“If I tell you what I know, you have to understand that if Hayden finds out, I'll loose her trust. I won't get another fucking word out of her.” I watch as Naomi leans forward and presses her forehead to the window, breathing smoke against the glass. The gray tendrils swirl out between her lips and tease the stray strands of hair that slither over her shoulder. She looks resigned, but to what, I'm not sure.
“Dax,” she begins and my heart skips a beat in my chest. This girl is tough as nails, and she doesn't take shit from anyone. The respect I have for her has bloomed into this monster that's taken up residence inside of me, made me fall hard for a girl I'll never get. I've always had this niggling feeling inside of me, this dark voice that told me things never really change. Naomi's out of my league, always has been, always will be. I thought that when I left home that I could change my future, but I guess we're all just tied up in the hands of the Fates. Maybe this is my punishment for killing my mother? Most people come into the world innocent, but I was born bathed in blood, drenched in my father's hate, and thrust into a life I've never felt comfortable living. Born to Bleed. That's me, baby.
“Yeah?” I ask, because I just know that whatever Naomi's going to say is going to bad. Just like it was before the show. Why kick me in the nuts just once? After all, we have those interviews to look forward to tomorrow. Might as well make sure I have some good emo bullshit to spew. I squeeze my fingers in the bedspread and fight the urge to get up and grab Naomi by the hips, push her over and fuck the shit out of her. That's what Turner does, right? Takes what he wants?
“If we don't all start being honest with one another, we're going to get picked apart by the crows.” She turns around suddenly, her orange-brown eyes gleaming with a sheen of brightness. The muscles in her arms are tight, like she's gripping onto the windowsill for dear life, holding onto it like a raft while she drifts at sea. I stand. Don't know why I do, but I just feel like something's coming. I might as well be prepared for it. As I do, I go through all of my secrets, my dirty laundry, and I try not to be sick. If this guy, this psychopath, really has it out for us all, all he needs to do is dig deep and bury me up to the neck in it. Once the tide comes in, I'm a goner. Naomi takes a deep breath, lets her lashes flutter against her cheeks and then locks eyes with me. “Dax, you know how my foster parents were murdered, right?” I nod. I've heard the story; we've all heard the story. Nobody knows for sure yet, but the bets are on for whether it was Naomi's foster brother, Eric, or his sister, Katie. I guess I should've played the paint by numbers game, should've figured out the truth on my own, but we all know how that can be. Sometimes, the truth stares you straight in the face, other times, it just slaps the shit out of you. Every now and again, we could all use a hard whack up side the head. “Dax,” Naomi says, making my skin flush hot when she says my name. “Dax, it was me.”
I plug my headphones into my portable kit, and slam out my anger in beats and rhythms. Naomi. I don't know what to say to her, so I haven't said anything. What am I supposed to do with that? She fucking stabbed her foster parents with scissors. Not exactly the sort of thing you just take in and roll with. I twirl my sticks around and grip them so hard, the wood feels like jelly beneath my fingertips. I want to break them in half and go scream at her. But I can't. I can't because it'd be for all the wrong reasons. I don't blame Naomi for what she did. In fact, I applaud her efforts. She made the world a better place. Hang rapists and pedophiles, right? But what I can't handle is the fact that Turner knows. Turner knows and has for awhile she says. Great. Just fucking great.
I tap my foot on the pedal and close my eyes, letting myself get wrapped up in the world of my headphones, trapped in soul crushing paradise. Right, right, right, left, left, left. My bass drum destroys my ears and eats my heart, bleeding me out beneath its mighty feet. In the scope of such majesty, I'm a fucking pawn. I flip the sticks in the air and catch them, hitting it harder, doing what I do at every show and working my ass off to take it back. It's not easy to make music your bitch, but I try. Every fucking day, I work to get out from underneath the pulsing beat of its heart, emerge from the darkness of its rage, and fight my way to the front. I don't want it to own me. I want to be judge, jury, and executioner. A band can only have one star, but she can only shine if I'm black as pitch.
One of my sticks snaps right in half, and I toss it aside, pulling another from my pocket and not caring that sweat is bleeding down my face, drenching me, dripping down my eyelashes and the tip of my nose. The sweatbands around my wrist catch most of the moisture from my arms. As long as I can keep on playing, the rest just falls away. Always falls away.