Lyrics in the Lines

Bloodstream

The room was fading in and out of focus. Again. Undeterred, Zack reached forwards once more for his glass of red wine. He gripped the stem a little too tightly, trying - and failing - to counteract the shaking in his hand. Crimson liquid splattered onto the blank page on his lap, ominously staining the lined paper like blood.

Zack sighed and tore the page out, screwing it into a ball and throwing it in the general direction of the overflowing waste paper basket. It missed wildly and rolled away into the darkness of the room. Another sigh. Another glug of wine. He was running low again. He eyed the empty bottle on the table sceptically. When had he started it? A couple of hours ago? Half an hour? Zack shook his head. His eyes drifted instead to the door. Lighting pulsed through the glass pane like strobe lighting. The dull thud of music echoed round the room, the tempo jauntily out of sync with Zack's racing heart. His bloodstream pulsed, refusing to match the beat of the music. It was a depressing metaphor for his evening. His life. A musician who couldn't write. Who couldn't feel the music anymore.

Sometimes the wine helped.

Zack liked to believe the wine helped.

He had too.

Otherwise he was just a sad drunk and failed musician. And he had given up too much to fail now. Zack put the empty glass down on the table with an angry clunk. Focus. He needed to focus. He had three BRIT awards; his debut album had been certified triple platinum; he even had a VMA. And Angus kept assuring him that he last single was causing a stir amongst the Grammy's judging panel.

The idea that he couldn't write another song was ludicrous. His inspiration had been lost at the bottom of a bottle somewhere over the last year, and despite searching high and low he still hadn't managed to retrieve it.

"Zack?" The door swung open, revealing the hazy outlines of a pair of girls. Amy and Hazel. Or was is Amelia and Helen? They definitely began with A and H. Probably. Maybe. Zack wasn't even sure what they looked like anymore. But if he had invited them to the party, they must have been attractive. Or maybe Angus had brought them... Zack wished he could remember.

The girls were still stood in the doorway, probably waiting for comatose rock-star to respond to his name. "Yeah?" Zack grunted, trying to sound more with-it than he felt.

"Aren't you coming back to the party?"

"Yeah, 'course. But not for a bit. Writing." He gestured to the obviously blank notebook in front of him. "I'm a couple of verses away from the next best song you've ever heard. I'll be back out when I'm done."

"Okay. But don't work too hard."

"We miss you!" The other chorused.

"I'll be back in no time. Just give me a minute."

The door shut behind them and Zack sank further into his chair, closing his eyes and massaging his temples with his fingers. He should have asked them to bring him another bottle.

Closing his eyes was a two-fold mistake. First, the room spun a hundred times worse than it had done before, increasing his rising sense of nausea. Second, the face that had assailed his dreams for the past three months, haunting him every time he closed his eyes, returned at once.

Dirty blond hair, emerald eyes, a scattering freckles across her adorably wrinkled nose. The smell of turpentine seemed to fill the room, sending his senses into overdrive. Zack slumped forwards, cradling his head in his hands.

Annabelle.

Paint splattered denim dresses. Soft suede ankle boots. Fingernails so ingrained with paint that she used to paint over them to conceal it.

Long summers in the park: he with his guitar, her with an ever present sketchbook. Autumn cafe visits, sipping hot chocolate while the world rushed by outside. Winter parties that she was always too anxious to attend, so he went alone, holding a bottle instead of her hand. Launch events. Gigs. Tours. And her sat in her bedroom alone, wishing him luck with a quick call or text, unable to cope with the people, the attention, the expectations.

The distance becoming emotional as well as physical. Time zones ruined phone calls. Angus always wanted him to meet this producer, or than singer. Annabelle was always sleeping when he was free to talk; or was it he that had been passed out in a post-party haze while she hit redial on the phone?

And then that picture. That awful, horrible picture and the email that followed it. I can't do this to myself anymore... I need to keep living my life, as you are so clearly continuing to live yours... Our relationship is holding me back... Although, if we're being honest, there hasn't been a relationship for months... Not between you and me, anyway.

Unanswered phone calls. More parties. More drink. Anything to become lost in the blur. Anything to escape the emptiness in his chest. The constant gnawing regret in his stomach. The voice in his brain repeating over and over that he had made a mistake. He had chosen the wrong dream. The wrong love. And the pulse of alcohol in his bloodstream; the only thing getting him up every evening.

But none of it was as bad as the knowledge of the scars he had left across her heart. He had never meant to hurt her. If he could go back... If he could fix it... He thought of the award shows, the parties, the first class flights. Was he sure he would choose any differently next time?

Zack glared from the empty bottle to the equally empty pad, as if hoping to fill either by sheer will alone. He rubbed his eyes, which were red raw and streaked crimson from stress and lack of a decent night's sleep.

Music continued to pulse behind the door. He had never felt so alone. So lonely. He pulled out his phone. Her number was still top of his phone book. Maybe he could call her. What was the time in London? What was the time difference between London and... where was he? New York? Los Angeles? Melbourne?

He was adrift, existing outside of time and space. Always a plane ride away from the next show, the next party, the next drink. Wasn't this how that guy in Fight Club had lost it? Were the voices in his head about to sprout bodies and personalities of their own, eroding his sense of self until there was nothing left? Maybe his inner Brad Pitt would be able to write better songs than he could now. That wouldn't be so bad.

Zack dropped his phone to the floor and stood up, swaying as he tried to locate the door again. He needed to get out of this room.

This was how it ended: it was either this lifestyle, the drinking, or his life - and his best hope of writing another song.

It was all depended on which kicked in first: reality, or the next bottle of wine. 

{Dedicated to @ellenjames who made the beautiful cover and read these first. Please vote/comment to let me know what you think}