All our lives

Chapter 3

He was lying on the bed, with his limbs spread wide and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He didn't kill anybody. David, just like the rest of the band, was not in the bar anymore when he had gone inside. Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, it was impossible to have spent more on the terrace, yet when he had gotten to his room and had taken out his watch from the back pocket to put it on the nightstand, it showed 3AM.

It felt strange, but he decided it was not the case to beat himself up over that. Whiskey and fatigue were not the best combination when it came to accurately track the passage of time. And they were definitely not the best duo to hold the room still. Every time he blinked, he was being thrown into a dizzying swirl. He hadn't had that sensation in years. Not from alcohol, at least.

Last time he had felt that intoxicating pit in his stomach so acutely was when his plane suddenly dropped a few feet. It had come along with sweaty hands, insane pulse, and foolish promises he would be a better man. The usual barter one would do when facing death and the kind that was forgotten the second after the danger was gone. It was not a nice memory. Now it felt quite pleasant; like he was gently being rocked in a huge swing.

He opened his eyes and waited for the ceiling to stabilize. He gingerly raised his left arm and analyzed the object that he still had on his wrist. "Amsa...Arma...Ama...Asma...What the hell was her name? Ah, who cares? Crazy woman, but damn she was hot!" He bent his arm and squinted his eyes, but those tiny circles were harder to control than the ceiling and all he could see was a jumble of uncertain shapes. Even so, the feeling he had seen that before struck him again. But where? And when?

He knocked the screen with his other hand's forefinger, then tried to rotate it. Nothing happened. He groped its margins for some hidden button but there was nothing. It seemed to be compact. And static. His vision cleared enough to surly see none of those circles were moving in any way.

"Maybe it's a hidden camera or a tracking device," he thought and on the next moment, he burst into laughter. Well, it was a stupid idea, yet it was more likely to be any of that than to be a time machine. If he had unfastened it and looked at the back, it would probably have a big 'Made in China' engraved on it. He let his arm drop back on the bed with a sigh. He closed his eyes, once again the swirling sensation made its presence felt and he allowed it to cradle him to sleep.

The morning light woke him up before his alarm went off. He was brushing his teeth when the annoying jingle broke the silence of the apartment. Actually, it was not that annoying - when the hell did he change it? - and he found himself humming along. He felt a little groggy, but he had no headache and that alone could be a reason to be happy. Especially when there were no other reasons.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Despite the short amount of sleep, he looked quite rested. It could count as a little miracle because he had had that dream again and that always preceded an awful day. Maybe he was not actively thinking about the past, but dreams were a different ball game. He could not control them and, once in a while, more rarely when he was home and pretty frequently when he was touring, a specific event would infiltrate and poison his nights.

He could still remember what he wore on that day, what color Richie's t-shirt was, the number of the hotel room, the smell of the bed linen, there were three oranges and a basket on the table, full of yummy cookies he had never eaten, the walls had a hideous color, and the draft made the bathroom door squeak from time to time. He could still remember all that because that was always the decor for his dream. Always! And it made no sense because in reality there had been no fight then. Nothing! Yet his mind had decided long ago that that was a good moment to come back to again and again.

"God, I can't wait to go home!" Richie plunging onto the bed after the final show from the US leg.

"You said Hawaii wrong!" had been his response, delivered with a stupid smile, completely oblivious to what was about to come.

In reality, that had been the whole dialogue. In his dreams, however, it was never like that. In his dreams, all the anger, the frustration, and the pain accumulated over the years exploded in his words. He was always screaming, sometimes crying, he was always feeling he could not breathe, which invariably led him to wake up desperately gasping for air.

He didn't even know with whom he was fighting. Richie never responded. Never. He was always impassive no matter what he was doing or saying. One time Jon had begged him on his knees to not leave him and Richie didn't even look at him. He was at his feet, hung on to him for dear life, and Richie didn't do a fucking thing. He had felt absolutely ridiculous when he had woken up. Another time he had punched him, but Richie, being only an illusion, not a real person, didn't move an inch, didn't even whisper an 'ouch'. He didn't want to react like that.

A few years ago, two, maybe three, the dream had transformed into a lucid one. Partially. He was aware he was dreaming, but he had no control over what he was doing. That had aggravated the situation even more. Not only he was mad at Richie, but he was mad at himself too for not being able to stop that nonsense already. Last night had been different, though. Last night, when the alcohol-induced rocking had stopped and the imaginary Richie had plunged onto the bed, he hadn't started screaming, or crying, or begging.

"I want to cancel this tour!" came out of his mouth and he was not even sure if he was referring to that past tour or to this one, currently ongoing. And then Richie moved. For the first time in years, something he had said impressed that illusion enough to actually move. Richie raised himself on his elbows and he looked at him like he was a lunatic. "Why are you looking at me like this? You're sick of touring, right? Isn't this what you wanted?" He was not mad, he was not sarcastic. More than anything, he sounded apathetic. And then the illusion spoke.

"Jonny, are you alright?"

"No. I'm tired. I'm fucking tired and you're not letting me have a good sleep." That was an accusation, yet it didn't sound like one. A robot reading the ingredients from a bottle of shampoo would have been more fired up than he was.

"What the hell did I do?" A confused, goofy smile, raised eyebrows, eyes widened in surprise. God, he would have punched him if he hadn't known it was all in vain.

"Just go to your family, be happy, and let me be. Just...let me be..." he pleaded. He was defeated.

"Man, you're scaring me. What the fuck happened from the doorway to here?"

"Six years," came his blunt response.

Richie looked more confused and worried.

"Okaaay...", the illusion whistled. "Let's put you to sleep." Richie opened his arms and Jon took a step back in a fearful way. He would wake up the moment that phantasm tried to touch him and he didn't want that. "Come on," Richie insisted in a calm voice, the kind of voice one would use to soothe a baby. "You need to sleep this off".

"Yeah...yeah, I do...", he sighed and didn't back off when Richie made the final step towards him and caught him in a hug. It felt real, a solid body against his, warmth and the scent of freshly washed skin and hair irradiating from it. He could still recognize that scent anywhere and anytime and he breathed it all in knowing that even in an illusory scenario that might be that last time he could do that. He let his head drop on that imaginary shoulder just like, back in the days, he did on stage to the delight of the crowd.

"I do," he repeated and sighed again as the unreal arms squeezed him harder. "Can you fall asleep while sleeping?" He vaguely wondered. That had been his last coherent thought. That and the strange sensation that the ghostly version of Richie was trying really hard to stop itself from crying.

It had been a weird dream and, apparently, you could fall asleep while sleeping, and even get a good rest. Maybe his subconscious had finally followed his consciousness in ending that chapter and moved on. It was about time.

He sprinkled cold water on his face, then went to the bedroom and changed his clothes. A knock on the door, voices, and footsteps in the hallway announced that everybody was ready for breakfast. He got rid of that useless object on his wrist, the only proof of a peculiar meeting he had no intention of mentioning to anyone, and if Dave dared to ask him something, he would send him to Liverpool on a commercial flight, no, on the ferry, and walked out of the room.