Fix My Feet When They're Stumblin'

Chapter 75

     Bright light suddenly blazed to life all around Brandon and he froze, squeezing his eyes shut against the daggers of pain. What...?

    "Brandon! Shit - stop, stop, stop!"

    The voice was faint and echoed weirdly, as though it were travelling through a tunnel, but it was unbearably loud and harsh to Brandon's ears. Someone seized his hand roughly and he flinched and attempted to twist out of reach, instinctively elbowing the person away. The grip loosened and then promptly tightened painfully, while anonymous fingers pried open his fist and forced something hard from his hand.

    Dumbfounded and dazed, Brandon opened his eyes and blinked woozily in the harsh light. Stunned, he stared; carnage stared back. Small holes in the wall could be seen, and the floor was covered in shattered glass and broken plaques and trophies. He stood frozen, his whole body shaking, his chest heaving with exertion.

    What the fuck? He shook his head, trying hopelessly to dispell the incessant ringing in his ears. Dully, he rubbed his face, taking a deep breath through the throbbing pain in his skull. With the unrelenting force of a jackhammer, his skull ached in time to his racing pulse.

    "Shit! Brandon, what the fuck are you doing?"

    Ronnie. The drummer's voice was hushed now, but uncharacteristically unsteady, tainted by shock and a hard note of anger. Brandon flinched and took a step backwards, stumbling as something sharp crunched underfoot. He caught himself against the wall, gasping for breath in a suddenly airless room. He blinked rapidly, raising his hand to his face again and scrubbing at his eyes, trying fruitlessly to shield himself from the painfully bright light.

    "I don't - w-what do you mean? D-Did I...Ron, I didn't - "

    "You didn't? All this shit just threw itself at the walls, huh?"

    Brandon opened his mouth to protest again, then remembered his friend's hands forcing his own open, relieving him of...he swallowed in silence, unable to lift his gaze from the sparkling wreckage that littered the floor beyond his friend, the chipped and broken awards and shattered glass. The band's awards. Did I...fuck.

    Shocked into silence, he watched Ronnie sway precariously, his casted leg resting on the hardwood in a desperate bid to keep his balance. Brandon squinted through the harsh light, noting both of his friend's crutches lying useless at his feet. Fighting a sudden lump in his throat, he bent awkwardly and retrieved the silver crutches, careful to keep his shoulder grazing the wall for support. Wordlessly, he straightened and handed them to his friend, forcing himself to meet his eyes.

    "Sorry," he whispered, wincing at the little wrinkles of pain around the drummer's eyes, the tight, angry twist of his mouth. He dropped his crutches to help me. To stop me. I could've really hurt him.

    With a quiet word of thanks, Ronnie steadied himself and lifted his injured leg again, his face slowly clearing as discomfort faded away. He looked around, regarding the mess that surrounded them for a long moment. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, worry lines making the drummer seem much older than his years.

    "D'you h-hate me?"

    Brandon only realized he'd spoken aloud when his friend's face softened, like snowmelt. "That's the dumbest question ever, Brandon. Of course not. Of course not. But why'd you...what's all this about? It's like two in the morning, you know. What the fuck's going on? Are you okay?"

    Brandon gave a helpless, lopsided shrug and returned his gaze to the sparkling disaster before him, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. I don't even remember coming here, let alone...wanting to do this. What the fuck? He could feel Ronnie's own eyes on him like a physical weight, dragging him down.