Three Years Without Freya Sherman

One

I was getting accustomed to rude awakenings. That day, it was a kick in the ribs that sent me hurtling from dreams into reality. But I didn't open my eyes. Not yet. I wanted a second more to pretend I was elsewhere. Then another kick brought me to my senses.

"Hey. You. Up, now. You've got a gig in two hours, and I'm not driving you again. Sober up, take a shower." I prised open my eyes. Billie's lip was twisted, eyebrows furrowed. She was wearing torn fishnet tights, and her blue hair was unwashed.

"Good afternoon, Billie. It's lovely to see your face."

"Yeah? Well I'm sick of the sight of yours. You said you were going to get your act together. Get clean."

"I did? I don't recall..."

"Damn it, Ray! This is the last straw, you hear me? I'm done. I'm done cleaning up your sick and acting like your mother. I'm supposed to be your girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" I smirked. "I'm not sure we ever came to that agreement, honey. I have no interest in being your girlfriend. I've told you. I just want some fun."

Billie's lip quivered, and she looked away, eyes glassy behind layers of black eyeliner. "Right. Got it. Because this is so much fun. Are you having fun? I'm not." She threw a towel at my face. "You've got sick in your hair."

I closed my eyes again and listened to her door slam on the way out the hotel. I lay on the floor a while, before sitting up and allowing the pain in my head and stomach to wash over me.

Was it always like this?

I stumbled to the bathroom. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My hair was limp, my roots showing at the top of my head. Makeup from the night was smudged across my face, and there was a large hickey on my neck. No wonder Billie's pissed.

I didn't remember the previous night. I rarely did. I'm not sure I even enjoyed them at the time. I certainly didn't enjoy the aftermath. But it didn't stop me going out again the next night. And the next.

I got in the shower and let the water crash over me. I leant against the wall, fighting off the black dots behind my eyes. And when I closed them, I saw her.

One week. That's all she took to destroy my life. Does she care? Does she ever think of me? Before she goes to sleep, does she reminisce about us? The way that I do?

My legs failed me. I slid to the floor of the shower, curled up. Nausea washed over me, the hot water still pounding on my bare back. It was scorching, it burned my skin. I relished it. It made me feel something, at least. Something other than the hate. The heartbreak.

Get over it I told myself. She's just a girl. Just one of many. She shouldn't hold enough of you to break you. It's been three years. Why are you still hung up on this?

I rose from the shower. Fumbled for shampoo. Scrubbed the dirt away from my body. Scrubbed so hard that my skin went raw. Like I was scrubbing away her. Cleansing myself of her.

I've got to move on.

I tried to pretend I didn't feel sick as I dried my hair. I pulled on fishnets, a short leather skirt, a ripped grey crop top. Red headscarf. Purple lipstick so dark it was almost black. I examined myself in the mirror. Ray Summers stared back. At least I looked the part. Even if I hadn't felt it since Freya left.

I can pretend a little longer.

The sky was dark when I got in the taxi. I wondered how long it had been since I saw daylight. I slept all day, performed a gig, then partied all night. That was my life. It excited me once, but right then, I couldn't remember why I did it. Why I wanted to.

The audience was queueing outside the venue when I arrived. They didn't see me slip in through the back door. I'm not sure they'd care much if they did. These weren't the hardcore fans I had three years back; these were the kids who had fifteen quid spare for a cheap concert. Who remembered Ray Summers from her one-hit band that crashed and burned a year later. They were the underage kids that who snuck cheap vodka into the concerts and then went clubbing afterwards with a fake I.D. Like Ray Summers would.

Rachel Sumner never did that. She was a good girl. She got good grades at school. She went to parties, but she didn't drink. Her friends teased her, but she'd just smile. She didn't need to drink to have a good time.

Ray Summers was nothing like Rachel Sumner. I doubt sometimes they share the same body. Caught somewhere between the two people.

For now, I'm Ray Summers. I have to be. Rachel has feelings. Ray doesn't. Ray doesn't care about some dumb girl. She cares about the music. She cares about the buzz.

Backstage, I could hear the crowd filling up the venue. Chattering, clinking bottles. Raucous Laughter. I closed my eyes. When was the last time I laughed like that?

I peered my head around the side of the stage. There were two girls at the front, right by the barrier. They were young, dressed in ripped skinny jeans, wearing too much makeup. Younger versions of me. The blonde girl had her arm around the brunette. Their hands were entwined. The brunette leaned forwards to kiss the blonde's nose, and they giggled together. I had to look away.

Which one will break the other's heart?

A stage manager gave me a tap on the shoulder. Time to go on. I took a deep breath, clutching my guitar. The lights dimmed on stage and there was a murmur of excitement. Once, it would have set my heart fluttering. But I felt nothing.

You can do this. One step at a time.

I took to the stage, plugging my guitar into the amp. The audience cheered as the lights came up. And suddenly, I couldn't see anything but the lights. Hear the audience's cheers. I pressed my lips up to the microphone, playing the chord.

The show must go on.