Jag (Pandemic Sorrow #1)

by Stevie J. Cole

  The corner of Russell’s lips curled up and he grabbed my shoulder, his long fingers shaking over it. “And that’s okay. Addiction’s like a seductive little beast that’ll tempt you, call out to you when you’re down, make filthy promises to you just like a harlot would, but you turn back to her and it won’t do you a bit of good. It’ll just smother your light, dampen your soul with regret. Just don’t give into it. It’s that simple and that damn hard all at the same time. You feel out of control, but you can control your fucking destiny. Let life come through you, let it be effervescent. Be okay with saying you’re a recovering addict, because that’s what you’ll be. Always recovering, people like you and me. It’s one day at a time, but life’s a beautiful thing. You’ll see.”

  He looked me over, I think trying to figure out if any of what the hell he’d just said to me had sunk in yet. Then he nodded. “Transfer all that fucking energy to something else. Regardless of what any other fucking wanker says, it takes an ungodly amount of energy to be an addict, what with all the finding the drugs, taking the drugs, staying high, then finding more drugs – just put all that effort into something good. Find meaning. Find your meaning, mate.”

  I sat there for two and a half hours talking with Russell. And for the first time, I felt like someone understood me, knew where I was coming from. He didn’t judge me, or give me condescending looks. He didn’t treat me like a damn criminal, or roll his eyes when I bitched about life not being how I’d imagined. I’d never thought of it the way he so eloquently explained, and I felt like I didn’t have to fail. Looking at something one day at a time, taking sobriety one damn day at a time, I could do that. I knew he wasn’t just blowing smoke out of his ass; he had been where I was, and he was where I needed to be if I wanted my life back. It’s ironic that a hundred people can talk to you, and it really does nothing besides piss you the hell off. But then one person, one person, can fucking make the difference. They can shove an epiphany – or, better yet, ram the damn thing – down your throat and make you digest it all in a way no one else ever has.

  Chapter 42

  Two weeks later, I was released with another paper certificate of my sobriety in hand. Still broken, still diseased, but sober.

  James had said he would send Jules to pick me up, so I almost turned and ran when Stone pulled up in the round about instead. I gritted my teeth and pulled in a sharp breath. I was still getting used to actually feeling, to experiencing all these damn sensations I’d long forgotten about. They were ugly and hostile, and they were overtaking my mind. I needed drugs!

  Stone smiled nervously as he rolled to a stop. I glanced over the shimmering silver paint of his Audi. I hated that car. It was a bitch car, and turns out maybe there was a reason he’d bought it.

  The trunk popped open and I dropped my bag inside it, then slammed it closed so hard the car bounced. Yanking the door open, I slung myself inside. I shut the door and Stone pulled off. We drove for about fifteen minutes before he reached over and twisted the silver knob to the volume.

  “Jag, I had no idea. I swear to you. I have no recollection of sleeping with her.”

  I kept my sight focused straight ahead, glaring over the barren Californian desert as my blood simmered inside my veins. I licked over my dry lips to prepare myself to speak, but instead I just released a long breath. “Seriously.”

  From the corner of my eye I watched Stone lean his head down, trying to draw my attention to him, but I refused. I saw the motion of his hand flying up into the air.

  “Jag. Jag?”

  Finally, I looked at the bastard. I could feel my nostrils flaring as the heat traveled over every last inch of my flesh. I didn’t say a word. I just glared at him. Angry in a way I hadn’t been able to feel in a long time. In my mind, he was a fucking traitor.

  Stone shook his head, glancing back at the road briefly before shifting his gaze back to me. “I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry as hell. But I swear on my life, I don’t remember it.”

  “You know…” I stopped, trying to think of how to talk to him. “You’re my damn brother. You have been – were – the only person besides Mom that was a constant, that I could trust,” I shook my head violently, “and you fucked me over. On so many levels you can’t even understand. That lie, the fact that I believed the kid was mine, cost me everything. Every-fucking-thing! Do you hear me, you sick fucker?” I shouted. I pulled in a cleansing breath and tried my best to continue.

  “That was the last straw to my sanity and the tailspin that cost me Roxy and a kid that’s actually mine – it cost me my damn future! My fucking life! That lie, your fucking inability to be a fucking decent fucking person, cost me my entire goddamn, miserable fucking life. A life that could have saved me, that could have made me fucking happy. Legitimately happy. You may have well just fucked Roxy too. It’s no different, because you took her from me with that unbelievable lie!” Huffing and staring down into my lap, I fidgeted with the seatbelt. “You even asked if I’d gotten a DNA test.”

  “I’m telling you, I had no idea. I don’t remember sleeping with her, Jag. I wouldn’t do that to you!”

  “Oh, so I guess the test is wrong?” I snapped.

  Stone shook his head. “I’m not saying that – I don’t know what I’m saying. Look, I tried calling her. She won’t talk to me. She answered the first time and I started yelling at her. Screaming that they wanted me to get tested because the only person that could have DNA so close to yours was me. I kept shouting, ‘I never fucked you! I never touched you!’ And she hung up.”

  The car slowed and Stone turned onto another long, deserted, dust-covered two-lane road.

  “Does she know that I OD’d?” I asked.

  Stone nodded and then cut his eyes over to me. He looked hurt, lost, and ashamed. “Everyone knows you almost died. It was all over every news station, in all the papers. Had the syringe not still been clenched in your fist, the medics may not have immediately stabbed you with some Naloxone. There’s no way you would have made it. Honestly, the doctors were shocked you didn’t have any damage to your organs from the amount of shit you had in you.” He paused, and his entire body relaxed. “You’re my older brother. I’ve always fucking looked up to you. Why in the hell would I do something so sick?”

  Straightening my legs out to reach down in my pocket, I tugged my phone out. I stared at the screen as I typed in her number. As expected, it went to voicemail. My palms were sweating and I cleared my throat and rage constricted my chest. It was nearly impossible for me to control the shaking in my voice.

  “The least you can fucking do, you sadistic fucking bitch, is call me back. I almost died. I wanted to fucking die. And it had nothing to do with you besides your damn lies. You’ve ruined enough of my life, and you owe me a fucking explanation. I have no problem embarrassing the shit out of you.” I hung the phone up.

  I scrolled through my pictures and asked Stone, “So. What did you do about him?”

  He shrugged and pushed his shades over his eyes. “I signed him over.”

  I nodded and reached over to turn the stereo back up. Leaning my head against the leather headrest, misery swallowed me. Self-pity wrapped itself around me like a thick cloak, and all I could think about was getting my hands on something to make that feeling go away. I’d fucked my body up and become dependent on those wonderful feelings drugs allowed me. My body couldn’t create those feelings on their own anymore, and I honestly had no idea how in the hell I could ever win this battle. Just the thought of it was damn near torture.

  Chapter 43

  I walked into my house. The climate was perfect and the décor was pristine. Welcome back to your “life” filled with everything you wanted. Look around, you worthless bastard. You’ve earned this loneliness. You’ve fucking earned it! Making my way through the entrance, I glanced over the cubby with all my awards. I looked to my left and saw cards and gifts piled up on my countertop and floor, spilling over into the living room. All from fans.

  Fuck. I
swiped my hand over my face and collapsed onto the leather couch. I let people down. I stared up at the stark-white ceiling, thinking about what a spectacle I’d made of myself, and then peered over the mound of mail and boxes through the window in the kitchen. The sun was bright, and a light breeze blew through the sharp leaves on the palm tree in my front yard. I just wanted it to be black as shit and storming to match how I felt inside.

  I glanced around the room. The marble that I’d scraped up hadn’t been replaced. And everywhere I looked in that house reminded me of two things: drugs, and the fact that I’d hurt her.

  I made my way into my bedroom, my boots clomping against the floor and echoing through the empty house. Stopping in the doorway, I had to clench onto the frame. My eyes came to rest on the dresser drawer where I’d kept my stash. Just looking at that drawer made my pulse speed up and sent this angry craving crashing throughout my body.

  The papers Stephanie had drawn up, hoping I’d sign over a kid that wasn’t even mine, were still lying on top of the dresser. I stomped over and grabbed them, tearing them to tiny shreds in a fit of rage. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you!” I growled through my clenched jaw.

  My chest was heaving as I watched the pieces of paper float down to the floor. I pulled my phone out and dialed the number of a dealer. My finger hovered over the call button, and my vision blurred behind tears. I swallowed hard, the phone shaking in my hand, and I dropped it on my bed. Don’t fucking do it. For once, don’t do it! Grabbing both sides of my head in my hands, I bent over and yelled. I’d been home less than thirty minutes and was already fighting the urge to shove something up my nose or swallow something down into my stomach. I was sweating, my heart was flopping around in my chest like a caged bird desperate to get the fuck out, and my muscles were tensing up. Looking around the room, all I could see was her. It was like her damn ghost was walking around my room.

  I grabbed the lamp on my bedside table and slung it across the room. I felt a small release as it slammed against the wall. I looked to my right and saw the picture of the band signing with Deviant. I jerked that from the shelf, shouted, “Fucking waste!” and chucked it at the other wall.

  Glass shattered and sprayed out over the room. My eyes locked on that fucking drawer and I ran to it, yanking it from the dresser and smashing it against a wall.

  “Damn loser.”

  I dumped the chest of drawers over and it crashed onto the floor, cracking the marble when it hit.

  “You fucking deserve this. You’re selfish. Weak. A damn joke. You don’t deserve her. You never deserved her.”

  In an effort to manifest this emotional torture into a physical form of pain, I continued around my bedroom, tearing everything to shreds. I knocked anything I could over, punched the walls, ripped the sheets from the bed, swatted expensive artwork from the wall. The entire time I was cursing, screaming to the point that I could have sworn I tasted blood in my throat. My skin was moist with sweat, beads of my anger trailing down my face and neck. With the last bit of strength I had I grabbed my king-sized mattress and flipped it from the frame, kicking it to make it topple over. I fell onto the hard box springs, fighting to catch my breath. My lungs were stinging and my hands were throbbing, blood oozing from each knuckle. This is what regret feels like.

  I finally got up and stumbled to the bathroom through the broken glass, splintered wood, and sheetrock that lay scattered over the floor. Turning the water on, I climbed into my shower and leaned against the cold tile. I didn’t bathe myself. I just stood there, letting the scalding water pour down my body. My flesh burned beneath it and the pain felt good. I tilted my head back and watched the steam billow out over the glass shower. By the time I got out, the spacious bathroom was filled with the white fog. I wrapped a towel around my waist, then stepped up to the vanity and placed my hand on the mirror to wipe a spot clean, and froze. The fog had formed around Roxy’s bubbly writing on the surface of the mirror.

  I think I love you. I know I love you. - Rox

  I closed my eyes. I had no idea when she’d written that. Somehow, I’d never seen it.

  Lowering my head to my chest, I finally let myself cry. I was in hell. In absolute hell.

  Chapter 44

  Later that night, after forcing myself to sleep to cease the tormenting thoughts screaming inside my head, I woke up in a sweat. I made my way out into the kitchen with my entire body aching from the fit I’d thrown earlier. I sat down in front of the pile of mail and boxes and rummaged through them. Deviant had them brought over the day before I came home, hoping it would “lift my spirits.” It truly was amazing. There were letters from all over the world. All of the boxes had been opened by the company, to make sure it wasn’t something harmful, I guess. I picked up a slender, rectangular box and slid the contents out of the torn flap. It was an old-school black and white composition notebook. On the front cover were the handwritten words, “I just need help.” Flipping through the wrinkled pages, I found notes from the author.

  January 4, 2014

  I almost died a week ago. I’m nineteen. I’m too young to be like this. I used to be pretty. But when I look in the mirror now, I have scars from picking at my flesh. Meth does that. It makes me feel like there are bugs digging deep down in my flesh, eating away at me, and I just need to pull them out. I’ve already lost twelve teeth. I ran away when I was eighteen because my parents found out I was doing coke. I lived on the streets. Slept with people for drugs. And found out meth was a lot cheaper and lasted a lot longer. It made me forget. It made me numb. It made me someone else. I just want to be anyone except me. I wish they’d just let me die that night. Life SUCKS!

  Damn. I flipped through a few more pages.

  February 21, 2014

  This sucks! I hate life. I hate that all I can think about is doing it. Everywhere I look, I remember smoking it. And I just need that feeling. I want that choking feeling cascading down my throat and filling my lungs. I need that numbness. I need this pain to go away. I want my thoughts to stop. Just one more time. They say I can have my life back, but what kind of life is this? Just wanting something you can never have. It’s all I can think about. I dream about it. I dream about getting high, and when I wake up to find myself sober, I cry. I was happier when I could ignore all this, when life wasn’t real. I was in love with the fairy tale written by drugs. I’m damaged. I’m fucked up. I’m an addict and always will be. Right now, I’m just a sober addict. I promised my mom I’d straighten up, but I really don’t want to.

  I read through most of the pages, my stomach turning because I understood how this girl felt. Someone I’d never met, and I felt like I had more in common with her than half the people I knew. She was real. On the last page she’d drawn my name at the top in big block letters:

  JAG STEELE: THANK YOU!

  I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but thank you. Your music. You…have been my saving grace. When you went sober, it made me want to try harder. Sounds crazy, I know. But we all have to have a hero. I’ve loved your music since I was thirteen. I met you a year ago, before I fell into meth, and you told me I was pretty. And sometimes, the fact that you had said that to me was the only thing that made me feel like I still had some worth. Jag Steele thought I was pretty at one moment in time. That’s got to count for something, right? Funny the things you hold onto – that one person can say a few words that can change your life, or save it. Don’t think you failed. You didn’t. It’s hard. I know it’s hard. But I still believe in you. Think of all the people you can help. Keep your head up. Just know that you gave me a sense of worth, without even meaning to…You are a real person. Thank you for not hiding. And if you ever feel like you’ve got no worth, just read this book and know that you helped save me. A day at a time. People like us have to live one day at a time.

  ~ Savannah

  I stared at that page, my jaw unhinged; I was utterly stunned. I felt guilty and honored. Guilty because I’d never thought that I could have some kind of positive
effect on someone, and honored because she cared that much about me, about Jagger, to send me something so private. I’d spent my entire fame so self-consumed, so worried with what I thought I’d given up, what I’d lost that I never really thought of the fans. Up until that moment, they had just been one big blob of screaming people – consumers. Sadly, it took that book to make me realize that they were individuals. I remembered how I’d felt about Layne Staley’s music, how those lyrics had helped me through some of the shittiest moments in my life. Music is fucking therapy, and I’d let myself forget that. I’d also forgotten the profound affect Layne Staley’s death had on me. I had never thought about how I could hurt all my fans – much less how I could help them.