stanly looked at Matt. “So what happened?”

         “With what?”

         “The shooting.”

         Matt shrugged, a look of nervous indifference plastered on his face. “I got shot. So what? It happens. Nothing new.”

         “Who was with you?”

         “Everybody.”

         “Who is everybody?”

         Matt leaned back in the chair so that the front two legs were not touching the floor. “Booger our bassist, the multi-talented Harrison, Stork our other guitarist, Mack our manager, the techs and crew, promotions people. Everybody. It was our demo night.”

         “What happened?”

         Matt shrugged. “I walked out of the club, heard gunfire and woke up in a hospital room. End of story.”

         “Okay.” Stanly made some notes in a file that was spread over the table.

         Matt let the chair fall back towards the table. “Are we done?”

         “What happened three weeks ago?”

         “Three weeks ago? Any number of things happened three weeks ago. I don’t know exactly what you’re referring too.”

         Stanly flipped through some pages in the file. “I don’t know what I’m referring to either. Your band mates and your manager said that they became concerned about your behavior three weeks ago.”

         Matt laughed. “They’re ones to talk. Jesus.” His leg bounced nervously. “They were probably talking about Rory.”

         “Rory.” Stanly consulted his notes. “Stork’s cousin.”

         “Right.”

         “What about Rory?”

         “I don’t know.”

         “You just said they were talking about Rory.”

         “I said they were probably talking about Rory. There was a lot going on then with going back to work and rehearsing. We have a record to make.”

         “Right.”

         “We all have straight jobs, some of us rather lucrative ones, that cover costs, and I’m still paying off hospital bills.”

         “Okay. What makes you think they were probably talking about Rory?”

         Matt ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes.

         “What is this, 20 questions?”

         “It’s my job, Matt.”

         “Anybody ever tell you you’re job is pretty fucking annoying? God.”

         “What happened to Rory?” Stanly asked.

         Matt sighed. “He died that week.”

         “How?”

         “He was an Air Force pilot,” Matt said, shifting nervously in the chair.

         “So what happened?”

         Matt rolled his eyes. “You gotta be kidding me. The paper did a front-page tribute. He’s a big hero, was a big hero.”

         “It wasn’t on the front page of the sports section. How did he die?”

         “He shot himself. Allegedly.” Matt leaned back in the chair again.

         “Did you know him?”

         “Who? Rory. No.”

         “Was that day the first you heard of him?”

         “No. He and Stork were close. Stork would talk about him every now and then; go on about how he served his country, his survival skills when he was…Stork only talked about him once a year. Like I said, I didn’t know him.”

         “When during the year?”


         Matt slouched in the chair, remembering the first couple nights after Rory’s death. Stork talked about how Rory had done something with his life, and how he wished he had known what to do while Matt silently seethed with jealousy. Matt stayed up all night, rereading the articles he had clipped until he had them memorized. A decorated combat veteran, they said, found shot to death, cause still unknown. A strange feeling overcame him as he imagined the peace Rory must have felt when he swallowed the bullet. He ran to the bathroom, the stitches burning as a dry heave racked his body. Screams and sirens rang in his ears as he crouched on the floor, shaking, imagining the taste of lead as he swallowed.

         “It doesn’t bother you?” Matt asked Stork the following day. They were shooting pool at a local bar before heading to the studio.

         “Sure. It bothers me.”

         “A perfectly healthy guy shoots himself and you can just leave it at that?”

         “Obviously he wasn’t perfectly healthy.” Stork knocked the nine-ball into the left-center pocket. He glanced at Matt. “And they don’t know yet whether or not he shot himself. It could’ve just been an accident.”

         “An accident? Bullshit. He knew what he was doing. Gutsy.”

         “Gutsy? How is that gutsy?”

         “It takes will power not to move your head when you pull the trigger.”

         Stork looked at Matt, his slouched stance; the nervous glances around the bar that had been their hang out the past two years; the scared, distant look in his eye. He remembered the Matt so full of energy that it spilled over into the band and sustained them gig after gig. All three felt as if they could play forever while Matt was behind the kit. His energy had landed them their permanent gig at the club that eventually led to the record deal.

         “Stop staring at me and finish your shot,” Matt said.

         Stork wondered if the energy had been drained during that agonizing operation in order to save him. Stork remembered standing in front of a crowd outside the club, signing autographs and gabbing with friends who had come to see the show. Matt had been right next to him, then something cut between them as the sound of gunfire silenced the conversation. He still couldn’t remember what happened, but he remembered Matt staring at him, wide-eyed, clutching his stomach. Blood oozed around his fingers and soaked his shirt. People ran screaming in every direction. He lost sight of Matt in the frenzy. Uniformed cops arrived on the scene, calming the public, calling for ambulances and inquiring about the shooter and possible targets. Stork found the band grouped in front of the club, taking in the scene. There was no sign of Matt. The three of them fanned out, checking the ambulances and asking other people if they had seen him. Stork had wandered down toward the rear of the club, by the doors they had come out of when the shots were fired. He looked around in the dim light from the street lamp, then wandered down the alley, his heart sinking to the pit of his stomach.

         The alley was dark and lined with dumpsters. He stood in the middle, looking around at the newspapers, bags and beer cans that clung to the edges and the walls. There were dim outlines that could be bodies or mounds of paper. He squinted in an effort to distinguish trash from flesh. He saw a sole sticking out from the far corner of a dumpster, and sprinted to the site, pulling the dumpster away from the work boots he knew too well. He screamed for an ambulance as he stared at Matt who sat hunched against the wall, clutching his stomach and staring at the sky.

         “What’s your problem?” Matt asked.

         “What?” Stork asked, shaking the memory from his mind.

         “You keep staring at me.”

         Stork leaned against his pool cue. “Why does Rory’s death bother you so much?”

         Matt shrugged and ran his hands nervously through his hair. They came out damp. “Nothing.” He moved out of the way so Stork had a clear shot. “Just gonna put a damper on my birthday I guess.”

         “Feel guilty?”

         “Guilty? About what?”

         “You’re alive.”

         “That’s your fault, not mine.”

         “My fault?”

         Matt shrugged. “Shoot already.”

         Stork took his next shot, remembering the ride in the ambulance as the cue ball bounced off the bumper. Matt was taken for emergency surgery as McGuiness dragged Stork away to the waiting room, saying nothing. Booger and Harrison were already there, waiting. He remembered McGuiness saying something about surgery, the bullet still inside and hope for the best. He was in good hands, and all they could do was wait, and pray.

          “You don’t find it odd though, that he would do something like that? And leave nothing behind? No note or anything.”

         Stork stood up. “Yeah, it is odd, even for Rory. He was never one to ask for help, or he didn’t know how.” He watched Matt shift nervously on his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans. “He wasn’t quite the same after…the accident.”

         “Yeah. Having your plane shot down has to be a harrowing experience.” Matt shifted his weight as he leaned on the pool cue. “Seems people born on my birthday are destined to commit suicide.” He looked at his watch. “C’mon man, let’s finish the game already. We don’t have all day.”

         Stork missed his next shot, his thoughts drifting over the meeting with the band, McGuiness and the doctors the night before Matt’s release. He watched as Matt cleaned up the table, remembering the signs the doctors had said to look out for, like agitation, insomnia. Others might manifest later as the mind begins to cope. Suicidal thoughts were not uncommon, nor were attempts. They should act normal, not treat him any differently than before, and get him back into a routine. He had read the same thing in books he had thumbed through at the library after Rory’s death.

         A fan came up to them, and asked for an autograph. Stork gladly obliged. Soon a small crowd had gathered around, calling out their names, asking about the label and whether or not they would still play at the club. Matt fought his way through the mass that had formed around the pool table, words of “Welcome back” screaming in his ears. He burst out the front door and turned down the alley where he pressed his hands against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut as pain radiated from his abdomen. He leaned his forehead against the cold brick, praying for silence.

         “Matt. Hey Matt,” Stork said as he rested a hand on Matt’s back. “You okay?”

         Matt whirled around at Stork’s touch, a frightened, wild look in his eye as he shoved Stork violently into the dumpster.

         “Sorry.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m just not used to the sirens.”

         Stork stared at Matt, wondering if he had heard right.

         “Fans,” Matt said as he started walking out of the alley. “The fans.”

         “Matt.”

         “We gotta get to the studio.”

         “What’s going on man?”

         “I said I was sorry. We gotta get to the studio.”

         “C’mon man. What’s wrong?”

         Matt turned his collar to the wind and shoved his hands in his pockets without answering. Stork fell in step beside him, a nagging feeling settling in his gut that only worsened during the recording session.

         “Did you know that your friends were concerned about you?” Stanly asked.

         “I don’t know,” Matt said, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.

         “Did they express their concern?”

         “If you want to know what they did or didn’t do, why don’t you ask them?”

         “I did.”

         “Obviously.”

         “What happened during the recording session?”

         It was the first recording session, and the first time they were together since the incident. Stork watched Matt go through his warm-up routine, stretching his arms, wrists and fingers. He sat down behind his kit, struck each drum and cymbal, making minor adjustments to position. He shifted in his chair, took a deep breath and started with a simple jazz groove, played three measures and a fill, then stopped.

         “Ready,” Matt said.

         “Haven’t lost your touch,” Booger said.

         “Let’s go,” Stork said as he played the opening riff. The first song went so well they continued to play. Stork could feel the energy filling the room. Booger was swaying on his feet as he always did when excited. Harrison’s voice was clear and soothing. Stork looked at Matt, his face scrunched up, eyes tightly shut. He heard it then, the snare growing louder, the cymbals struck with brunt force as they battled with the snare for space in the small range of human hearing. The tip of the stick flew at Booger with the last crash.

         “Jesus,” Booger said as he flinched. “What the hell?”

         “Goddamnit,” Matt said as he got up from behind his kit and retrieved the tip. “There goes another pair of sticks.”

         “You bring another pair?”

         “Of course,” Matt snapped.

         “I was just asking,” Stork said.

         “Fuck you!” Matt shoved Stork into the hi-hat stand. Stork stumbled back, knocking the stand over. A clattering of cymbals mixed with a swirl of fists as Matt descended upon Stork who tried to defend himself. Harrison and Booger rushed to separate the two, only to be thrown aside. Booger charged Matt, ducking and slamming his head into Matt’s chest and knocking him to the ground. Harrison pressed his forearm against Stork’s windpipe, pinning him to the wall.

         “What the hell is going on,” McGuiness said as he entered the room.

         “It’s Stork’s fault,” Matt said as he shoved Booger off and headed for the door.

         “Where you going,” McGuiness asked.

         “To get another pair of sticks.” Matt brushed passed McGuiness.

         “Hey,” McGuiness said as he grabbed his arm. “What has gotten into you?”

         “It’s his fault,” Matt said as he shook himself free and walked out the door.

         McGuiness looked at the three of them. Harrison let Stork go, who wiped blood from his nose. McGuiness looked back into the booth at the sound technicians who pretended to busy themselves with the soundboard.

         “Okay. What the hell was that about?” McGuiness asked.

         “He’s lost it,” Booger said.

         “Something’s wrong,” Stork said.

         “Maybe we’re pushing him too early,” Harrison said as he set the hi-hat stand back up. “Maybe recording so soon isn’t such a great idea.”

         “No, it’s not that. It’s something else.”

         “Yeah, like what?” Booger asked sarcastically.

         “The guy’s been through a traumatic experience,” Stork said, glaring at Booger. “I wouldn’t expect you to get it.”

         “What the fuck does that mean? You don’t think I don’t know?”

         “I know you don’t,” Stork said.

         “Bullshit. I was there too.” Booger stood right in front of Stork. His voice quivered with anger. “He was fucking gone man. I saw that look in his eye so don’t tell me what I don’t know. I saw it.”

         Stork wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt and spit into the corner. “Okay.”

         Booger took a step back. “Okay.”

         “So what do we do?” Harrison asked.

         “We have to help him,” Stork said.

         “Help me?” Matt asked as he came back into the room, clutching a pair of sticks.

         There was an awkward silence as Harrison, Booger and Stork exchanged glances. McGuiness stood in the middle, looking from the three of them to Matt then back again.

         “Fuck you all,” Matt said as he turned and left.

         “Matt,” McGuiness called as he followed him into the hallway.

         “Whose side are you on!” Matt screamed. He clenched his hair as the scream bounced off the walls and rattled around in his brain. McGuiness watched his eyes and jaw clench as if he were fighting something off. “That lucky motherfucker.”

         “Who?”

         “That lucky motherfucker.” Matt looked at McGuiness, his eyes moist and clear. “He knew what he was doing. Gutsy bastard.”

         McGuiness stood rooted in the hallway as Matt walked away, trying to piece everything together. An executive walked past, nodding hello to Matt who gave no response. The executive paused for a moment, watching Matt, then turned back towards McGuiness.

         “How’s he doing?”

         “I don’t know Frank,” McGuiness said.

         There was an awkward silence. McGuiness had been keeping his fingers crossed that Matt would return to himself and not give the label any cause to cut him.

         “He’s the energy behind this band,” Frank said. “We need him.”

         Matt left the studio and went back home, took off his shirt and sat on his bed. Images of Rory gathered from the clippings mixed with screaming fans and blood. He felt pain in his chest, heard screams in his ears and the smell of sterilized needles in his nostrils. He went down the hall to the bathroom. He turned the faucet on and ran his hands under the water, staring at his wrists, his veins visible through his soft, wet flesh. He splashed cold water on his face in an effort to wash away his thoughts. He stared at his reflection in the mirror as water dripped off his chin and nose into the sink. His cheekbones were still visible, his eyes two cold black dots floating in their sockets. He ran his fingers over the scar that was forming in his tight abdomen, felt it tingle at his touch and shivers run down his spine. He gripped the sides of the sink, squeezing his eyes shut. The faucet ran, drowning out the ringing in his ears, the screams, the sirens. He frantically searched through the medicine cabinet for a razor blade, excited at the prospect of finding solitude. He slammed the cabinet shut and looked under the sink, then shoved the shower curtain back. He braced himself against the sink, the faucet still running.

         “What the heck are you doing,” Stork asked as he stood in the doorway.

          “Shit,” Matt said as he turned the faucet off. “You scared me.” He dried his hands on a towel. “Nothing. Guess we’re out of aspirin.”

          Matt moved past Stork into the hallway. Stork stood and surveyed the chaos of the bathroom, looked inside the medicine cabinet and saw the bottle of aspirin sitting front and center where he had left it.

         “The guys are downstairs.”

         “Okay.” Matt went into his room and put his shirt back on.

         Booger and Harrison leaned against the counter. McGuiness stood near the door, rocking back on his heels, arms folded. He caught Matt’s scowl as he sauntered down the stairs and flopped on the couch, dejected. “Let’s get this over with.”

         “Christ Matt,” Booger said. “We’re not kicking you out. We’re concerned.”

         Matt chuckled. “Concerned? Right. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

         “You beat up Stork here in the studio. You broke your brand new set of sticks. I know you man. You don’t have a short fuse. You’re full of patience. I’ve got the short fuse. I’ve got the
temper,” Booger said.

         “So what, your pissed because I’m invading your territory?”

         “You’re not yourself Matt,” Harrison said.

         “No? Who am I then?”

         Harrison looked at his band mates for help. They shrugged, stuck. Matt smirked and got up off the couch. “Some intervention.”

         “Will you three excuse us,” McGuiness said. Harrison, Booger and Stork disappeared into the makeshift practice room.

         “Oh great. Here we go,” Matt said, rolling his eyes. “What great words of wisdom do you have for me now?”

         McGuiness looked at Matt, the taunt flesh over his cheekbones, the restless eyes unable to remain on one object for very long. He noticed how they refused to meet his eyes, choosing to stare off to one side or down at the coffee table.

         “Look at me,” he said as he stood in front of Matt. He could see it then, the blank stare; the paralysis. The spark was still there, buried beneath mounds of guilt, fear and desperation. “I know, Matt.”

         The eyes widened for an instant, fearful, then returned. “You don’t know shit.”

         “You still remember it, don’t you?”

         The shoulders slouched, the eyes moved to the floor. “Yeah. So.”

         “What do you remember?”

         Matt shrugged. “Everything.”

         “What, exactly?”

         “C’mon man. You were there too. Don’t you remember it?”

         “Yes, I do. I remember hearing gunshots, then standing in front of the club with Harrison and Booger when Stork came running up. He said that you had been shot but were nowhere to be found.”

         “See? Okay then.”

         “We fanned out, asking around. Asking the officers, the emergency crews, fans. No one knew where you went. Then Stork’s screams came and my heart stopped.”

         “Jesus. Okay.”

         “Watching them perform CPR, that look on your face like you were already gone. The ambulance ride. Waiting out that long, tedious surgery, wondering if there was any chance. Then the relief the following morning when they said you were in the clear. That’s what I remember.”

         Matt clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

         “This isn’t easy for any of us,” Stork said as they came back into the room.

         “Yeah,” Booger said. “We need you back man.”

         “We need you playing,” Harrison said. “But we need you well first, so we’re going to rework the recording schedule to give you, and us, some time.”

         “Time? For what? And what about the label? They won’t agree to a renegotiation now. We signed a contract. We’re legally bound to put out this album as scheduled.”

         “Let me worry about the label,” McGuiness said.

         “The point is…”

         “I know what the point is,” Matt snapped.

         “Okay,” Harrison said. “We’ll see you guys later.”

         “Yeah. Later,” Booger said as he followed Harrison out the door.

         “I don’t need time, Mack. I’m fine.”

         “Think of it as practice time,” McGuiness said.

         Matt shrugged. “Yeah. Okay. We can do it all in one take if we practice.”

         “All right,” McGuiness said as he gave Matt a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll set the meeting up with the executives to rework the recording schedule. You guys take care,” he said, pointing from Stork to Matt. Stork nodded and followed McGuiness to the door.

         “What do you think?” Stork whispered.

         “I think you’re right,” McGuiness said, glancing at Matt who was rubbing his eyes. “I’ll talk to Frank. If the label is behind it, he’ll do it.”

         “All right.”

         “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” McGuiness said as he left.

         “Yeah,” Matt said. He ran his hands through his hair and let out a deep breath. “Yeah. Practice. Okay,” he said as he turned and went into the practice room.

         The sticks were cold yet smooth to the touch, and he felt at ease sitting on his throne behind his kit. He had spent many hours behind it before the incident, playing on his own and practicing with the band before their Saturday night gig at the club. The club owner had been looking for a regular to fill his Saturday night slot, and had offered it to them at the end of their first show. The crowds started to enlarge, and soon the club was packed wall to wall every Saturday night, singing and swaying to the music. Their poster was the centerpiece of a collage of rotating bands on the front windows of the club. Fans waited for autographs before and after the set. Record labels were sending scouts to watch their shows, and the club owner suggested they get a manager. Matt had sought out his old radio DJ friend McGuiness who had sold him his first drum kit. McGuiness came to see a show, and met with the band. He waited by the bar as the four members agreed that his promotions background, ties with the radio industry and his personality were just what they were looking for. McGuiness agreed to manage.

         Matt started with a soft four-on-the-floor, and eased himself into the basic jazz groove, letting the swing feeling permeate his thoughts. He closed his eyes, trying to feel the music. He saw the lights of the stage, Booger, Stork and Harrison in front of him, playing to the screaming fans. Sweat broke out on his brow as he saw screaming faces gaping at him, eyes full of tears, blood everywhere. He struggled to maintain tempo, and started striking the snare harder in an effort to drown out the sirens ringing in his ears. He stopped and buried his head in his hands, praying for it to stop.

         “Sounds like it was tough,” Stanly said as he jotted down some notes.

         Matt played with the bandage. “Obviously. I wasn’t ready.”

         “What happened on the 21st?”

         “A post-demo record landing hospital release party, so to speak.”

         “Right. The demo,” Stanly said consulting his notes. “And you had a meeting with executives from the label.”

         “Probably.”

         “You don’t remember meeting with the executives?”

         “There have been a bunch man.” Matt shifted uneasily in his chair. Stanly watched him fold and then unfold his hands, set them on the table and put them in his lap. He stood up and started pacing around the room.

         “Okay.”

         Matt continued to pace, remembering the meeting. McGuiness had set the meeting for Monday to reschedule the recording sessions. Harrison also brought a live recording from Saturday’s concert of some new material they wanted to add. The five of them sat in the office with the executives, listening to the recording and waiting for a response. Booger had a big grin on his face, and kept thumping along to the bass line. Stork watched the executives tap their feet to the beat and looked at Harrison, smiling. Matt sat still, trying to control his breathing as he heard the screaming fans mix with the sound of sirens in his head. He heard loud pops, felt pain erupt from his stomach. He looked down, expecting to see blood oozing from the wound. He fought the urge to double over and squeezed his eyes shut as an executive turned the recording off.

         “Sounds good guys,” Frank said.

         “Thank you,” Harrison said. “We have some fine tuning to do still.” He glanced from one band member to the other, then at Matt.

         “That’s fine. We can tinker with the time slots for your recording sessions.”

         “I’ll be ready by Thursday,” Matt said

         “There’s no need to rush Matt,” McGuiness said.

         “Yes, that’s right,” Frank said, looking at Matt. “Take all the time you need.” He saw beads of sweat dot Matt’s forehead.

         “You don’t think I can be?” Matt couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.

         “Matt,” Stork said, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Easy man.”

         “We’ve already got the time. Will you just listen to me,” Matt said, shaking him off. “I can’t help what happened, okay. It was your fault.” He glared at Stork.

         “You’ve said that already,” Stork said.

         “Maybe sometime you’ll get it,” Matt said roughly.

         Stork stared inquisitively at Matt. “You keep repeating it like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

         He saw an arm raise and a fist fly at his face. A body jumped in front of him, absorbing the blow. Booger doubled up his fists and set himself for Matt’s next blow.

         “Stop,” McGuiness said as he slipped his strong arms around Matt’s shoulders and dragged him out of the office.

         “He’s lost it,” Booger said as the door closed.

         "Damnit Booger. He hasn’t lost it,” Stork said. “He’s just pissed at me because I found him.”

         “Everything reminds him of it,” Frank said. “And he wants to forget.”

         “I know the feeling,” Booger said as he sat down. “So what do we do?”

         Frank looked at his coworkers, then at the band. “Get him some help.”

         “He won’t take it,” Stork said.

         “He’ll take it,” Frank said.

         Outside, Matt braced himself against the side of the building, felt the sun burn into his black shirt. “I should go apologize,” he said. “That was totally uncalled for.”

         “You need some help Matt.”

         “Mack, c’mon. We’ve got a record to do. Just let me go back in and apologize. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I don’t want to hurt anybody, just me. Let me go back in and apologize for the whole thing.”

         “Matt, I’m not sure you’re fully conscious of what you’re saying.”

         “It’s out of my system okay.”

         “You need some help.”

         “Weren’t you listening?”

         “Yes.”

         “I’m not a fucking recovering moron.” Matt slammed his fist into the wall, feeling the skin on his knuckles break. “I’m sorry,” he said as he turned around, shoving his hands in his pockets as he looked at the sidewalk. “I didn’t mean it.”

         “Matt.”

         “What about the label?”

         “This is their suggestion as much as mine.”

         “What? Shit.” He looked down at his knuckles. “God. I blew it.”

         “They’re concerned, Matt. We’re all concerned.”

         “I should quit.”

         “Matt.”

         He ran his hands through his hair. “It’ll be easier that way. I won’t be a liability.”

         McGuiness stared hard at Matt. “If they thought you were a liability, they would have let you go already.”

         “What makes you think they’re not discussing that right now?”

         “They know what happened, they understand.”

         “Fucking everybody knows.”

         “Everybody was there, Matt.”

         Matt took a deep breath. Stanly made some notes. “You’ve got a smart manager.”

         “Yeah. I know.”

         “He’s a good guy. He knows what he’s talking about.”

         “It was embarrassing.” Matt put his hands on a chair and stared at the table. “I don’t think they’ll hold the meeting against you.”

         “What? You talk to the execs as well? Jesus. Who didn’t you talk to?”

         “How did you cut your hand?”

         “Oh not this again,” Matt said, rolling his eyes as he sat down.

         “C’mon, how’d you do it?”

         “I already told you. I cut it on a glass,” Matt said, holding his hand out so the bandage was visible.

         Stanly shook his head. “I don’t think you did.”

         “Stanly. I got home from the gig, poured a glass of water, and set it down.”

         “You set it down with quite a bit of force.”

         “All those drumming muscles.”

         Stanly chuckled. “I swear that I am unimpressed by clever answers.”

         “Who said I was being clever?” Matt leaned back in the chair and folded his hands behind his head, a smug grin on his face.

         “You’re in nine kinds of pain. And you’re so locked into damage control, you don’t know what’s going on inside of you.”

         “It took you six hours to come up with that?” There was silence for a moment as Matt let the chair legs touch the ground. “So what is it?”

         Stanly capped his pen and set it down on the table. “You have post-traumatic stress disorder.”

         Matt let out a nervous laugh as he slouched in the chair and folded his hands on top of his chest. “Really.”

         “Yep.”

         “I don’t think that’s something they let you have in the music business.”

         Stanly didn’t say anything. Matt ran his hands through his hair again, and leaned back in the chair.

         “Look,” Matt said. “I’m not trying to be difficult or anything.”

         “I don’t think you are.”

         “I know you you’re trying to help.”

         “I’m trying to get you to remember the shooting without reliving it.”

         “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

         “And you have been reliving it. It happened during the meeting.”

         “That…nah. That was just stress.”

         “It happened during the performance.”

         “Stanly.”

         “It happened…during the performance,” Stanly said, tapping his pen for emphasis.

         Matt put his head in his hands as he rested his elbows on the table. He felt his fingers close tightly around his hair as the screaming filled his ears again.

         “Talk about the night of performance,” Stanly said softly.

         “I was fine.”

         “What started it?”

         “I don’t know.

         “Yes you do.”

         “I don’t know,” Matt said as slammed his fist down on the table. “I was fine.” He rubbed his eyes and leaned on the table.

         The stage lights burned down on them as they took the stage, fans screaming and clapping. He sat down behind his kit and counted off two measures with his sticks before the band launched into their opening song. It felt good to be on stage again, playing with three guys he considered good friends. Stork smiled at him as Harrison started singing. The screaming became more intense, and the fans in the front started shouting out the words along with Harrison. Cameras flashed. Gunfire rang in his ears. A bitter taste flooded his mouth. He heard sirens that sounded in unison with the screaming voices. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on Booger’s bass line as pain erupted in his stomach with each flash of a camera. Sweat poured down his face. He leaned over to spit out the bitter tasting liquid and doubled over in pain. He dragged himself off stage as Bryan the tech hurried to fill in. McGuiness rushed over and helped Matt clear the stage, motioning to rest of the band to keep going.

         “Jesus Christ. Matt,” McGuiness said as he dragged him to the back room. “Matt. C’mon, talk to me.”

         Matt struggled to free himself as McGuiness tried to hold him down and see if something else was wrong. Matt punched him in the jaw and headed for the exit, the sound of gunfire drowning out McGuiness’s calls. He staggered down the street to the apartment he shared with Stork, and let himself in.

         “I couldn’t make it stop,” Matt said through gritted teeth.

         “No, you couldn’t, but you had been trying to for three weeks. What happened when you went home?” Stanly watched Matt’s face reveal the struggle of suppression.

         “Nothing,” Matt said as he sat up and folded his hands on the table. He struggled to keep his voice from shaking.

         “Okay,” Stanly said as he got up and sat down in the chair next to Matt’s.

         “Nothing happened.”

         “Can you honestly tell me you didn’t think about Rory?”

         “Why would I think about Rory?”

         “Can you honestly tell me you didn’t wonder if you were suicidal too?”

         “I didn’t wonder that,” Matt said as he clenched his hands into fists.

         “You’re lying.”

         “I didn’t wonder that.”

         “Everything the two of you had in common.”

         “We had nothing in common. I didn’t know the guy.”

         “You knew you had the same birthday.”

         “So what? That doesn’t mean anything.”

         “You knew something else.”

         “Stanly,” Matt said as he put his head in his hands.

         “You knew that his plane had been shot down, that he had ejected and that there were some injuries.”

         “Big fucking deal,” Matt said as he got up violently from the table, causing the chair to fall backward. He braced himself against the wall.

         “Matt,” Stanly said, coming up beside him.

         “No. Please.” He squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to block out the sound of breaking glass. “Nothing happened.”

         “Matt, how did you cut your hand?”

         He rested his elbows on the wall, clenching his hand, feeling pain shoot through it like it had when he thrust his hand through the window of his bedroom. The emotion twinkled down with the glass shards that sparkled in the streetlight. Blood oozed from the wound as relief washed over him, causing his body to collapse on the floor. He could hear pounding on the door, and the voice of McGuiness demanding to be let in. Matt got up quickly and wrapped his hand in a towel that was lying on his bed.

         “I’m okay,” Matt said as he unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

         “What happened? I heard something break.”

         “Nothing, don’t worry about it.”

         McGuiness put his arm on the door and pushed, knocking Matt off balance. He looked from the broken window to Matt’s hand. “Feel better?”

         “Did you?” Stanly asked.

         Matt leaned against the wall and ran his hands through his hair. He looked at the bandage. “Yeah.”

         “Okay then,” Stanly said.

         “Okay then? I broke a window in the apartment.”

         “Yeah. Stop doing that.”

         Matt looked at Stanly, puzzled. “That’ll fix it?”

         Stanly smiled. “Yeah. Sure. I want to commend you on not hurting anyone else, or yourself to badly. Nevertheless, stop doing that,” Stanly said as went back to the table. He picked his brief case up off the floor.

         Matt stared at the table, confused. “That’s it? We’re done?”

         “Yes Matt, we’re done.”

         “Wait a second. Hold on. What happens if somebody else’s cousin whom I share a birthday with and that I’ve never met kills himself?”

         “Nah. That’s not the problem,” Stanly said.

         “What is the problem?”

         “The sound of screaming fans.”

         “What? Bullshit. How can that be?”

         Stanly closed his brief case and put on his suit coat. “With a gun shot victim, usually something such as the sound of a car backfiring or a twig snapping triggers intense flashbacks. With you, however, the sound of screaming voices…”

         “Are the same as sirens,” Matt interrupted.

         “Yes,” Stanly said, smiling.

         Matt sat back in the chair and scowled at the table. “So much for live performances.”

         “Not necessarily.”

         Matt looked up. “Really? Why?”

         “Because…people get better. And with a little time, you’ll be able to perform live.” Stanly leaned forward. “You just have to have patience and give it time.”

         Matt stood up and followed Stanly out into the hall.

         “Patience,” Stanly said.

         “Right. Patience,” Matt said as they shook hands. He watched Stanly walk down the hall and out the door. He turned and headed back towards the studio. A few people were wandering the halls, carrying equipment and paperwork from one room to another. They nodded at Matt in passing. He watched another band go through a final take, then pack up their gear. The five members filed out into the hall, and stopped when they saw Matt.

         “Hey,” the tall, blonde one said as he motioned towards Matt. “That’s him.” Matt felt his body tense as the five members approached. He tried to brace himself for the sound of gunfire he expected to erupt from their mouths as they introduced themselves. He automatically put his palm over the wound as if to stop it from ripping open. They gave him a pat on the back, said congrats on the record deal and continued on down the hall. He stood there a minute, running his hands through his hair, staring at the floor and finding himself oddly relaxed.

         “You seemed to handle that well,” McGuiness said.

         Matt looked up. “Yeah.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s weird.”

         “What?”

         "Having other people, other musicians, tell you you’re an inspiration, and mean it.” He picked at his bandaged hand.

         “You need to get that checked out.”

         “I know.”

         “Today.”

         “Okay.” He wandered down to the recording studio.

         All their gear was set up. Harrison and Stork were tuning their guitars off to one side. Neither took notice as he entered the room. Booger stood on the opposite side of the room, absentmindedly plucking away on his bass. Matt walked over to his kit. He ran his hands over the cymbals and the heads; then sat down on his throne. He took a deep breath, slowly exhaling and relaxing his muscles. He stretched his arms, wrists and fingers before picking up his sticks that were lying on the snare. His ear picked up Booger’s bass. He knew that bass line, and launched into the song. Booger looked up as Matt gave him a nod and wink. Stork’s guitar came in, followed by Harrison’s strong, soothing voice.