I needed a bottle. There was no way I could handle this sober. Sitting in one of the hard, uncomfortable chairs, that adorned the grass at Jimmy's funeral, I sat quietly, as still and as silent as a statue. My face was a blank mask, and without my trademark aviators, my red and puffy eyes were open for viewing, much like the open coffin that had held Jimmy, but not our Jimmy. Our Jimmy had been full of life, not still and cold.

Zacky was sad. Syn was angry. Johnny was confused. Michelle and Val were upset. And I was drunk. That was how I handled almost all of my problems, by getting wasted. Vengance got up and spoke. Val continued to sob. Gates looked like he wanted to lash out. I remained impassive, like a wax figure, lips sealed together. This was a dream. I was sure of it. There was no way this was actually happening. Jimmy, dead? No way!

But I was wide awake, and Jimmy was really dead. There was no reversing it. No amount of crying could bring back my dead friend, because he had already been taken by Death itself. I stroked Val's white-blonde hair, remembering when Jimmy had gotten drunk at that hotel in Paris, yelling random things at passing people. I watched as they lowered The Rev's coffin into the ground, and when it sank from view, a part of me died.

Sure, plenty of parts of me had died before. When I was 7, my dog got hit by a car. It took time, but I healed. When I was 14, my girlfriend dumped me for my worst enemy. I was upset, but I got over it. But losing Jimmy, losing mt best friend, I knew I would never get over.

Then, there was only one more question: The record. We were in the middle of making "Nightmare". Would we continue with it, now that we had lost our drummer? And the truth was, I wasn't sure if I could.

Notes

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