Fool's Paradise

Sorry About The Blood

John's P.O.V

I still remember the sight.

The bathroom door open, broad yellow light shining into the dimly lit room. The smell of a rotting corpse filling the abandoned apartment, dry droplets of blood and used drug syringes on the carpet and kitchen counter.

The blood, the blood. I can't shake the mental image of that cold, crimson red pool he lay in. The gun still tightly gripped in his hands, his index finger still resting on the metal trigger.

The bathroom was dirty and covered in mould, the blue and white tiled floor was stained red. The whitewash walls splattered with scarlet blood.

His foot was visible through the doorway, his black converse shoe untied, the shoelaces dipping into the puddle. His black jean leg soaked and splattered.

The black shirt and matching jacket were the most bloody part of his clothes, the white leopard print collar of the jacket was a pure mahogany red.

His shirt had large wet patches, some still fresh. The jacket had dark splotches, it almost looked like it was leopard printed as well.

His porcelain white skin was also stained with dried blood. His wrists were slit, the blood had dripped down his fingers and rusted the metal shotgun.

His face was so deformed by the bullet. His blonde hair was dripping with blood, a small sliver of cerulean was visible in his eyes.

One of the lenses of his sunglasses were shattered from the impact of the shotgun shell, the left lens was gone.

All they found in the room with him was a lighter, his empty wallet and a black seven of clubs playing card tucked neatly into his chest pocket.

He had been missing for days. After our last tour in South America he just hopped on a plane back to England and we had no idea where he was until I found him.

I couldn't read his suicide note. It felt like he was still talking to me, it was just so... him.

It talked about why he was so depressed and why he had killed himself. It finished off with 'Sorry about the blood'

I remember looking at him that night after the concert, the applause of the crowd roaring in our ears. He smiled at me, his baby blue eyes sparkling like rare gems in the spotlights.

I remember his delicate hands, rough when pounding on his drum kit but gentle when he had them loosely on my hips or linked in mine.

His legs looked like they were sculpted by Michaelangelo himself. They went on for days from the lifestyle he lived, from when he played.

His face was beautiful. He almost looked too beautiful to be male, oh how the ladies loved him. I wished they could see him when it was just us, his dark outline visible underneath me.

The curtains drawn and the door locked. They were rare and sparse but for those few hours I felt like I was freed from everything.

I wanted to tell him how I felt. I'd dug myself too deep with Veronica and the kids, I wanted nothing more than to burst into his house and press his soft lips to mine. Tell him that everything was okay, that I loved him.

I'd knelt next to his corpse; my shaking, blood stained hands cupping his disfigured face. Quiet murmurs of 'I love you' or 'You're okay now' escaping my ghostly white lips.

I'd buried my face into his messily chopped blonde hair, it was still soft and smooth. I'd pressed my lips against his scalp, streams of salty tears rolling down my cheeks and onto his lifeless head.