Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella by Frost NJ

Author:Frost, NJ [Frost, NJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary
Publisher: NJ Frost
Published: 2014-02-22T16:00:00+00:00

I’m dreading the funeral. The pit of my stomach feels knotted with anxiety. After putting off the inevitable for as long as possible, I eventually cave into Darcey’s nagging to get my arse into gear and get ready.

“You look like shit!” She scolds as she gives me the once-over when I’m finally suited and booted.

“Thanks.” I reply dryly.

I straighten my tie and examine my face in the mirror. I do look like shit. I guess not sleeping on top of two weeks of relentless drinking have taken their toll. I have pale greenish pallor that matches the colour of my eyes. With the dark circles etched under them, I think I look like a ghost.

I’m not one of those guys who spends hours in the mirror sculpting his hair just so. I run a hand through it to try to tame the scruffy black mess, but with little success. I really can’t be arsed. I’ve had a shave. That’s more than enough grooming for one day.

In our funeral attire Darcey and I make an odd looking couple. I look like a fucking rogue banker, who hasn’t slept for weeks and Darcey, well she looks like Darcey. Unapologetic and unflinching in her punkiness. With her heavy war paint, slashed tights and huge boots she looks like she’s fixing for a fight. Which I suppose she is – with her emotions.

Darcey doesn’t meet my eye as she hands me a bottle of Jack. She looks about as haunted as I feel.

“One for the road?” She’s jittery, and the anxiety is radiating off her. It seems that the unshakable Darcey Walters is nervous too.

I force a smile before taking a couple of huge swigs. The welcome burn does little to settle the strange tilt and sway of this day.

Maybe for most addicts alcohol is a trigger, that first slippery step on the road to relapse, but alcohol has never been my undoing. Getting wasted and getting high have always been such different beasts for me. I’ve never really seen them as being symptomatic of each other. Maybe I’m in denial, but since Jamie’s death I’ve managed to stay on the straight and narrow as far as the harder stuff is concerned. The bag of gear from Viper is still untouched. I haven’t even had a little dabble, which is pretty fucking impressive considering the circumstances. My liver has taken a battering, and I’ve sneaked the odd bit weed here and there, but that’s it.

The gear stashed in the inside breast pocket of my jacket has almost become a talisman. A touchstone. At any point I could crack, but every moment that I don’t gives me a little more strength, a little more belief in my willpower. I suspect that today will be make-or-break for me.

I take out my hipflask and shakily fill it before I pass the bottle back to Darcey. She takes a long pull and feigns a wince and cough. It’s all an act. I know the moisture in her eyes has fuck all to do with the Jack.

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