Where the Mountains Meet the Sea

by A. R. Breck

  I've lost her. For good.

  I don't know who she is anymore, and it's a pain that sits so heavy in my chest that it feels like I'm bleeding directly onto my shoes. Every minute of my life.

  I try my best to move on. I do everything I can to get her out of my thoughts, and out of my mind.

  The only thing that helps is music. Music and drugs.

  Cocaine is a high that I wasn't looking for. Something I barely dabbled in back in the beginning days of my tours. Not something I even needed, because I knew Luna wouldn't be happy about it. So, I usually steered clear.

  But now that Luna's gone, there's nothing else in my life that I'm looking forward to more than smashing my face into a pile of white powder. I want to ingest every last grain, until my brain is so far gone, I'll never think of her and her gray eyes again.

  It's never that easy.

  Her face, her body, every single thing about her bleeds out on the pages as I write lyrics. My songs are songs about love lost, soulmates broken, and hate, so much fucking hate for a world that doesn't give me what I want.

  The upside is, is that the music is fucking good.

  Apparently, broken hearts lead to good music.

  We create number one hit after number one hit, surpassing even the major record labels and the most powerful voices, shoving them out of the top seats with just a simple fucking vocal.

  "Where'd you go, just now?" Brandy says, scratching her nails down the back of my neck.

  I look over at her, hating her muddy eyes and her hair that is two shades too light. Her body isn't right, either, but that doesn't stop me from wrapping my fingers around her thick thighs as I plow into her from behind. Anything to dull the pain, even though it doesn’t dull it.

  Not even an inch.

  "Nowhere, I'll see you after the show." I push her off me, grabbing my aviators and slipping them on my face. Nothing is worse than being high as fuck and having the heavy, bright lights blast me in the face. It's painful. The glasses help.

  Standing up, I press on Brandy’s shoulders, slipping past her just as Lonnie walks in. His eyes are bloodshot, and I know he just had his own bump of coke.

  The guys were the ones that got me into it, being way more willing to try out the different drugs the rock-and-roll life had to offer. They had their eyes open, and their arms splayed wide for any girl and any drug to fall into their laps.

  After Luna left me, I took the reins.

  They don't partake like I do. I dip, and I dip heavy. I fuck, and I fuck hard. I don't want the easy life, not anymore. I want the gritty, raw, edgy part of being on the road all year. I don't want to live on the surface, I want to bury myself in the wrongdoings of the world.

  Being on tour with my dad, he learned quickly what kind of life I was living. He understood, since being a star, drugs and whores come with it. A package deal of sorts. But he didn't want me to lose myself in the process. He asked me to slow down.

  Doesn't he know? I lost myself that day back in Shallow Lake.

  I fucking died that day, and no one seems to realize that.

  "Ready?" Lonnie asks, adjusting his jean vest over his naked shoulders. Tattoos line his arms all the way down to his wrists. I slap him on the back as I walk past him.

  "Let's do this shit."

  The moment I walk through the door, the screaming crowd blasts me in the face. I walk down the hall, the voices shouting Cataclysm, Cataclysm, their voices vibrating through the ground. I can feel their shouting hit me directly in my chest, making my heart race as I head for yet another show.

  It's the only place I can go and show how I'm really feeling. The place I can openly reveal that I've been dying a slow death. Show them the blood that's been dripping from me since that day in her room. The pain I feel every single day, I scream it with my words. I howl out the pain that rips from my chest. I can't take the pain. It builds and builds, and with each show, I can expel it from my lungs. It's the only place I really feel at home anymore.

  We get to the back of the stage, where Clyde and Flynn are already waiting for us. I give them a nod, unable to say any words to them with the crowd shouting so loudly.

  In the next second, we're walking through the back of the stage. The crowd goes wild when they see us. Flynn walks to the drums, while I walk to the center of the stage and grab my guitar from the stand. Clyde walks to my left, grabbing his bass, and Lonnie walks to my other side, grabbing his guitar.

  The four of us are Cataclysm, and we rock shit like no other.

  The lights are dim, and the crowd is a sea of heads. Black leather and blue jeans fill the entire floor. Women stand in the front, and I watch as one with a crop top lifts her shirt, showing off her large breasts. They jiggle with her jumps, her friend going wild and screaming when she notices what she's doing.

  I shake my head. People are fucking wild.

  I slide my guitar strap over my shoulder, testing a string and stopping it quickly. I walk up to the microphone, smiling at the crowd as I mumble, "How're y'all doing tonight?"

  They go wild, screaming so loud it makes my ears pop. The room is hot, the bodies creating heat and making a thin sweat break out on the back of my neck.

  "Let's have a little fun tonight, huh?" I smirk at them, my white teeth shining in the bright light.

  My hand slips into the pocket of my jeans, my fingers curling around the small piece of plastic that is my everything. I pull it out, barely glancing at it as my fingers slide over the R & L. My eyes close and I take a shuddering breath, wishing so badly that life was different, wanting to say fuck you to fate for screwing me over.

  Begging for my ballerina to come back to me.

  Please come back to me, Luna.

  Opening my eyes, I start one of the fan favorites, a dark song I created last year that the guys ate up like candy. The words flew out of me, flying onto the page from my broken pen as I scribbled on the thin lined paper.

  I stop on a slow note, and the crowd goes absolutely wild, screaming and jumping. My head spins from the coke, and I feel jittery. A fucking mess. I want another bump, and I want Brandy. But she’s not what I really want. She's just the closest thing. It makes me hate myself, to be honest. Pretending. Acting like Brandy is the one I want, even though that’s furthest from the truth.

  But I settle.

  I'll settle for the rest of my life, because the woman I love broke my heart and tore it to shreds. She lifted it from my chest and threw it into the lake. It sank to the bottom, lifeless. Bloody.

  So fucking ruined.

  Because, what else am I supposed to do? My broken soul doesn't even want to find second best. I don't want anything that isn't her, but my empty heart needs to be filled, so I fill it.

  I fill it with mindless drugs and mindless women, until I can't think, and I can't see. My life darkens until I black out, and I start again the next day.

  We play a few more sets, until sweat drips from my face and down my arms to my wrists. I grab a cup of water nearby, downing half of it and tossing the rest into the crowd. They go wild, their arms flailing in the air as they try to catch every last drop. The cup bounces from their fingers, each hand trying to catch something that I've touched.

  It's weird. That I'm wanted like this. I like to pretend it isn't real.

  Sometimes, I like to pretend none of it is real. I mentally go back in time to the lake. To the night on the beach when I laid with Luna, our feet digging into the sand, my hands gripping the grains as they rushed through my fingers. The sound of the water crashing against the sand. The sight of the stars, hanging so low I felt like I could have reached up and grabbed them out of the sky. I wish, and I pretend.

  Because the alternative is coming to terms with my reality.

  And that's just not something I can do.

  Ever.

  After the show, the stage crew loads up our things and packs them up, getting ready for our next stop.

  I find Brandy instantly, and she's already ready and waiting for
me. In a pair of black shorts and a slinky tank, her dark hair tossed over her shoulder in messy waves. She lines her eyes too dark, the thickness making her look messy, too much of a road whore. She should treat herself better. Too bad I don't care. Not about her, or about our relationship, or whatever the fuck it is.

  "You played fucking great, Roman," she says as I walk up to her.

  I say nothing, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her out the back. No one is here, we have enough security now that we can come and go without being flocked by groupies.

  We walk through the night, straight to our RV. The sounds of the crowd in the distance, but the back gated off to where the only sounds I can hear are my heavy boots and her heels clacking against the ground.

  The guys are off somewhere, probably finding their own groupie to fuck. Brandy sticks with me. She travels with the stage crew. Her dad grew up on the road, traveling her from place to place, working with larger bands as their stage crew. It's all she knows, and she's good at it.

  I pop open the door, and Brandy rushes in, instantly pulling out a small white baggie from her bra. "I thought you'd need a pick-me-up."

  I take it from her hands, pulling off the rubber band and walking to the small dining table. I slide my wallet from my back pocket, grabbing a credit card from one of the slots. Pouring some coke on the table, I slice up two lines. Bending down, I take them both, snorting the grainy, rough powder through my sinuses. My fingers go up, squeezing my nostrils as the burn hits my head. My eyes automatically shut as my entire body flushes hot.

  I can hear Brandy beside me, lining up her own line of cocaine. I listen as she snorts it, and then her front presses against my back, her breast pressing into my shoulder blades.

  I spin around, grabbing her around the waist and setting her on the table. She grabs the button on her shorts, popping it through the hole and shimmying them down her thighs. The table is wobbly beneath her, the smooth, lightly colored wood only held by two small hinges.

  I don't care. I pop my own button, taking out my cock and grabbing a condom from my wallet before sliding my jeans down my legs. I rip the foil package open with my teeth, sliding the condom on with quick motions. Brandy is already ready, her legs spread as she touches herself between her thighs. Her wetness dampens the table, making a small wet spot form on the light wood.

  I slide her forward, her ass easily sliding through the wetness beneath her. I plunge into her, grabbing onto her thick ass, my fingers digging into the meat of her backside as I thrust into her. She moans, her head tossing back and her dark hair brushing along my fingertips.

  I flick her hair to the side, not able to deal with the feeling of the dark strands. Not wanting to associate her with my black-haired, gray-eyed Luna. I can't. Not tonight.

  I'm feeling extra empty tonight.

  "Give me another bump," I slur, continuing my aggressive thrusts. The table squeaks and groans with each pump.

  The lights are off, the entire RV blanketed in darkness besides the lights from the nearby building, illuminating a small glow through the windows.

  Her head leans up, her eyes glazed and red as she stares at me. Her hand lifts from the table, her fingernail filled with coke. She brings it up to my nose, and I inhale, breathing as deeply as I can. The burn hits me deeply, going all the way to my chest. She pulls her finger away, but I snap my hand out, bringing it to my mouth. I wrap my tongue around her fingertip, sucking the sweetness from her nail. I run her fingertip beneath my upper lip, along my gums.

  My eyes close. The flavor. The hit. It turns me on more than the girl in front of me does.

  I fuck her until I can't see. Until my blood runs hot and a heavy load of cum empties inside the condom.

  It's Luna that I imagine coming inside of. It's her body I imagine wrapped around me. And when I pull out of her, tossing my condom into the trash bin, I imagine it's her melodic voice I hear, not the raspy one coming out of Brandy as I tuck myself back into my jeans.

  I watch her through hazy eyes as she leans down, taking another bump. "I have to fucking crash. You coming to bed?"

  I shake my head, feeling the world spin with me. It doesn't stop when my head does, continuing on in a tilt-a-whirl that feels like it'll never stop.

  "Okay." She stumbles off the table, ripping off her shirt and tossing it on the floor on the way to my room. She's naked by the time she walks through the door, climbing on the bed and falling straight on her stomach, face in my dark pillow.

  She's out within seconds.

  I stumble down the hallway, picking up her clothes and tossing them on top of her. I close the door, giving her some fucking decency because the moment the guys walk through the door, they'll be able to see her naked ass.

  Not like she would really care. She really is a fucking road whore sometimes.

  I shake my head in disgust, running my fingers through the sweaty strands of my hair before grabbing the heavy laptop from beside the sink. I walk over to the table, sitting down in the red and blue fabric booth. It squeaks and puffs, the air releasing from the cushion as my weight presses on it.

  Cracking the laptop open, I run my hand across the smooth black screen. The screen lights up when I press on the small red circle, and my heart starts racing, wondering if today is the day.

  I rarely find time to go on my laptop, this clunky thing that has shitty internet and barely works. But I bought one the other year, tired of finding time to get access to a desktop computer when we're always on the road. So, I splurged on one, and the first thing my dumbass did?

  I emailed her.

  Which is stupid, since I have no idea if she even looks at her emails. It's something we made back in high school, something that neither of us ever actually used.

  But now, it's the only shred of communication I have left. The only possibility I have when it comes to connecting with her. Without it, I don't know how we’d ever speak again.

  Will she ever go back to Wisconsin?

  It's been over two years, and she hasn't gone home. I don't know what she's doing. I don't even know if she's alive, honestly.

  That thought alone makes me want to scream until my throat bleeds.

  Starting up the internet, my fingers tap on the edge of the black keyboard while I wait for this slow fucking computer to work. The dial tone is obnoxious, making my ears screech and my head throb. My foot taps on the floor, so loud and so heavy that the entire RV feels like it’s shaking.

  I can barely see straight, and the only way I know the internet is working is from the loud computer voice telling me I've got mail.

  My heart thumps, stops a beat, and starts pumping again.

  I click on my inbox, hoping to see an email from the loolooluna email.

  Once my inbox loads, my heart drops, all the way to the linoleum floor beneath me. It splats and smashes, and I even punch my boot to the floor a couple times, making the floor shake in frustration.

  I have an email, but it's not from Luna.

  Just another one from my mom.

  She tells me she misses me and hopes I'm planning to stop home for Easter. She tells me my sister is well, and the heavy winter led to a high rise in the lake this spring. They had to put sandbags by the house, because the water rose so much, they were worried it would leak into the basement. She tells me she misses me, and that she watches the news and reads the paper for updates.

  She tells me she loves me.

  She doesn't say a word about Luna. I re-read the email, checking twice to make sure I didn't miss it, even though I know if I saw her four-letter name, my eyes would have gravitated toward it before any others.

  She doesn't speak about her, though, or Luna’s parents.

  I click out of her email, knowing if I responded now, it wouldn't make much sense. I'm too high, and me typing on a keyboard wouldn't create any coherent words or sentences.

  I go to my sent mailbox, needing to double-check that my emails have even been delivered. Sometimes the internet is s
o bad that I think my emails have gone through, only to check back later to see I have received an error message.

  But when I scroll down, and I continue scrolling, all I see are message after message of sent emails. Me to Luna, me to Luna, over and over again.

  None responded to.

  I don't even know if they've been read.

  I shouldn't be so stupid, but when I click on the little envelope to compose a new email, all I can do is type in loolooluna in the To section.

  Luna,

  Do you miss me?

  Are you still mine?

  Do you still feel it, Luna?

  I still feel it.

  I'll always feel it.

  Still feel it, Luna.

  Fucking. Feel. It.

  I can barely see straight, but I think my words were at least understandable. I slam my computer shut, cringing, hoping I didn't break it. I slide it to the other side of the table, knowing my destructive behavior will easily go south from here.

  Why?

  Why can’t she just fucking respond to an email? I want her back so badly; I can feel my soul in pieces inside my chest. It’s like a piggy bank, every step making a small rattle. That’s my fucking chest, with my soul and my heart racketing around my rib cage, broken and fucking fractured.

  Standing up, I stumble into the table. I glance at my bedroom door, where I know Brandy will be sleeping naked. Probably ready to wake up in the morning and go for round two.

  She isn't her.

  She'll never be her. I know she'd like to be. She'd accept a proposal if I had one for her. But I don't, and I never will. I should probably shut it down now, but I'm a fucking bastard. I'm not the nice guy I used to be. My life isn't what it used to be.

  She isn't her.

  With that thought, I turn around, heading toward the two-cushioned sofa. It's uncomfortable, too short and too thin. The fabric too rough against my back. I'll wake up with a sore neck and an aching back, but it's better than pretending to be something I'm not.

  I flop down, my eyes rolling to the back of my head as the high hits me. This is the worst part. My mind is exhausted, it always is. But the coke gets my body going, and I could thrum and fucking rock out all night.