And I do want to.
Not in an active way. Not like I'm going to do something about it. But the wanting is there, constant as breathing. Has been for years.
This quiet awareness that everything would be simpler if I just...stopped. If I let the rain fill my lungs. If I walked into traffic. If I bought enough of whatever killed Nash to guarantee I'd join him wherever he is now.
Hell, probably. We always joked about that, even though if anyone deserves heaven, it's him.
But at least we'd be there together.
Everyone would be better off.
Phoenix and Rafael wouldn't have to keep pretending I'm not destroying the band with my bullshit. Wouldn't have to walk on eggshells around me, wouldn't have to make excuses for my behavior, wouldn't have to watch me slowly implode and pretend they don't see it happening.
And Bells…
Bells would be safe.
Free.
Wouldn't have me holding her hostage with blackmail that doesn't even matter anymore because I can't fucking let her go for some reason I refuse to examine.
Wouldn't be caught in the crossfire of my war with Stephen.
Wouldn't have her name permanently linked to mine in every search result, every article, every piece of media coverage that will now and forever include that fucking photo.
She could go back to The Reverie or find another band or just disappear into whatever life she was trying to build before I dragged her kicking and screaming into mine.
The thought settles into my bones like the cold I can't feel.
I tip my head back against the granite, letting the rain wash over what's left of my face. The mask is plastered to my skin now, heavy and suffocating.
"I'm sorry," I say to the headstone, my voice coming out rough and broken. "I'm sorry you couldn't stop blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault. I'm sorry I wasn't enough to keep you here."
The rain doesn't answer.
Neither does Nash.
And I never expected him to. The dead don't offer absolution. They just lie there, silent witnesses to all the ways we keep fucking up.
"I should've been driving," I continue, because the words are coming now whether I want them to or not. "You were always the worse fucking driver.” I manage a hoarse, bitter laugh. “Maybe you’d be alive and making music and falling in love with someone who deserved you instead of?—"
My voice cracks. I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat.
"Instead of dying alone in some shitty hotel with a needle in your arm because of guilt."
The image is always there. Waiting. Every time I close my eye, I see it. Nash slumped against the bathroom wall, skin gray, eyesopen but empty. The way his body felt when I tried to lift him, already cold, already gone.
The sound I made when I realized I was too late.
Didn't know a human could even make that sound.
He was murdered. I do believe that, even now that I'm letting myself finally fucking admit Nash put the needle there himself. Iknowsomeone gave him those fucking laced drugs and Iknowthe son of a bitch that did it was the same evil, miserable piece of shit that just unmasked me in front of the entire damn universe.
But I'm not so fucking delusional anymore to deny I'm the real reason why my brother is six feet beneath me right now.
"You were supposed to be the one who made it," I whisper. "You were supposed to have a life. A real one. Not this—not what I have. This fucking…half-existence."
The rain keeps falling. My fingers find the guitar strings automatically, but they don't press down. Don't make sound. Just rest there, cold and useless.