Beautifully Broken

Stitches

Ashley

Sugar jumps, floating up around my straw, racing back down toward the bottom of my cup. I've always hated the bus rides. Sure, traveling across the country with three of your best friends sounds like a blast, but it wears off. The art piece and color-changing lights that you thought would just be so sick end up looking more like a weird version of hell. That sleepover vibe wears off and you just long for even five minutes of complete, blissful silence. Boredom sets in, the same movies you were so excited to watch becoming background noise. It's easy for the mind to wander into dangerous territory, old demons becoming new friends. Sliding open the window next to the couch, I light up a cigarette.

"You wanna talk about it?" My brother Matt sits down in the middle of the aisle that runs through the bus.

This is our first tour sober. After almost two years of completely going off the grid, we decided now was the time. We either got back into it or accepted that our band wasn't going to make it. Neither one of us is very good with failure. About a week ago we sat on my living room floor and made a promise to each other. Communicate, no mistake is too big to share or for us to handle, and that no tour meant more than our mental health. If one of us even so much as puts of toe-off the wagon we'd call it quits. I'm pretty sure Matt thinks I'll go first. He had some secret meeting with the rest of our crew, explaining what those seventeen bolded letters really mean. I'm stronger than he thinks. Those letters, the man that hides behind them, they don't have any power here. Not anymore. Not like everyone thinks. The power morphed to anger, the anger sliding into blissful indifference.

"Just bored," I answer with a shrug.

Matt laughs, reaching for my coffee, "It's only a few hours in, Ash. We're going to have to find you a hobby."

"Already have one," I tap the packet of cigarettes sitting on the couch by my knee, giving my older brother a wink. Just because he kicked the habit doesn't mean I have to. "Plus, I've got an album to write."

As my brother heads toward the back of the bus I pull out a ratty writing journal. The front cover is crisscrossed in different color tape, various papers sticking out over the edges. Doodles litter the first few pages, broken up by unfinished games of tic-tac-toe and hangman. Polaroid's and letters from friends sit between the pages, waiting patiently to help me relive past lives. Glued inside the cover is a note written in slanting letters, resembling something a five-year-old would conjure up. I trail my thumb over the signature; Bert and a smiley face with its tongue out, one eye Xed over. For your next great American record. Despite coming off as an absolute prick, Bert has proven to be one of the best things that came out of past tours. Bert's stood by my side through way too much shit.  

Being a guitar player first, a singer second, and a lyricist dead last, I write songs through guitar chords. The lyrics flow from a sound I can't get out of my head, out of soft strumming, and half rhythms. Before coming on tour, I spent a solid month sitting with a shitty tape recorder, getting out all sorts of random guitar parts, partial lyrics forming over the top. It's a starting point, a safety line thrown out into the vast ocean that is my brain. Ryan, our guitarist, and I will spend whatever free time we've got on this tour holed up on the bus working to get the ideas out of my head and onto paper. Besides Ryan, there's only one other person who truly understands my creative process. I push him from my mind, stubbing him out like the end of a finished cigarette.

"Ry! I need you!"

There's movement from the back of the bus, Ryan spilling forth from one of the bunks. His socked feet slide across the slicked aisle, elbows coming to rest on the table in front of me. Ryan cradles his chin in his hands, giving me a dopey smile, "You called, your highness."

If anyone ever tells you your band can't come back from a failed romantic relationship they're full of shit. When two people are willing to put the music over personal life you can do whatever the hell you want. Ryan and I are walking proof of that. Then again we were both stoned out of our minds for most of the relationship so who's to say if there were actually any real feelings there at all. Lust hardly ever leads to the messy breakups that love creates.  I scribble that down; maybe it'll fit somewhere. "Do you have those tapes I recorded?"

"Little early in the tour to be breaking out the sex tapes."

I roll my eyes, shaking my head at Ryan's childishness. He can be a real shit when he wants to be. "The guitar tapes you perv."

"Yeah. They're packed away with the instruments. Would you like them?"

"Please and the player," My phone chimes, vibrating its way off the edge of the couch and onto the bus floor. "Thank you!"

I wondered how long it'd be 'til he called. Honestly, I was thinking we'd at least get through the first week. This isn't his first sober rodeo. His own personal devil wasn't there though. For all the good Bert does he's also destructive, taking down anyone who's willing to enter his arena without the proper armor. Gerard is dedicated to sobriety, to keeping on the road of self-love and happiness, but deep down he's still the same. There's a part of him that still loves Bert, that probably always will. The danger in being an artist who wears their heart on their sleeve is being willing to rip that heart into as many pieces as is required to please those around you. Sure, Gerard's stronger, smarter, braver, but he still wants to be liked and accepted. That's his weak spot, the part of his personality that keeps the addictions alive. My stomach rolls as I realize the same could be said for me.

"Is having your own music as your ring back tone narcissistic?" I can hear chaos in the background before a door shuts, the other line going strangely silent.

"Or the best form of self-promotion. I'm too fucking lazy to answer the phone, by the way, listen to my new album," I tap my pencil against the tabletop, wondering if I should let him continue on with his off-topic questions or just force him right to the point. "Has he called you yet, Gerard?"

There's a long silence, the crackling of a deep sigh causing me to yank the phone away from my ear as I light up another cigarette, "I got a new phone. I don't think he has the number. Has Frank talked to you?"

"No," I spit the word out too quickly, like a poison on my tongue. Act concerned. Act like the very mention of his name doesn't make your stomach turn, doesn't make you want to scream and cry and curse. Act like Gerard needs you to act. Act like everyone expects you to after years to heal. "Why?" Close enough.

"He's been weird." I sit silently, hoping that Gerard will take it as me simply waiting for him to collect his thought and not complete apathy. "He's been throwing up and not sleeping and rearranging our living room. He either can't sit still or won't move for days."

Anxiety creeping into depression. A guilty conscience. Love. Hate. Resentment. Could he be on pills again? No. Stop it. I'm not supposed to care. I don't care. Whatever shit Frank is putting himself through is none of my business. This is probably some kind of sick punishment he thinks he deserves or a way to push away people to feel isolated enough to drag out some kind of artistic breakthrough. Frank's twisted like that. I swallow all these thoughts down. Gerard cares for Frank. I need to force compassion, act caring, "You guys haven't done a big tour like this in a little. Maybe he's just nervous. You know Frank and his stage fright." I force a chuckle.

"Yeah." There's a short pause as if Gerard is really trying to take in what I've just said. "Yeah." This one comes out more certain, more convinced. "Are you getting in tonight?"

"Yeah, I actually think we're getting close, maybe another few hours. What about you? Are you flying in or are you busing it from Jersey?"

"Bussing it from Jersey. We'll be in early tomorrow, I'll come by once we get there."

"You better," I light another cigarette. "Bring donuts. You still owe me."

Gerard laughs, "Whatever you want. Bye Ash."

Ryan peeks his head around the curtain that separates the bunks from the front of the bus, "Bert?"

"No," I pop one of the tapes I recorded into the player as Ryan sits down on the couch next to me. "It was Gerard."

"What'd he called about?"

I glance over at Ryan, ripping little pieces of skin off my bottom lip. "Frank."

Blissful indifference, right?