DAYLIGHT FADING

IF I GET HIGH

If I get high enough, 
Will I see you again?

I release the breath I have been holding in for too long, the curling wisps of exhaled smoke spiralling up from my lungs towards the ceiling which I have clouded up with the last six cigarettes. It doesn't help the craving to smoke until my lungs collapse before these shows that I have to smoke menthol. I fucking hate menthol.

But when you're attempting to masquerade as happily being a pop star, the whole smoke-stained rasp doesn't really work. No, your voice has to be perfect and processed and there are so many dance routines I want to stab myself through the eyes.

At least there are only three more shows. I have been counting them for the last six months, when this tour was announced. My record company have been hounding me about renewing my contract even though they should know that with two weeks left, I am not going to sign another piece of paper they put in front of me.

At least it means I have plenty of material built up over the years when I've had no cause to use it. It repeats in the same cycle of raw, bitter or sad but at least it means something. I'm not sure how much longer I could bear it not meaning anything.

Despite the rail of designer clothes against the wall and the leather sofa and the elegant décor, I would kill for the time three years ago when I would be sat on a threadbare armchair on an equally tattered rug in the back of Panic warming up my fingers by running through some simple chord patterns, humming along and grinning at Adam when he arrived to watch from the side of the stage.

Fucking hell, Adam.

I take an especially long drag, blindly reaching for the bottle of liquor I put down on my rider for Cam because he's too young to get it for himself. Right now, I think I need it more than he does. I unscrew the cap and take a swig. It burns down the back of my throat and I wince. I am really not a straight alcohol lover and I dislike honey whiskey even more. Whiskey and vodka are Adam's drinks. They were what he brought in water bottles to Chris's house parties and they were what he drank himself into the ICU with.

I settle for dragging nicotine into my lungs as fast as I can manage, stubbing this cigarette out into the ash tray I moved beside my hand for convenience before I light up number eight. I tilt my head up and watch the haze swirl around the ceiling, praying that the call for me to go on stage never arrives.

Menthol doesn't even allow me to smoke the taste of Adam out of my mouth so I could try and forget the memories of the kisses he placed there before I left and he broke. I broke just as badly as I pulled my Jeep out of my driveway and took the motorway to a city that could have been beautiful if we'd become acquainted under different circumstances.

No one knocks on the door before it opens so I know who to expect. I always think of him as young despite the fact he's not even two years younger than I am. It's probably because he refuses to pay for haircuts so his hair is permanently shaggy and jammed under a beanie. No matter what, he knows Pink Floyd from Palma Violets and worships Nirvana and the Sex Pistols with a god-like devotion. I have a love of the slowest, softest songs on albums - the kind that you could dance in the dark to or drive through the night with. Cam likes everything loud and fast. Not that I'm surprised. His nose is crooked from repeated breakings and he voluntarily stayed in anger management after the court-mandated course ended.

"Five minutes," he has a twinge of a Mancunian accent, stretching out his vowels too long to sound southern but too crisp on everything else to be northern. Almost as though his voice refused to completely let go of the fact that he hadn't lived above the Watford Gap for 6 years. "Is that my whiskey?"