The Singer(Daryl Delancey) Singer


Sweat burned his eyes, as he blindly strode off stage. His arms burned, it is more work than you would think smashing a guitar to miniscule pieces.
He entered backstage alone, as usual, allowing his bandmates to exit the stage first.
Thoughts swirled in his mind. The first thought was, per normal, the need of a fix. He would certainly get his fix when he arrived in his private dressing room. Everyone knew to leave him alone after a show. He would go to his dressing room, alone, sometimes for a couple of hours. He did not even allow his overly controlling, bitch wife to be there.
His second thought, the complete and utter disgust he felt toward the crowd. All he could think was what peons they were. Unimaginative, unoriginal, f***ing boils on the ass of society. Being such an introvert and misanthropic, his thoughts swayed this way, near one hundred percent of the time. There were only a handful of people, if that, in which he deemed worthy of existence.
He certainly did not see his f***ing loser, no brained wife as worthy. If it was not for the fact that she would turn his life into a complete living hell, even more so than usual, he would have parted ways years ago.
The f***ing people though, what leeches. They constantly fed from his energy, his mind, his creations. They lacked any ability to create from their own mind. Weak, had to live through other's visions. They all looked the part, concert shirts, piercings, f***ing poser ass tattoos. He has suffered for years in the trenches, paid his dues, he looks and acts like he does for a reason. Many reasons. All those fake, transparent f***ers. Most would go home to their shitty American dream, pick up their kids from f***ing Grandma's in the morning, and go about their mundane and shit existences again tomorrow. Pathetic.

He trudged through the hallway that led to his dressing room. As usual, disgusted by the people telling him how f***ing great he was, how f***ing great he sounded, how f***ing awesome the performance was. F***ing scum. F**k all of them. He wanted nothing to do with this bullshit.
He was going to meet his only true friend, the only companion that never let him down, not once. Heroin. His only real escape.
Like always, his needle kit sat on a countertop, right in front of his chair, which he brought with him at every stop on the tours. His roadies knew him, knew exactly what he wanted.
He pulled a small plastic baggie from his backpack, which also awaited him. He did not trust anyone to cook up his shit, or even hold onto it for that matter. He cooked his own shit, he procured his own shit as well. He had so much money now that he actually paid his dealer to tour with the band. He trusted almost no one. His dealer though, was one of the small handful in which he did.
He opened the kit and removed his syringe and spoon. After cooking up his concoction and loading the syringe, he tied off and shot it in.
The familiar warmth traveled up his arm, and filled his head with warm solace. He could feel the pain of life begin to easily slip away, instantly.
. . . . .

After the nectar sets in, thinking is the second drug of choice. He lit a cigarette and began to ponder the evening's events.
He thought how he writes these shitty, near meaningless, three chord songs, and idiots around the world eat it up. Throw in some words that hint at pondering the meaning of life, and how everything sucks, and these mindless robots buy it. Millions of copies of it to boot.
Money equals freedom, he liked freedom. He didn’t give two sweet shits about money, or material possessions. He bought the majority of his clothes from thrift stores for f**k's sake. His simple minded, low life wife took care of the material addictions. He couldn't remember the last time he bought something for himself, meaning an extravagant item. Sure, he had to buy guitars, but only the cheap shit things which he smashed at shows. His good axes came free from the company that he endorsed.
His house was a f***ing monstrosity, again, the f***ing douche bag bought that, he didn't have much of a choice. Before her, he still lived in a shitty apartment in the middle of f***ing nowhere, even with numerous millions at his disposal. He f***ing hated that house, hated it with such a burning passion.
F**k her, f**k that bitch. He needed her to just go away. Wait a f***ing second, aren't there people that do that shit for a living? F***ing mob or something.
His f***ing dealer would know that shit. He could trust him to keep shit like that quiet. F**k, he hated the bitch almost as much as himself. If she disappeared, life would certainly improve. He thought that if he goes on f***ing t.v. and the radio, shed a few tears, boo f***ing hoo, woes me bullshit. Yeah, who would question him? He would have the support of millions of simpletons. F**k, the cops would probably fanboy him.
He picked up his phone, texted his dealer to meet him, and just sat back and smiled.
. . . . .

Everything was set, it was going to happen. She was going to die. He would finally be rid of her, finally be rid of the evil.
The day started similar to any other. He awoke in his hotel room, grabbed his phone. No messages. What the f**k, why no message?
Really? Could this bitch even haunt him in death. It should have been done, hours ago. He had overslept, too much f***ing juice last night. Why the f**k had he not gotten a message, a call, anything?
He started to type a message, but stopped. What if they check phone records, or she isn't dead yet, and somehow sees what he says. What if something went wrong? Nah, f**k it, he would wait, no need to jump the gun.
He walked out to the deck, lit a cigarette, and held his phone close, just in case. F**k, this was far more nerve racking than he had ever suspected. Prick better have done it, he prepaid him for f**k's sake. It isn't easy to get a million bucks with no paper trail, he had to work for it.
He sat on the white plastic chair and looked out over the parking lot. He only had three hours before he had to get to the airport, this needed to be over with before he got home. His stomach was in knots, he needed a fix, needed it bad. He promised that he would not shoot up until after he had gotten home, and everything settled down.
It was eating at his entire being like a hungry pack of lions on a fresh kill. He needed some juice. Needed it now.

The plane ride was a short one, but seemed an eternity of nerve ridden stress. About one hour before landing, he began to break out into cold sweats, shaking, rocking back and forth. Goddam, he needed a fix. It was beginning to hurt, but he promised himself, he would hold off.
But, was it better to be in this condition, or calm? Perhaps he could not concentrate and say the right things while jonesing. Maybe they would mistake it for stress and sadness. Maybe they would take it for just what it was, a f***ing junkie needing a fix. F**k, maybe he should shoot. F**k, this was a shit ton harder than he had ever imagined.
He glared at his bag by his side. It housed what he needed. Just a quick trip to the bathroom, that's all it would take. F**k, f**k, f**k. He had to, there was no choice. He would f**k it up in this condition, he just knew it.
F**k, f**k, f**k.
He rocked more steadily now. He chewed his non- existent fingernails. His stomach knotted, clenched with such force, he was starting to believe that it was going to explode.
F**k, f**k, f**k.
The shaking was starting to become near unbearable. The sweat was now pouring down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He was going to scream. He had to do it, he had to stop this.
F**k, f**k, f**k.
He was now starting to convince himself that he had to do it. He had completely given up on trying to convince himself not to.
F**k, f**k, f**k.
He grabbed his bag, clutched it. He was halfway out of the seat. He was fighting, with all his will, not to get up and run to the bathroom. He began to cry, it was so overwhelming. His phone beeped with a message. Suddenly, all the feelings went away as his stomach dropped, and heart began to race. His face felt a sudden heat. With sweaty palms, he turned the phone's screen on.
The message was from his dealer. He opened it, one simple word.
"Done."
He stared for a moment. He typed back his reply.
"Think it's okay to juice?"
A few moments went by, a message came back.
"I knew that you would be in need. I put a special packet in the pocket with the oddball plastic button. It will take off the edge, but won't completely drain you. Let's both delete all these messages, and we will handle this when you get here. Everything is secure for now."
He deleted the thread of messages, careful not to delete the older ones, as he did not want any suspicions. He opened the pocket, and saw the small, one hit baggie. He knew that he could always count on his dealer, an actual true friend. That is why he left everything in his estate to him, in the event that both him and his wife passed.
True friendship, no questions asked.

Feeling relieved, in more ways than one, he strolled to the bathroom. Thankfully, first class bathrooms were nice and spacious. He sat on the toilet, removed the baggie, and his needle kit. He cooked up the beautiful, sweet nectar. It sizzled on the spoon, releasing a small wisp of smoke. He drew it into the syringe. He tied off, inserted, and squeezed the plunger down.
Almost instantly, he knew something was not right. His arm burned and stung like a flame being held to it. He dropped the needle and clutched his arm. The pain began to spread throughout his body like slow moving lava. He crumpled to his knees. It was becoming torturous, sweat poured. His head began to pound, far more intensely than even the worst of migraines.
His vision began to blur. Hot liquid cascaded down his lip and to his chin, it was blood pouring from his nose. The burning, searing pain gripped his entire being like a vice. He tried to scream, but his throat had closed, almost shut. He lurched and writhed. Foam began to accumulate around his mouth. He looked at the light in the ceiling, one last vision before the darkness.
The voice which had touched countless beings had been silenced, forever.

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