by Jack Wallen
Dead Twin Sister
By Jack Wallen
Copyright Jack Wallen © 2017
This book is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise noted, names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (unless otherwise noted). Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without express permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
The members of Die So Fluid appear with permission.
Lyrics to all Die So Fluid songs printed with permission.
Very special thanks to Grog Lisee, Drew Richards, and Gordon Biggins.
Cover photo taken by Grog Lisee.
In loving memory of Al Fletcher. Your beats will live on forever in fans across the universe.
Prologue
Bittersweet
I floated. This wasn’t some trick of light or magic; not this time. I’d survived The Dark Seduction, only to find myself trapped in a mind-fuck of my own making. This, I knew. Within my own darkening realm, that place I visited when my eyelids were shut tight against the backdrop of noise and hate seeping from a world gone mad, I dreamed the most banal things; something for which I was eternally grateful. Certainly, the world was too big for one lifetime, but within my dreamscape, I could be and do anything. And considering how I’d nearly lost my life within the carnival that was Vau-Eal, I was happy that song within my slumber had become a Muzak rendition of Engelbert Humperdinck tunes.
But this time around the nightmare dance floor, I felt something had changed; the song did not remain the same. My heart raced and paused, raced and paused, raced and paused—a shift between mediocre American pop and funereal waltz. Every so often the beats would intersect, I’d gasp and assume I was about to enjoy a myoclonic spasm back into the realm of the waking.
And living.
Don’t fret, my love, I’m not dead, I thought. Why the sentiment passed through my subconsciousness, I couldn’t say.
Or could I.
“Hello, old friend.”
The voice was as familiar as familiar could be, like a second skin or the first song to ever latch onto your soul. As each syllable spoke, it rang against a snare head wound tight enough to take a serious beating.
“But you’re—” I started to say the word, but refused to allow it shape and form within my mouth. Maybe if I didn’t say it, didn’t even think it … the truth would be undone. That was what I wanted; to go back in time and unmake the tragedy.
“Luv, you have to—”
“Don’t say it!” I shouted against the backdrop of velvety darkness. “I can’t do this, can’t live without…” My voice faded to a heartbreaking silence. I knew the words, knew I’d eventually have to speak them.
“I think it’s criminal not to be original. Pleased to meet you I’m Bittersweet.” The familiar voice spoke the lyrics sweetly. “Well done, my dear. That’s going to be a fucking hit.”
The kindness dropped me to my knees, tears peppering the pale flesh of my legs. “I miss you so much.”
From the inky nothing, he appeared; his tousled blond hair and child-like eyes the same as they were before he was taken. He knelt beside me, wrapped strong arms around my body, and pulled me in tight. When he spoke, his whispered voice bludgeoned my heart.
“You have to let go, Grog. It’s time.”
“No. I can’t. None of this is right; you weren’t supposed to fucking die.” My body convulsed against his loving embrace.
“But I did. Guess what? There’s not a damn thing you or I can do about it. No magic or music will bring me back. That’s why I’m here—to tell you one last time how dearly I love you and convince you to get on with it.”
Another wash of tears fell from my eyes, only this time they didn’t reach my thighs or the ground below. Instead, the salty drops floated in the air before us, collecting to form a shimmering, silver screen. When the sorrowful square was made whole, a video flickered to life—a scene from a past tour, standing backstage. Three souls, ready to exchange a most profound energy with an audience.
“Remember that?” His voice was laced with reverence.
“Some random Betty rushed the stage,” I answered. “She made a beeline for you; wrapped her arms around your neck and begged you to—”
“Make her one with child.”
We laughed; just like old times, as though he was still among the living and my chest wasn’t filled with loss.
He pulled away, wiped the tears from my cheeks, and smiled. “You have to say my name, Grog. Otherwise, I’ll be trapped here forever. As much as I adore you, I need to find out what’s next. If I remain locked within this nothingness for another day, I might well die a second death.”
“Don’t say—”
His laughter stopped my voice short.
“Say my name, luv. We both need to move on.”
My breath stuttered within my chest. He cupped my head with cold hands and kissed me on the forehead. “Everything’ll be fine, Grog. Say my name.”
“I’ll never forget you.”
He laughed. “No, I don’t suspect you will. On the off-chance you do, I will haunt your ass.”
“Promise me?”
“I do.” He drew me back in and whispered. “It’s time.”
I hesitated, assuming this would be the moment that would forever alter the trajectory of my life. All I wanted was to go back. He was right, however; it was time to finally move forward. I gasped for the breath necessary to utter the word—the one word that might finally shatter my heart into a million, bittersweet pieces.
“Al.”
His body fell to a sparkling dust. The flecks danced around me until they crash landed against my body. When I finally stood, my tears had dried and my pulse grown steady. Al Fletcher was gone from the world, but his memory, his soul, his heart, and his beat would remain … forever a part of me.
When I awoke, for the first time since Al’s death, my heart wasn’t breaking. To the contrary, it beat a powerful and familiar rhythm; one I was certain was Al’s doing.
“Rest in peace, dear friend.”
ACT I
kusala
ONE
You could sleepwalk all your life and never learn how to run
Don’t say tomorrow. Tomorrow doesn’t always come.
The headphones were tight over my ears; the metal studs through cartilage pressing into my skull served to keep me grounded by way of a nagging irritation. The sound of Drew’s guitar track had everyone in the studio caught in a brilliant fog, our heads banging now and again in a show of rock and roll solidarity. When the last note rang out, cheers exploded against the studio walls, easily invoking visions of concert halls.
Drew sat at the console, a knowing grin spread wide across his lips. There could be no doubt this was some of his best work. It all made perfect sense; Drew and I were driven by the same muse, one that threatened to punish us with a never-ending stream of heart-breaking memories, should we not deliver the goods.
That Drew delivered, there was no arguing. He’d been in rare form lately, playing as if he’d been possessed by the spirit of Ronson and McGeoch. I knew the truth to that fiction. A certain specter whispered in his ear as he played, pushing him toward some heretofore unknown perfection.
Or such was the story playing back in the cinema of my mind.
“That was bloody awful,” Drew shouted, his headphones still covering his ears, so he had no idea he’d voiced the opinion to everyone within earshot. All in
attendance knew the guitarist was fucking around. A good sign, that; Drew’s sense of humor was irrevocably tied to his ego. I knew the trick of this riddle; the more he mocked himself, the more confidence he held in his work.
I tossed the man a devil horn salute. “Bloody well botched that whole number up. How in the hell am I supposed to sing to that shit?”
Drew kissed the tip of his middle finger and flew it my way. “You always find a way to make me sound like I know what I’m doing. We, of course, know better.” A wicked grin slowly ate its way across Drew’s mouth. “Your turn, princess.”
“That’s Queen to you, commoner,” I tossed my head back and shot my nose into the air. “You may kiss my ring or lick my boot; one or the other, not both.”
“You would deprive me of my only joy?” Drew winked and nodded for me to step to the other side of the glass.
It was go time.
I entered the small room, placed the headphones over my ears, stepped up to the mic, and waited to be prompted for a soundcheck. With the door to the room closed, the sensation before the music began to play was disconcerting at best—absolute silence was absolutely deafening.
Given last night’s dream, it was a gift of grand irony that we were recording ‘Tomorrow Doesn’t Always Come.’ Al’s visit could have been a premonition of things to come while standing behind the mic.
The thought of Al brought a smile to my face and a tightness in my chest.
“Ready, doll?” The sound of Drew’s voice shattered my sorrowful reverie.
I took a quick sip of water, swallowed, and offered a thumbs-up to those at the console. Shortly after, the click track kicked in, followed by Drew’s masterful intro. I’d already laid down my bass track, so I was able to sing against a wall of very Die So Fluid sound. Intro complete, I took in a deep breath and sang.
“I once told you I’m yours till the end of time but how long is that anyway? Tonight we could go down in a hail of comets, like a cosmic sundance. To the last I’ll stay. You could sleepwalk all your life and never learn how to run. Don’t say tomorrow, tomorrow doesn’t always come. Give me all you’ve got tonight. Don’t hold out for the morning sun. Don’t say tomorrow, tomorrow doesn’t always come.”
I waved my hand in the air, to cut the track short.
“Sounding glorious,” Drew announced. “You okay?”
“Sure. I just…” My voice faded to silence.
“What is it?” Drew insisted.
“Nothing, nothing. Wasn’t feeling it is all. Let’s give it another go.”
Once again, the click track led me into the number. The melody poured from my mouth, this time in perfect sync with an emotion-flooded heart.
We will wreak havoc on the world.
The track continued on without me.
“Did you hear that?” I called out into the mic.
Drew leaned into the console mic and responded. “Hear what?”
“A voice.”
“Yeah I did. Yours. Should I have heard something else?”
I tapped my headphones. “Could you play that back for me?”
Another thumbs-up from Drew and the track, including my vocals, filled my head with song. There was no other voice. I gathered my wits and responded, “Did anyone in there speak into my monitor while I was recording my track?”
All heads shook, leaving me confounded. I was certain the voice had been there and the words perfectly clear. Drew whispered in my ears, “You need to take a break?”
“I’m fine. Had another dream last night, so it’s probably nothing more than the after-effects of that.”
“Al?” Drew hesitantly asked.
I nodded to confirm his assumption.
“I’m sorry, Grogins. I miss him too.”
“Let me give this another go.”
“You certain?”
Another nod.
Another thumbs-up.
The click track returned. I wanted to sing to the stars, that I’d finally made it through the number without fucking up or hearing voices rattling my addled brain.
As soon as the final note of the song faded to silence, everyone in the booth went wild. It took a moment, but Drew finally chimed in. “Oh, fuck yeah, Grog; you’ve never sounded that good. It was absolute perfection. Brava.”
“Playback,” I requested.
The melody rose in perfect counterpoint to Drew’s fretwork. As I reached the first chorus, the voice returned, this time with a bit more menace to its tone.
I’ll cut you and gut you, my sister.
“Fuck!” I shouted and immediately regretted the outburst. This wasn’t like me; I was centered, grounded. Years of yoga lifted me above lashing out at such things. There was only one explanation for this out of character moment … grief.
Drew immediately halted playback. “Hear something you didn’t like, Grog?”
I desperately wanted to fill Drew in on the situation; I knew, however, in the uttering of the words, I’d come off as a raving lunatic … at best. Consider what we’d so recently endured, I thought it wise to keep the talk of ghosts, demons, and voices to a bare minimum. Instead of confessing to my momentary lapse of sanity, I turned the question back on Drew. “Not sure. Did you hear me do the wacky during that take?” I completed the question with a blown kiss.
“Well played, girl.”
A slight bit of blush flashed across Drew’s cheeks at the reference to Buffy The Vampire Slayer—one of his favorite obsessions. He’d always like to keep his Fanpire-ness on the downlow, for fear the good-natured ribbing would get out of hand. I most often obliged him; every once in a while, however, I’d make a threat of revealing his secret to a guitar tech, roadie, or manager.
The Queen has to keep her subjects in line, after all. The thought barely registered in my consciousness; a sentiment that cut very much against my grain. Overt ego was never a part of my makeup. I glanced around the studio to check for the odd look cast my way. Fortunately, everything was aces.
“Why don’t we take lunch,” Drew nearly insisted.
“Brilliant,” I answered, slipping the phones off my head and hanging them on the stand before me.
On the other side of the glass, Drew pulled me into a hug and whispered, “Let’s get the hell out of this place for a while.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Drew gave Tony, the studio engineer, a pat on the back. “Grog and I are going to step out for a bite. We’ll be back in an hour … sound good?”
“Yeah,” Tony answered, his attention mostly focused on the playback.
Without another word, Drew and I weaved our way out of the building and into the soupy summer air.
“Care to tell me what was going on in there?” Drew asked before we were across the street.
“Not really no,” I snipped. I stopped suddenly and spun Drew to face me. “That came out wrong. I don’t want to talk about it, because it was nothing. I thought I heard something. I was wrong. That’s all.”
Drew nodded. “I can abide that.”
“You’re the Dude now?”
“Drew Lebowski has a pretty groovy ring, don’t ya think?”
“What I think, Drew, is that all the television you’ve watched has made porridge of your brain.”
“You know the mush in my skull came into being way before the telly dug its fingers into my soul.”
“I would accept that as scientific fact, Mr. Richards.”
“Mr. Lebowski, you mean.” Drew grinned too wide to suit his charming face.
“I cannot abide by that.” I locked my arm within Drew’s and marched onward. “I can, however, get seriously down with some Indian food.”
Drew whinged.
“Baby much?” I opted to speak the language Drew knew best—Whedon-esque.
“I was kind of hoping for a burger.”
“Your body’s a temple, Drew.”
“I’m sorry, Grog, my stomach wants what it wants.”
“Fine.” I stopped and point
ed back across the street. “There’s a burger joint over there. Head on over, get your carnivore on, and then, when you’re done, join me as I refuel the Temple d’Grog.”
Drew took one step toward the burger joint and returned his attention toward me, the look on his face one of defeat.
I danced in place. “I knew you couldn’t go on without me.”
“You have weaved a magic spell over the world, Grog. We are little more than your servants.” Drew bowed as he pulled the door to the Taj Palace open. “After you, my Queen.”
As I crossed the threshold of the building, I felt something tugging gently at my spirit. At first I chalked it up to a challenging, less-than-ideal recording session and the desire for perfection. No matter how much I wanted to write it off as a cut-and-dry anomaly, there was much more to the pull back toward the studio. Everything currently going on in my life was, without question, directly linked to the death of Al. I could not, even remotely, escape that tragedy and, I would imagine, would not be able to turn my back on that loss for some time. Even so, the death of our dear friend couldn’t explain this particular moment.
A thread of doubt wove its way into the fabric of my being. I wanted so badly to chalk that up to remnants of The Dark Seduction, filaments of oily blackness clinging to my spirit, desperate to have me return to its insidious domain.
Fuck that soul-sucking dimension.
Thanks to an artistic bent, my emotions had always been a bit on the raw side. Having lost someone so dear had done nothing to ease that edge. Our music fed off that pain—not that either Drew or I would ever capitalize on such a tragedy; but life had a tendency to imitate art. I wasn’t one to fight the natural order of things.
“Earth to Grog,” Drew waved his hand in front of my face. “Would the Queen have her subject order for her?”
Standing near the table, a gloriously appointed server stood, rocking a traditional Indian sari like nobody’s business. I folded up my menu and ordered my usual, “Vegetable dhansak, medium spice.”