July 10th, 2017
Boston, Massachusetts

WAS THE UNIVERSE MOCKING SØREN?

After staring into the void above him for several minutes, he'd snapped out of his stupor when his phone vibrated in the pocket hanging right above his head. His eyelids and entire body felt impossibly heavy. Almost as immovable as the rarified air in that part of the bus. But not even close to the weight of the oxygen pressing against his lungs when he walked out to the front lounge and Mikael had said: "Your father passed away this morning."

As if wallowing in the memories of Leah wasn't hard enough, now this had to happen.

Couldn't he have one day, just one fucking day, with no melodrama?

Apparently, the old man's body had rejected the liver transplant, causing some kind of domino effect that made all his other organs collapse, too.

He'd died in the shelter he was staying at, alone.

It was fairly hot, but Søren's hands were cold. And his feet. He was in shock, paralyzed. Was his heart even pumping blood anymore?

"Wolff?" Mikael's voice cut through Søren's spiral.

The vocalist shook his head, glaring through the window across from him. "Y-yes, I'm listening."

"Like I was saying..." There was a pause. Then the manager cleared his throat. "You send me a list of everything for the funeral and we'll handle it from here, okay?"

"Sure. Yeah." Søren squeezed his eyes shut while resting his elbows on his knees and pinched the bridge of his nose. The sudden ringing in his ears was making it really hard for him to focus.

"And if you need us to cancel—"

"No," he rushed to say, well aware of what would follow. No way they were canceling the tour for this. Not now that everything was finally returning to normal with the band, with Alex, and his own fucking life. "We weren't that close."

"I know, but he's still your father. And—"

"Mikael, please." Søren huffed, rubbing a palm over his face, the skin of his back sticking to the leather couch as he reclined. A deep discomfort perched inside of him.

"Okay..."

"I just have to figure out how to tell my mom."

His mind and soul fractured. And his heart ached. It was as if someone were tugging at all his veins at once, stretching them to their limit.

She was going to need him; he was certain. But she had told him a thousand times before to never put his life on hold for her. That she didn't want to be the burden that prevented him from making his dreams come true. He'd never felt as if she were such; yet, for a second as Mikael spoke, all Søren could think about was his unwillingness to throw away his and everyone else's careers—everything they'd fought so hard for, for so many years—because Ellen had another nervous breakdown. It wouldn't be the first, nor the last.

Fuck. How selfish could he be?

"Well, if you need anything else, whatever it is... just call me."

"Will do. Thanks for calling."

"Take care. Talk to you later."

As he hung up, Søren tossed his head back and let out a breath he'd been holding.

Going to see his father when he was in the hospital had made no sense. For what? He hadn't seen him in almost two decades. Did he expect forgiveness? After what he had done to their family? That man had made his choices, and was just facing the consequences.

That was what Søren had thought before. But now, he regretted not saying goodbye.

Maybe some final words would have helped him close that door and leave the past behind. Maybe not. He would never know. But at least his father wouldn't have died all lonesome, in a shelter for homeless people thinking that those who used to be his family hated him.

Everyone would die eventually. But abandoning this earthly existence with nobody by your side... That was heartbreaking.

Heaving out a sigh, Søren turned his face and pressed his temple to the window, the cold glass offering some sort of comfort to his racing mind. He watched people walk back and forth, preparing everything for the first shows, yet they were nothing but a blur of colors and distorted forms. His chest tightened, and so did his throat. How he wished to return to that stagnant slumber he'd fallen into the last couple of months. That floating, muffled sensation in which he was like a witness to his own story. Such a distance was alluring, especially now that he felt as if his entire existence was being slowly swallowed by a wormhole.

Søren dropped the phone on the couch and got up. Hadn't had a coffee yet, not even peed, and he already had to call his mother to tell her about her ex-husband passing away. How fucked up was that? A part of him considered avoiding the topic, to pretend it'd never happened. But what if she heard through someone else? It was too delicate to leave it to chance.

Once inside the bathroom, after peeing, he washed his hands and face. Holy fuck, you're a mess, he thought as he wiped his cheeks dry with a towel.

Why were the dark circles under his eyes so deep? And why did beards grow so fucking fast? It had only been six days since he last trimmed and it was getting out of hand. Okay, six days was a while. Jørn and Ian would smack him. His wasn't as lengthy and bushy as theirs—had just passed the long-stubble stage—but he still needed to cleanse and groom it properly. That was why he usually shaved it, or went for a more careless look with a five o'clock shadow he could easily fix. The amount of shit you think when you don't wanna think.

He would take care of his persona later, though; had bad news to deliver.

Søren dragged his feet back to the front lounge, postponing the inevitable as much as possible. Then plopped on the couch again.

With a trembling thumb, he pressed the green button and dialed the number of the residence. The line rang several times until someone finally picked up.

"Good afternoon. This is New Dawn's reception. How can I help you?" said a woman's voice.

"Hi! Good mor-afternoon. This is Wolff. Søren Wolff."

"Hello, Mr. Wolff. Do you want me to transfer you through to your mom or did you want to talk to Dr. Mykland?"

"To my mom, please. But..."

"Yes?"

"Can you tell the doctor that she's gonna need support? I have to give her some bad news."

"Of course. I'll just transfer you through to your mom's room, and I will let him know."

"Thanks."

The melody of the hold music repeated over and over. Søren had heard it several times before, but at that moment, it gave him the creeps, making all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Hi, Mom," he said as she picked up.

"Hi, son. How are you doing?" He sensed the smile on the other side.

"I'm good, just woke up."

"Isn't it a bit early?"

"Yeah, but we have a busy day today, so I thought I'd call you now. Is that okay?" he asked, tattooed leg bouncing up and down.

Ellen laughed. "Of course! I was about to go down for lunch, but that can wait."

"I'll call you later, then." Coward.

"No, it's fine. How's the tour going so far?"

"Can't complain. I'm still tired, but good."

"Did you bring the vitamins I told you about?"

"Yeah. The entire crew is taking them." He chuckled.

"Good. For once you've listened."

He rolled his eyes. "I always listen."

"Yeah, yeah..." She paused. "Have you... Have you talked to her?"

"No."

"Are you planning to?"

"No. Things are okay the way they are, and I don't need that kind of drama in my life right now."

Ellen scoffed. "You are so dramatic."

"Learned from the best." The metalhead smirked.

"I'm saving a smack for when you get back."

Søren laughed, his heart sinking in his chest knowing this cheerful version of his mother wouldn't last once he gave her the news.

"So—"

"Wait a second, Son. Someone's knocking on my door." She moved the phone away, her next words distant. "Come on in!"

"Good afternoon, Ellen," her doctor said from afar.

"Good afternoon, Doc." The confusion in her voice was almost palpable as she greeted the psychiatrist. "What are you doing here?"

"Mom," Søren said, a little more loudly than he meant to.

"Yes?"

"I... I asked him to check on you."

"What? Why?"

"I..." He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned his elbows on his knees.

"Yeah?" Her tone was wary, a little shaky even.

"Mikael, our manager..." Just say it. Don't beat around the bush. "He told me D—Ulrik passed away early this morning." Calling his father by his name probably seemed cold to most, but there was no other way he could refer to that man. A real dad wouldn't do the things he'd done. "So sorry to tell you this, Mom. But—"

"What?"

"Remember I told you he was sick? It seems the liver transplant didn't go as well as they thought at the beginning. His body has—"

"Your father?"

As expected, she was having a hard time processing the information.

"Yeah, he was very weak—"

"That can't be." Søren heard a deep intake of air.

"Mom, please... Breathe." Something in his neck snapped and his entire back hurt.

He would never understand why or how certain things affected her. He knew the theory; for people with a borderline personality disorder, situations and relationships were often black or white, no greys in between. Sadness wasn't just sadness; it was deep despair. Happiness was euphoria. Anxiety, terror. But it was also much more complicated than that. And the worst was that the pain associated with this distorted thinking was always excruciating.

"I... I—"

A loud thud resonated on her end.

"Ellen," the doctor's warning voice called as steps got closer.

Separations, disagreements, and rejections. She was highly sensitive to them all. When her brain synapses unhinged and she couldn't cope with the external stimulations or the deep-rooted fear of being abandoned, she was often catapulted into a violent outburst. And although his parents had divorced after years of his father's mental abuse, the photo of him in the drawer of his mother's nightstand told Søren she still loved him—somehow.

"You're lying!" she cried.

"Mom, please." His throat tightened even more.

"He can't be dead!"

"Ellen!"

"No! You're not gonna inject me with that shit!"

"You need to calm down."

"Let me go!"

Søren's insides twisted into a hundred knots. He knew they weren't hurting her. That they were actually preventing her from harming herself, but hearing her shrieking from thousands of kilometers away was making him sick.

"Søren." He recognized the voice of one of the male nurses in the residence. "We'll contact you later."

Then the call ended.

Frozen on the spot, heart racing, he listened to the continuous beeping until it died.

Silence filled with his heavy breathing.

Fuck! Søren threw his phone on the couch across from him and stood up. Placing both palms on his lower back, he bent backward until a few vertebrae cracked. That should have released some of the tension building up inside of him, but it didn't. And why was his pulse not slowing down?

"If you offer yourself like that to me, I'll have to cheat on Frida," Ian joked, his grin immediately curling down when Søren glared at him. "Everything alright?"

"No." He let out a sigh, letting himself fall on the couch again.

"What is it?" the Irishman asked, sitting beside him. "I mean, if you wanna talk..."

"My father died yesterday. This morning?"

"Oh, shit. Sorry, man." He patted Søren's shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.

"It's... fine. I think." Søren frowned, pressing the mounds of his palms to his temples. His throbbing head felt like it was about to explode. "The problem is my mom."

"You told her..." Sadness laced his voice. Ian truly appreciated Ellen and how much she cared for everyone, especially his twins.

"Yeah."

"Is there anything we can do?"

Ian was a clown most of the time, but he knew how and when to be serious. Some people panicked when facing uncomfortable situations, but not him. Not ever. The guitarist added a crazy spark to their already unorthodox group, but he was also one of the pillars of Søren's sanity, always subtly reminding him how pain could transform into strength if you never surrendered to your demons—he'd lost both his parents when he was a teenager and was still here, living his life to the fullest.

"No." The vocalist cleared his throat, realizing he was being too harsh towards his friend. "They said they'll call when she's calmer."

"Okay. That's good." Ian nodded. "When I talked to Astrid and Petri yesterday, they mentioned we have a few hours free later today. So, what if, instead of doing the laundry this afternoon, we go downtown? Have lunch and walk around the city to see if we discover any new cool places?" Brown eyes looked at him, filled with understanding and concern. At least it wasn't pity.

"That bag is smelly as fuck already, dude."

"Unless it grows legs, it's not going anywhere," Ian said, patting Søren's knee. "We can take care of it tomorrow. One more day won't change shit."

Søren twisted his mouth and bit the inside of his bottom lip. As much as he liked the tranquility of their bus, the hype in the atmosphere in the concerts field was too loud. All that hustle and bustle kept his thoughts from sinking in, and he couldn't afford to lose himself again in such a brief period of time.

"Okay."

Ian offered a comforting grin. "It's decided then."

● ● ● ● ●

"Fuck!" Jørn groaned and slapped his arm while they walked to the parking lot after spending the afternoon out. "These bloodsuckers!"

"Another one?" Alex laughed.

"Yeah! I know I'm hot as hell, but holy crap."

"At least they're not eating Wolff alive," Ian quipped.

"If that happened, we'd have to go to the ER," Astrid said. "But he listens when I tell him to spray himself with the mosquito-repellent thingy. Not like you, fuckers."

Søren really used that shit, almost bathed in it, would drink it if he could, especially if they were going to hang out near water. He was allergic to certain bug bites. Not that he had taken any tests, but the results were monstrous sometimes.

"I know, I know." Jørn huffed.

"And here it's not as bad as in the south," she reminded him.

"Oh, I'm definitely joining Wolff's ritual when we reach Florida."

"You better buy gallons of that repellent then, Astrid." Søren chuckled as he took a drag of his cig.

Having a busy schedule had helped to quiet his relentless mind. Although his heart still climbed up his throat when he thought about his mother, he was more relaxed now. The doctor had called him a little later that morning to let him know they'd put her on some meds to help reduce her anxiety. The metalhead hadn't been able to talk to her yet, but they told him he could try the next day.

"I should kill you both and end your suffering," she retorted. "That'd be a lot cheaper."

"I agree." Alex nodded, letting out a cloud of smoke.

"Of course you do." Ian grinned mischievously. "If you didn't, you wouldn't get pussy tonight."

"What the fuck, Faulkner?" Astrid smacked the back of his head.

"Dude, that door isn't made of thick steel." He shrugged.

"And you're both fucking noisy," Søren added, fumes seeping out of his nostrils when he scrunched his nose up in disgust. He was more than used to Alex and Astrid's relationship by now, and was actually happy for them. Since getting together, they'd stopped acting like twats. But hearing them humping was gross.

Astrid opened her mouth to disagree, but nothing came out. Her cheeks turned a light shade of pink, making the others laugh. She blushed once in a blue moon, and they couldn't help but tease her when she did.

"You're just jealous because you're not getting laid. Suck it!" Alex showed them the middle finger and put his arm around Astrid's shoulders, picking up the pace and leaving the other three behind, laughing hysterically.

As they stepped out of the trees area and made it to their bus, Søren's attention pinned on one sole thing; a certain person, to be more precise.

The guys from Buried Alive and Absolute Zero were a few feet away, hanging out. They always played in the morning and had probably been at the meet and greet already, too. So, all that was left for them was a relaxing evening. And there she was, wearing an oversized black t-shirt tucked into some denim shorts, her beautiful legs glowing under the last rays of sun. The countless times he'd been lost between those toned thighs, tangled with her, doing the most deliciously sinful things.

The sensation of her skin suddenly burned his fingertips.

Fuck.

No matter how hard he had tried to avoid her, his body and heart reacted to her like they always did, as if they didn't have memory of all the pain she'd caused. He wished he could act as if what they'd shared was just a mere dream, to ignore the suffocating spiral of emotions. It was easy to be cold towards her; he was naturally hostile, and his current apathy only made it even easier. But if he had to be honest, no ink, drugs, or darkness would blur his feelings for that woman.

"Right, Wolff?" The Irishman chortled.

"Huh?" All his brain synapses had disconnected.

"What—" Ian grinned as he took off his tee and threw it on his camping chair, noticing Leah. "The girl's pretty. Can't blame you for being in the clouds." His smile stretched wider on that stupid face of his.

"Shut up," Søren said, rolling his eyes before his attention returned to her.

The two bands new to the tour were playing cards and drinking, enjoying their free time—Aussie Blond Guy gawking at Leah. The fuck? Could he be any more obvious?

At least she seemed oblivious. That or she wasn't interested. She used to pretend to be completely unaware of someone wanting to get into her pants, unless the dude was too straightforward. Then she would make it very clear to them she wasn't available. Søren had witnessed such a scene the last time he'd visited her in Germany, and for some twisted reason, having her devour his mouth after rejecting another man had really turned him on. It was a great night—ended with some wild sex over the kitchen counter of her apartment.

"Chris, das ist mein Platz," Leah pushed her friend, trying to get him up from the chair.

They were close enough to hear them—especially since their volume was quite high—but not so much that they would be part of the same group.

"Move your feet, lose your seat," Chris teased, making the others cackle.

"Are you five years old?"

He shrugged, and she yanked his ear. The rest of their conversation went on in German as they wrestled. Søren wanted to laugh at the scene—those two lived for their banter—but he couldn't. It stung knowing he would never be the reason she would smile like that again.

"You're being creepy," Ian whispered from behind, circling his arms around the singer's waist.

Søren shoved him back and laughed. "Fuck off, you whore!"

The Irishman smirked.

"I'm gonna go help Vlad set up the drums," Jørn announced, dunking his empty beer can in the trash as he trotted out of the bus.

"I'll join you in a sec," Søren said absentmindedly, ignoring the stupid faces Ian was making at him as he unlocked his phone and slid his finger down to see what was the notification he just received.

A bittersweet sensation invaded him when, under some publicity stuff, he saw Ryker's email. Shit. He had totally forgotten about his brother. But he also had to let him know about their father passing away.

Two months before, Mikael had told him that Ryker had reached out to see whether there was any chance Søren would agree to speak with him.

He'd been reluctant at first, wasn't sure he could trust him. Why was he even contacting him after so many years? But after several days of consideration, Søren finally decided to talk with his mother. Although Ellen wasn't Ryker's biological mom, she cared for and loved him as if he were, so maybe she could offer some advice. When he laid it all out, she'd said the three of them were still family, no matter what, and also slapped her son's arm when he tried every excuse under the sun for shutting Ryker out—she hadn't raised him to be so spiteful.

He didn't like her answer, to be honest, but gave in anyway, realizing she was right and reuniting with his long-lost brother might help him heal and turn the page in one of those unfinished chapters of his life.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he scrolled down to the very first email Ryker had sent him.

Ryker Hansen Tue, May 29, 2:45 PM

Hey, Søren

I have no idea if you'll ever read this, or if you want to hear from me at all after so long, but I needed to man up and face all my mistakes.

To be honest, I should have done this a while back, at least that's what they told me in this recovery treatment I've been in for three years, but I didn't have the courage to do it.

I should have never left you behind the way I did. I can't even imagine how it must have been for you and Ellen since then, and I'm terribly sorry I never reached out. If only I'd been stronger... Drugs aren't an excuse, but after running away from home, I really got lost in that shit, to the point I didn't know who I was anymore. It landed me in jail, and as tough as it's been in here, I'm finally clean and ready to show the world I've changed—I have a hearing for parole in a few weeks.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'm still alive and ask you if you have any room for forgiveness for me? Maybe we could reconnect?

I don't expect things to be the same as they were before. Hell, it'd be a miracle if you were willing to give me a second chance. But I really miss you guys, and now that I'm not the piece of trash that I was in the past, I feel confident I may be able to make it up to you for all the pain and wrongdoing I might have caused.

Looking forward to hearing from you. Until then, please take care of yourself and Ellen.

—Ryker

P.S: Been following your career for a while. I'm so fucking proud of you and the man you've become.

Of course, Søren was still conflicted. His brother—half-brother, really—was a complete stranger to him. But lately, as they'd continued exchanging occasional messages, pressing send no longer felt so awkward. Their conversations were never too personal or important, defined mostly by swapping small talk. Yet, the lost kid inside of him was glad to have his old hero back.