Eviscerate this feeling from my head

Disintegrate the words I just said

You have the power to connive

Just push the other thoughts aside

--From the song Wasted

Lyrics By Orion Bauwens

So my mom had a twelve pack of beer. Every night I had one beer--one, I swear--until they were gone. And it was always under the scornful eye of Amy. Mom drank a few from the case too, so it's not like I drank twelve beers myself. But once that pack was done I didn't buy any more, and I've made it a point to not go looking in the fridge in case she bought more.

I never puked after that one morning. I also never called Heather. What can I say? Ya win some, ya lose some.

I talk to Tristan on the phone daily but... It's not enough. I miss him. I miss him holding me. I miss how he looks. I miss how instantaneously he centers my being without even trying. It's like he's started to pour concrete into my chest, plugging up the holes in a way I never figured out how to.

I can't stop thinking about his body, his body I had gotten to know when I stayed with him at his apartment. He works out and it shows. He's muscular, tanned. His pecs are defined, so are his stomach muscles, and--God...The v-shape of his hips as they dip into his briefs is just delectable. I don't think his hair is dyed, either, dirty-blondness being a byproduct from the Texan sun.

He's literally perfect, from his sculpted calves to the two little dimples in his lower back. I love how the muscles around his shoulder blades ripple when he moves. I love how his face brightens up when he smiles. I absolutely adore his straight teeth, save one adorable one that's just slightly crooked on the right.

His hands are huge. I've memorized their shape--his blunted fingertips, how the area on his palms by his thumb are raised like a cushion. I've traced my finger over the lines of his palms so often when we lay in bed I think I have them memorized. I've even scrutinized his fingerprints, how they're always slightly dirty no matter how often he washes them. They're the strong hands of someone who has done manual labor for awhile, and I love them.

I love how they feel as they hold me. He's my anchor. When he's holding me, it's always assured. I feel grounded--I feel real. He plasters my feet to the ground, holds my brain in place so it can't go running off to the scary places it loves running off to.

His mere touch makes me feel in the present. I don't think about my abusive upbringing. I don't worry about what happens if my career were to fall apart. All I think about are his arms that are like walls, holding me and making me steady, and I'm pretty sure it's what Heaven must feel like.

I miss it. I'm so fucking miserable without him.

Since everything happened I haven't been going to AA here in Minnesota. Heather was one of the people I called as soon as I landed. I told her everything; she was kind enough to just tell the group due to extenuating circumstances I wouldn't be in attendance, indefinitely. I'm sure that raised some eyebrows, but, whatever.

I've switched all my psych and therapy appointments to over the phone or via Zoom. Which is...odd. While I'm grateful to have medical support that's so flexible given the unusual circumstances, it's just not the same. Never thought I'd say this, but I miss physically going in. Tack on yet another thing I miss.

It's been a month. I'm going out of my fucking skull.

Don't get me wrong, I've come to love my family. It's actually a little startling how easily I've moulded into their unit. They've accepted me with open arms. I've known this small group of people for such a short amount of time, yet it feels like a lifetime.

I'm especially close with Amy. We really are basically the same damn person, minus the age and gender difference. Which...scares me. She has a good thing for her going in this house. She has a wonderful support system, a family that loves her.

But I really do see myself in her. The last thing I want is for her to stumble down the same deep, dark path I did. If I could end up where I was, fresh out of rehab with a fist full of problem, I'm sure she could, too.

I just really hope that losing her father wasn't enough of a blow to make her bitter and jaded. I really hope she can cope with loss better than I ever could. I never want Amy to stop caring for herself.

"Why do you do that?"

Currently I'm laying on her bed with my legs drawn up, one crossed over the other to help support my electric guitar. Amy is standing at her music stand. We had paused because she needed a break, so I'm just dicking around with the strings absentmindedly.

I look at her. "Do what?"

She cocks her head to the side. "Most your songs are written in ¾ time."

I laugh, glancing at her. "What? No they're not."

"Yes they are."

I'm still shaking my head. "Prove it."

"Aerial View. Nothing Is Something. Why?."

I think. "Good job. You named three songs."

"Too Much On My Mind. Spin."

"Five songs out of eight albums. Keep going."

"Filling Lungs. Peach Tree. Screaming Skin." She narrows her eyes. "Flaming Legs. Battling The Dog. Things Inside. Sleep or Faith. Infinity. Kill The Silence. Merry-Go-Round. Diaphragm. Banging On--"

"Okay, okay." I shake my head. "Holy shit...I guess I do write in waltz time a lot."

"Yeah! But the cool thing is it doesn't sound like a waltz, at all. Like what you were just playing."

"What was I just playing?"

She points at my guitar.

I chuckle. "Amy--I honestly have no idea what I was playing. I wasn't thinking."

"It was this." She puts her flute to her lips and starts playing something.

It sounds...vaguely familiar. I'm extremely intrigued though.

"Amy--hold on."

"What?" She lowers her flute a bit. "What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing. Amy, can you do something for me?"

"Uh...sure?"

"Play this."

I play a random melody and then stop. I nod at her. She plays me back exactly what I played.

I play something else, more complicated and longer, and then nod at her. Same thing.

I play the most complicated classical thing I know (which sounds weird on an electric guitar, I'd like to point out), extending it for as long as I can. Then I nod at her. After hesitating for a second she brings her flute back to her lips and plays it back to me.

As she goes on and on, my eyes grow wider and wider. By the time she's done she is completely bright red. She's understanding now what I'm doing and I can tell she's embarrassed. I don't care though.

The last thing I do is play her something utterly nonsensical. I change the key signature constantly, I change the tempo, I'm just playing...literally whatever. When I'm done she laughs at me, still deep red.

"Well?" I prompt.

Sighing she brings her flute to her lips and plays back the most horrid thing I've ever heard in my life. But you know what? It's what I played. Even though I'm not even exactly sure what I did, I can recognize it enough to tell she's playing what I did. Exactly what I did.

"Holy fuck," I say breathlessly when she's done, "you're a genius. A musical genius."

She moans loudly and covers her face. "Stop."

I put down my guitar and rush over to her, taking her by the shoulders. She looks at me.

"No, I'm serious. I can't do that. Fuck, I don't know anyone who can do that! No wonder you don't like practicing--you're bored!"

She pulls away from me and starts to deconstruct her instrument. Embarrassed, she tucks some of her hair behind her ear. "Well, I mean, yeah...But also I can't really...um...read music."

"So?"

She rolls her eyes. "Tell that to my band director and my music theory teacher."

"How long have you been able to do that?"

As she cleans the flute, she starts turning red again. "Um...I think--I think forever?"

"Woah."

She shrugs, face going right back to the original dark red it was. "I mean, it's no big deal...I mean, one of my first memories ever is of hearing a song and then singing it. I don't even know how old I was."

"Do you wanna join Saturn Mutants?"

Her response makes me realize what I just blurted out. "What?"

Oh, fuck.

"I mean--like. After you're done with school. What grade are you I'm again since you started school late?"

"I'm a Junior," she replies immediately, and the look of sheer joy that's twinkling in her eyes is ripping my heart out.

"I-I mean, I feel like mom would kill me if you started touring with me. I mean, that's a really bad idea, you're too young, way too young, you'd totally get corrupted--"

"I'd love to."

Oh, fuck. "W-what?! No!"

She furrows her brow. "No?"

"I didn't--I didn't mean to--that slipped out--"

Amy walks quickly to the door and shuts it. She then rushes over and grabs my hands, leading me back to the bed. She sits next to me, not letting go of my hands.

"Orion, I want you to listen to me and shut the fuck up."

I open my mouth to say something but she clamps her hand on my lips. I freeze.

"I'm flunking. Like, everything that isn't music. Like, I cut the first two classes of the day because I wanna smoke and eat a bagel and cream cheese and have some coffee."

"AMY!"

"SHHH!" She clamps both hands over my mouth now. "Orion, shut up! If mom knew she'd kill me--"

I grab her by the wrists and gently pull her hands off my mouth. When I speak it's barely a whisper. "I'm going to kill you Amy! What the fuck are you doing?"

Her mouth opens and closes for a while. When she finally speaks it breaks my heart to see tears in her eyes. "I don't know."

"Amy..."

"The only thing that's ever made sense to me, Orion, is music. Besides Chloe, I don't really like anyone. And no one really likes me."

"Don't blow your life just because you think those assholes in school matter. You're still young. You have your entire fucking life ahead of you--"

My phone rings. I pull it out of my hoodie pocket. I don't recognize the number so I ignore it.

"I cannot believe this!" Amy snaps. "You, out of all the people in the world, should understand me!"

"Oh don't pull that bullshit--no one understands me, boo hoo!"

She glares.

"That's not a good enough reason to throw away your life to the wind!"

My phone starts ringing again.

"But it's what I want!"

It's the same number I don't recognize so I ignore it again. "You're too fucking young to know what the fuck you want--"

"ARGH! Why does EVERYONE keep SAYING THAT--"

"Because it's true Amy--"

My phone rings a third time. She glares at me. "Just fucking answer that already!"

I take the call and snap. "What?!"

"Mr. Bauwens?"

"Yes--what? Who is this?"

"This is Lieutenant Charles down at the 53rd precinct. Have you been well I hope?"

"Yes, thanks. Look, I'm kinda in the middle of an important conversation here."

"Yes of course. I'm just calling with a bit of good news."

"Oh?"

"Your stalker has been arrested."

I drop the phone and everything after that is a happy blur.