Almost Easy

By Monday, Austin had informed me that I had no choice but to give up my hermit lifestyle and rejoin the outside world.
Brian had stayed with me for most of the weekend, feeding me and making sure that I slept—which I managed to do with his weight next to me. It was when I was alone that the insomnia crept back in and I’d find myself in the living room at 2:00 in the morning digging through old photographs.
It still didn’t feel real.
The studio was grim. Everyone was unhappy to be there and nobody was competent in hiding it. Austin emerged through the doors, clapping his hands as he spoke loudly.
“We’ve got a reporter coming in this morning to get a statement from you guys,” he told us. “So, I suggest working out what you’re going to say.”
Everyone looked to me.
I thought that John had merely made a suggestion that I take the reins on any public statements but apparently it had been a decision.
“I’m pretty sure I don’t represent the entire band,” I objected aggressively.
Justin piped up, “You’re the frontwoman. You actually do represent the band.”
John was more subtle in his approach, “Come on, Blair. You were Ty’s best friend—it would mean the most coming from you.”
“I don’t want to fucking talk about it,” I snapped. “Not with a reporter. Not this soon.”
“Blair, calm down,” Austin instructed emotionlessly. “We get it. We’re all in pain here—you don’t own the rights to the grief. But, fuck, can we rally for the group?”
“Why can’t you do it?” I whined. “Don’t we have a publicist for this shit?”
“You can do it,” Austin reaffirmed. “Somebody has to do it.”
I stormed past him. I had to get away from them. I’d anticipated the return being less than ideal but I was already buckling under the pressure.
“You better be coming back,” Austin warned. “I fucking mean it, Blair.”
I waved him off without looking, making sure to slam the door dramatically upon my exit.
The air outside took me in, soaking up my frustration with its heat. I put a cigarette between my lips and flicked the lighter. The nicotine would surely heal my wounds.
What was I supposed to tell a reporter? What was there to say? It had been confirmed by many sources that the rumors were true; Tyler had died. So what did they need from his friends? What was the point?
I inhaled deeply.
It was obvious I wasn’t escaping my duties, so I figured I better start figuring out what I was going to say. I wasn’t sure what they were looking for.
I flicked my cigarette away—it wasn’t helping anyway.
When I returned to the studio, everyone was trying to figure out how to finish the album. It was a pretty heated debate, John’s arms were flailing.
“We can’t cut songs, Austin,” John groaned. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Are you going to step up to Tyler’s standard?” Austin snarled.
“Fuck you, man,” John shot back.
They hardly seemed to notice my presence. I took a seat next to Justin and admired the show. Chris, our quietest band member, was sitting back with his arms folded across his chest.
“Blair’s vocals are shit,” Austin continued angrily. “By the look of her, I doubt she’s up to the task of recording any time soon.” He turned to look at me, “Ain’t that right, darling?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Blair isn’t dead though, is she,” Justin barked. “She can record literally any fucking time. That isn’t even close to the issue at hand.”
Thanks, Justin.
“How much is left to fill?” Chris chimed in finally.
“A bit,” Austin sighed. “He hadn’t even started on Finally.”
“We’re not cutting it,” John insisted. “It’s staying.”
“How are we going to record it, John?” Austin hissed.
Justin pursed his lips, “He’s not wrong, John. No offence, man, but you’re not going to be able to play at Tyler’s level. That’s the whole point of his role.”
“I don’t know,” John gave up. “I don’t want to cut anything that Tyler wrote.”
It was then that I actually realized that I wasn’t sharing the grief alone. Maybe these people weren’t my family; but they were Tyler’s. They had all been Tyler’s friends long before I’d joined the band. He loved each of them dearly.
John was clearly as distraught as I was.
This made me like him so much more.
“What about Blair’s boyfriend?” Chris suggested from his place in the back of the room.
“Who?” I asked dumbly.
“Fucking Synsyter Gates,” Chris put serious emphasis on Brian’s stage name. “He’s an insanely talented guitarist. Tyler loved him.”
“I wouldn’t say loved,” I argued, thinking back to Tyler’s issue with Brian’s presence in my life.
Though, he had idolized Synyster Gates—the whole thing was confusing.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Justin concurred.
John turned to me, “Do you think he’d do it?”
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly, ignoring the reference to Brian as my ‘boyfriend’.
“I’m certain we can’t afford him,” Austin interjected. “We can hardly afford a fucking session musician.”
Eager to annoy Austin, “I can ask him.”
I was already dreading that conversation. It was all well and good in theory, sure. But what if he said no? What if he was made uncomfortable by the whole thing? I wasn’t sure I was ready to apply that sort of pressure to him…or to us. I really liked him. I wasn’t ready to drive him away with my crazy life.
“That settles that,” Austin concluded like the whole thing had been his idea. “If he says no, though; the song gets cut. We can work around the others, but that one’s too raw.”
“Fine,” John relented.
“Fine,” the rest of the group chorused.
We filled our time that morning with occasional sessions in the booth and a ton of anecdotes about Tyler. Everyone was grieving a different piece of him and it only made me that much more sad. I’d forgotten how wonderful he could be. I’d been so wrapped up in my anger for what he’d done…I’d forgotten how to forgive him for who he was.
I was trying.
But I still wasn’t ready to hear, “Hey, Blair! Your reporter is here, let’s go!”
Fuck you, Austin.
I made a mental note to start sizing up new band managers once this album was complete.
I followed Austin and this unfamiliar woman out and into the parking lot. She was also a smoker, apparently, which put me slightly at ease. I lit a cigarette to smoke with her. We made ourselves comfortable on the splintering picnic table.
“I’m Kyla,” she extended her hand to me.
I shook it, “Blair.”
“I know,” she gushed. “I loved your first EP. I’m really looking forward to the first full album.”
“Thanks.”
“Unfortunate circumstances,” she faked a pout, “but I’m really excited to meet you. You’re going to be huge, I know it.”
“Can we get on with it?” I asked impatiently, flicking the ash from my cigarette. “I don’t mean to be rude but I’m sort of in the middle of some things…”
I did mean to be rude. It was obvious I meant to be rude.
I didn’t really care.
“Sorry, of course,” she pulled out a recorder from her pocket and flicked it on.
The little wheels turned inside the semi-transparent case.
“I’m speaking with Blair Peterson, singer of the metal band Haven,” she said to herself. “Blair, tell me a little bit about Tyler Brody.”
“No,” I said flatly.
“Blair,” Austin warned lowly from beside me.
I rolled my eyes, “Tyler was the lead guitarist in our bad. He was an incredible musician and performer.”
“I’m so sorry to hear of his passing,” she faked. “Would you like to make a comment about it?”
I couldn’t help but wonder how much she was paying us for this. She must have been the highest bidder—there was no way Austin would subject this to me for shits. If he wasn’t benefiting from it in some way, it wouldn’t be happening.
“Um…” I hesitated, unsure of what to say. “Tyler has been struggling—fuck, sorry…had been…he had been struggling with mental illness for a really long time. Despite our best efforts to keep him going, he lost his fight.”
It was the best I could do. Every time I talked about Tyler, I thought that I might fall apart again. It was really difficult to keep it together. My oversized sunglasses kept the world from seeing my pain—and my bloodshot, puffy eyes.
“Suicide by hanging, right?” she clarified.
The words stung my ears. It was the first time someone had worded it so blatantly to me.
I nodded, swallowing down my heartache.
“Tragic,” she said lifelessly. “Who found him?”
“What?” I choked. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”
“I mean—” she faltered uncomfortably.
“I think we’re done,” I growled, pushing myself off the table and tossing my cigarette toward the road. “You said to give a statement, right, Austin? Statement is that Tyler was a fucking human being. He was my friend. He was family. His death was tragic and we all miss him like hell. Nothing will ever be the same. Our lives are in ruin and there’s no guarantee that they’ll ever be whole again. That’s our fucking statement.”
She stared at me with a god damn smirk on her face. I could have killed her.
“Go fuck yourself,” I spat as I rushed back indoors.
Austin chased after me. Here we go, I thought, prepping myself for a strongly worded lecture about my behavior and professionalism. I was ready to fight. Austin I could hit. Austin I would hit.
“Epic,” he said once he’d caught up to me. “That’ll make a splash in the news for sure.”
I whipped my head around, glaring at him, “Are you fucking kidding?”
He took a step back, hands up, “Sorry.”
Austin was careful to avoid being alone with me the rest of the day. He knew as well as I did that if he said one more thing to rile me up, I was going to punch him in his jaw.
I used my rage to inspire vocal perfection—the rage had momentarily replaced my deep and dark depression. Once I had as much as I could give out of the way, I made peace with my bandmates and made for the exit.
I was so ready to crawl back into my nest.
“Don’t forget to ask Synyster Gates, okay?” John called to my back. “Tyler would have loved it, Blair.”
I took a deep breath, trying to picture the Tyler who had obsessively transcribed as many of Brian’s songs as he could get his hands on. No, not Brian’s…Synyster Gates. They were the same fucking person to me. I’d never had a clear distinction made to me so I was still trying to work out if there was, actually, a difference between them.
Maybe the difference to me was only that Tyler idolized one and resented the other. But he hadn’t had a lot of time to get to know Brian. Maybe they would have been friends.
It didn’t matter. I’d never know.
“I’ll ask,” I replied weakly before tearing out the doors and to my car so that I could fall apart in peace.
I wasn’t ready for the world to know that I was broken because then it might feel real. I wasn’t ready for it to be real.

Notes

You know the drill.

xx