I couldn't stay cooped up on the bus, not after seeing that shit. Fortunately, I had somewhere to go. Reed's house was typical new money Malibu trash, but it had one great feature: it was designed top to bottom with incredible acoustics.
It should have been a perfect way to get through a shitty morning. Music was the only thing that had ever calmed me down when I felt like I was losing it.
A few hours and a pissed off band later, I was sitting alone in Reed's living room, surrounded by smashed guitars. A boiling anger writhed in my chest. The music still wouldn't fucking work.
Nobody else thought the instruments sounded messed up. Which probably meant it wasn't the instruments, it was my head. But that didn't make it any better. If I couldn't blow off some steam with my music, I didn't know what else to do. I was on a hair trigger, and the sour notes had me ready to explode.
Clenching my jaw, I sat in a chair in the practice room and took a fresh guitar from its stand, determined to try again. I tuned each of its strings. They didn't sound perfect, but it was a little better.
With a deep breath, I picked out the opening to "Glass Brick." Nothing. Just a bunch of notes slopped together. Amateur hour. I had a better sound when I was fifteen. Gritting my teeth, I went through the motions of the song, hoping for anything that sounded like fucking music.
It wouldn't happen. I played through the first verse, hoping, feeling like I was hitting every chord perfectly, but it still sounded awful. The notes were right, the sound was shit. The more I played, the hotter my anger boiled.
Finally, I got to the song's climax, the crescendo building as I played harder and harder just trying to get a few seconds of something that felt good, that felt like my music was supposed to feel. I built it up and poured my heart into every chord.
My jaw clenched as I wrestled out the last note.
Nothing. My stomach twisted. It was shit—all of it.
My anger boiled over and filled me with an unstoppable rage. I grabbed the guitar by its neck, whipped it around, and slammed it to the floor, severing its neck in two. Tossing it aside, I snatched another broken guitar off the floor and hurled it at the wall. Its jagged body snagged on a painting, and with a nasty sound of ripping canvas, fell to the floor.
Fuck.
My chest heaved as I struggled to catch my breath. With a sickening feeling in my gut, I surveyed the wreckage. Broken guitars everywhere. And now a fucked up painting, too. I picked up one of the broken guitars and looked at, but it was pointless. It was too messed up to ever come to life again.
The door flew open and there she was. Riley. My heart sank. What the fuck had gotten into me? She was the last person who deserved to see me like this. We'd been through some awful shit together, and she'd stuck by me while being an incredible badass through it all. The last thing I wanted was to burden her with my pain.
Taking a deep breath to try and calm myself down, I tossed the splinters of the guitar against the wall.
I watched her gingerly survey the damage before looking at me with those mischievous, beautiful blue eyes. I knew she was trying to put on a strong face when inside she was scared as hell. That tore me up more than anything else.
"Need any help smashing stuff?" she asked, plunging her hands into her pockets. "I have a pretty good arm."
***
Nine Days Ago
I'd never been to therapy before, but I needed answers. I was literally losing my mind, and I had to do whatever it took to get better—even if that meant talking about the dark stuff that I normally shut out.
But it was hard. It was the most difficult fucking thing I'd ever done. I'd never talked about my dad with anyone except Riley. But Dr. Feinstein didn't push me. He just sat at his desk, listening patiently. I lay on the couch. For some reason, not looking at him while I talked helped. But I hated every minute of it.
For the most part, I concentrated on what had happened that night with Darrel, since that's when my problems started getting out of control. Ever since then, everything had just gotten worse and worse. The nightmares. The flashbacks. My anger. Seeing things that weren't there. My fear that I was losing my mind. By the time I was done, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.
I lay on the couch, listening to the scratch of Dr. Feinstein's pen on his pad of paper, my stomach sick from having to talk about painful shit I'd tried for years to forget. There was no way this guy was going to help me. I was too fucked up for some feel-good talk to make things any better.
He cleared his throat, and I glanced at him. His eyes looked serious, and I swallowed, hard.
"I know this has been a painful process, Jax. It takes a lot of bravery to open up about your past like you have."
I remained silent. His compliment didn't make me feel better. It just made me more anxious about what he was going to say next. What his diagnosis could be.
He continued, "Good news is, I don't think you're crazy."
I ran a hand through my hair. Was that good?
"When people go through traumatic events like the ones you've described," he replied, sounding sympathetic, "They often have symptoms like yours. Nightmares, mood swings, and especially flashbacks are all indicators. It's common in soldiers—a condition called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD."
My shoulders stiffened. "But I'm not a soldier."
Dr. Feinstein folded his hands across his lap and sat back in his leather chair. "They're just the most commonly afflicted. Anyone who has experienced a life or death situation, where they feel intense fear, horror, and powerlessness, is at risk for PTSD."
"Okay," I said slowly, "And that means . . . what, exactly?"
He spoke slowly and distinctly, his fingers flexing against each other. "For you, your father has all the power. And that's what we need to fix—we want to give the power back to you."
My jaw clenched. "I left home when I was fifteen," I said tersely. "Darrel does not have all the power over me."
He nodded as if to concede the point. "Okay, I may have misspoken. Not all the power. But still, more than you want. Is that fair?"
"I guess."
"Very well. That is what we want to fix."
"How?" I asked.
Instead of answering my question, the doctor stayed silent for a moment. I waited with a feeling of impatience. Why wouldn't he just tell me what to do?
He cleared his throat. "When you think about that night, what comes to mind first?"
I frowned. How was this going to make me better? "I try not to think about it."
"But when you can't help it?" he continued, his voice gently persistent. "What do you think of first?"
I sighed. "Darrel."
"Good." His pen scratched over paper. "What else?"
I closed my eyes. "Fire."
"Anything else?"
"My bike not starting." My palms began to sweat, and I opened my eyes. "So what? What does it matter what I think about?"
Dr. Feinstein didn't say anything. I clenched my hands. The silence in the room grew.
"Why do you want me to keep thinking about this?" I blurted out. "I don't want to think about it any more. That's the whole point. I've been going out of my way to avoid thinking about this shit."
He tilted his head to the side. "And has it been working?"
"No. I told you."
"Why do you think that is? Why can't you forget when you're actively trying to?"
I closed my eyes. "I don't know. Something's getting in the way."
"Right," Dr. Feinstein said, "And what do you think that could be?"
"I don't know, Doc," I groaned, wishing he'd give me answers instead of more questions. Opening my eyes, I stared at the ceiling. "Something is making me remember when I don't want to."
Dr. Feinstein nodded. "It's not just something, Jax. It's more specific than that. Anything you saw that night can trigger an emotional response, like the ones you've been having."
I let that sink in for a minute. The doctor scratched something on his pad,
seemingly in no hurry to say anything else.
His pointed silences were beginning to piss me off. "So you're telling me that if I avoid the stuff I saw that night, all this shit will stop?" I asked, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.
Dr. Feinstein smiled for the first time, and I could tell from the pleased look on his face that I'd hit on something. "The mind can heal itself, but not if it's being aggravated by constant reminders of your trauma. This is where I want you to start. Do you think you can try to avoid all the things that remind you of that night?"
I frowned."Maybe. I mean, Darrel will be easy to avoid. I never want to see that bastard again."
"What about fire?" Dr. Feinstein asked, his calm voice urging me on. "Can you do something about that?"
An uneasiness settled in my gut, and I rubbed my hands together. "That could be a problem. We use pyrotechnics for our shows."
"Are they necessary?"
"They're for the fans," I said, raising an eyebrow at him. From his buttoned up appearance, it didn't seem like Dr. Feinstein had been to any concerts in awhile. He wouldn't be asking if he had. "They pay to see a rock show, we give it to them."
He inclined his head, acknowledging my reluctance. "I can see how that would be hard, then. But I think it's an important step in getting better."
I sighed and leaned back on the couch, suddenly exhausted. "Okay. I'll look into it."
Dr. Feinstein cleared his throat again. "What about your bike? Do you use it all the time?"
"Yeah, I do," I said, the uneasiness deepening in my gut. I glanced at the doctor, and his serious face just confirmed my fears. "No. My bike is off limits."
He tapped his notepad with his pen. "You're willing to give up the pyrotechnics. What's different about the bike?"
I grimaced and balled up my fists hard until my fingers hurt. "I love my bike. If I didn't have it, I'd be stuck on the bus all the time. Sometimes I just need to be alone, you know? To just blow off steam when things get bad. Get a good rush."
"But if your bike is triggering your symptoms, how will you get better if you keep it around?"
"I don't know," I said rubbing my head with frustration. "That's too much, Doc."
Feinstein gave me an understanding look. "I know it's a lot to ask you to do, but if you want to get better, then unfortunately you'll have to make some sacrifices. It's all part of the process. Remove the triggers, and come in for regular therapy sessions."
I looked at him skeptically.
"If you're committed to getting better, you probably will. I can't make any promises but I've seen many patients have success with this program. Some have had to make big sacrifices in order to get better like leaving their current home because it was the place where they experienced the trauma. But again, you have to follow the program."
A hot spike of anger swirled in my chest. No way my bike was causing all this bullshit. So what if I'd been using it that night? I rode it all the time. Maybe the Doc was right about some of the stuff he was saying, but he was wrong about this.
Dr. Feinstein shifted in his seat as if waiting for my answer.
"I'll work on the fire stuff," I said, my voice curt. "I can't promise anything about the bike yet."
He shook his head, but his face stayed neutral. "I have to warn you, until you find a way to avoid your triggers, you should expect to continue experiencing disturbing episodes. And each episode you have only adds to the trauma that we need to fight against."
I nodded slowly. What he said sounded pretty straight up, but I still didn't buy into the idea that my bike was to blame for my problems. If I had to prove it to him, I would, by cutting the pyros from our act and staying away from fire. That should make me better, and then we could drop all this getting rid of my bike shit.
"I'll see what I can do," I said, my tone flat. He could take it or leave it.
He smiled at me, apparently deciding that I'd agreed with him, then began shuffling papers around on his desk. "We all want you to get better, Jax."
His words made me think of Riley. I was doing this for her, more than I was for me. The way she'd looked so frightened, bending over me after I woke up from my nightmare—I never wanted her to look that way again. Afraid for me. Afraid of me.
She wanted me to get better, and I wanted to get better for her. She was the best thing that had ever happened to me—and I wasn't going to lose her now.
***
One Day Ago
I was back on Feinstein's couch again, and I was pissed.
After twenty minutes of telling him about how I'd followed all of his advice and it still wasn't working, he narrowed his brows and asked me if there was anything else I was missing.
"What do you mean?" I asked, frustrated. "I just told you all the shit I've done and it hasn't helped at all! When is this going to start making a difference?"
Dr. Feinstein studied me from his leather chair. "It will make a difference when you find the trigger that is causing your issues. Do you think there may be anything in your life that you've missed? Think back carefully."
I felt my temper rising and did my best to suppress it. After giving up fire, I hadn't gotten better—and I'd been forced to put his last piece of advice into action. "I sold the damn bike. What else do I have to say? No, there's nothing left. Yes, I still have a nightmare every fucking night."
He scribbled on his pad but said nothing for several seconds. "Have you had any more sleepwalking episodes?"
I sighed and bit my lip hard. This treatment was going nowhere. "No. Is that the most progress I can hope for? I'm hallucinating, Doc. This isn't working."
Dr. Feinstein wrote something on his pad and then put the pad down and rubbed his eyes. "Jax, I want you to think very carefully back to that night. Think about objects and people that you associate with what happened. Can you do that?"
"Doc, we've already done this."
"Can you humor me? Just put your head back on the couch and close your eyes for a moment."
I took a deep breath and did as he asked. "Fine," I said, my eyes closed.
"Thank you. Now tell me what you see."
"Riley and I are on my bike. I'm showing her the trailer park. The biker gang is there, and they're saying shit about Riley. Then Darrel comes out and I'm fighting."
A dull pain made its way down my spine and I opened my eyes and sat up. "Doc, I told you, we've already done this. There's nothing new."
He nodded and scratched some things on his pad, saying nothing. I watched him for several seconds, waiting for an answer, but he wouldn't speak.
As I waited for him, I thought about what he could be scribbling on his notepad. A sinking feeling started in my stomach. No. It couldn't be. I continued to watch him until he stopped writing and then waited for him to speak. He wouldn't.
"What are you writing?" I asked finally, unable to contain myself.
He looked up at me, blinked, and then put his pen down and sat back, observing me.
I clenched my fists in frustration and took a deep breath. So he was playing the silent game, again. He did this every session. I needed to say the right thing to get him to talk.
"Doc," I said quietly, looking at the ground. "Is it Riley? Is she my trigger?"
His face was a mask. He continued to watch me.
"I'm crazy about her," I said quickly, trying to wrap my head around the idea. "We have so many other memories together. So much good stuff from the tour. I don't get how my mind would just focus on that one night. It's stupid. "
This got arched eyebrows from Dr. Feinstein, but that was it.
My stomach rolled over. "I don't know what I'm going to do if she's what's fucking me up. Riley's all I have right now. How could she be the one causing all this?"
Dr. Feinstein scribbled something quickly on his pad and then put the pad down and leaned forward. "Jax, how would you describe your relationship with Riley since the night you aggravated your condition?"
I glared at him but he just stared
back. I didn't like where this was going. "I don't know. She's amazing. I don't know how she puts up with my shit sometimes. Especially lately."
"Do you two spend a lot of time together?"
"I guess."
He nodded, but said nothing more. A full minute ticked by, and with each tick I felt more frustration. Finally, I couldn't keep it in anymore.
"You really think she's it, don't you? You think Riley's my trigger."
He looked at his watch. "I think sometimes the answers to these questions are difficult and not at all what we want to hear. I'm sorry, Jax. I know this is very difficult. In any case, that's just about all the time we have today. I think you've made tremendous progress."
My breathing was ragged. "Wait. What do you think I should do?"
He pressed his lips together. "Someone with a condition like yours, in the constant presence of their trigger, is very likely to act erratically."
His words stung like an angry hornet's nest. "So I'm a time bomb?"
He shook his head. "You're not a bomb, Jax. Please don't think about it that way. It isn't healthy."
"Fine," I said, my heart sinking. "Let me ask you point blank: do you think I need to break up with Riley?"
He looked over at the clock again before returning his gaze to mine. "I'm sorry, Jax, but we really are out of time. There are no easy answers for this, and you don't have to decide today. Just be conscious of the consequences of whatever decision you make. For yourself, and for everyone around you."
I looked at him, my stomach a lead weight. He returned my gaze impassively, until I couldn't take it anymore.
I got up and trudged out. What the hell was I going to do now?
***
Forty-five minutes ago
Anarchy Fest. It was our final show. We were supposed to go out with a bang. But the crowd was angry. And if they were angry, then I was angry. This wasn't a good day to ask me to put up with people's shit.
After some douchebag yelled out "you suck!" as we started our first song, I gave him the middle finger before rocking out on my guitar. The crowd roared, and I tore into the song. I put everything I had into my solo, but I still heard a "fuck you" sail out from the audience.
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