I scathe this morbid population amongst our buoyant society and slowly come to conclude that perhaps every second I've spent observing to soothe my self-centred curiosity, it is apparent that I am in fact number one contender for the world's biggest atrocity.
—
The lights in this club bathroom are flickering above me like an exuberant strobe light, only that they are not such inventions. I hurl excessively, the alcohol and drugs I took creating an intense high in the process. I don't know what it is about throwing up that brings relief. But the rush is enough to make me fall into the wall of the stall I stand in making a complete fool of myself.
Yells can be heard but I ignore them. I have to be on stage in two minutes. A few people cannot pour water over a fire that does not exist in my spirit.
True misery can happen overnight.
It wasn't the mescaline. I swear. I know what I saw and it was a fucking zombie in streets of Philadelphia. My band has thrown me out for my psychotic break. Does not help my argument here in that I threw my mic at the audience, paranoia pumping through my veins in fear the fan would follow us home. So I'm PMSing. I want nothing more than to strip off this gown, put my clothes back on, get on a plane and go back home.
But the doctor says I need a family member to sign me out as I'm under "no condition to be alone". I'm not suicidal. Fuck their rules.
—
One Week Later
My brother, Adam, is sick of me living in his house. He is the prolific one of us both. Being a philanthropist and proud megacorporation CEO, he doesn't often speak to me. We just don't exist on the same wavelength.
Which makes me surprised he even answered my call from the hospital. Shit. I haven't heard from the band.
I flip open my cell and call Ben, our drummer. I hear music in the background when he picks up the phone on the third ring.
The music stops after I hear a "Hold on, it's Amy."
I wait. An awkward silence with inaudible words can be heard. As if I'm listening, they keep their voices down. What the hell?
I hear the phone be passed to someone else and I cringe at the wrestling sound.
"How are you doing?" Jim, our lead guitarist asks me.
"Are you auditioning new singers already? I'm doing better now." I say sternly, not too many seconds after my voice breaks into an emotional tone. "It was just too much… drinking."
I hear a sigh.
"Amy, when you got sick, it was, like, you blew us off." Jim explains to me as though I have no idea what an inconvenience I caused. "The band is taking off. We can't have issues come up in the middle of our shows. So what, you saw an addict who looked like a zombie."
I freeze.
Suddenly I am cursing. I am not even aware of what I'm saying. Something decrepit comes over me, a need to cut them in return. I absolutely hate them all. How could they?
The phone line goes dead.
So they've let me go. For real. Jerks. Cumlords. Fucking degenerates. I founded this band in senior year. If it wasn't for my idea of forming it, Wes wouldn't be sober, Jim wouldn't get laid, and Ben? God, Ben would still be a social phobia case playing video games in his parents' basement.
So these were my friends. Talk is so cheap when it comes down to whether or not you're needed anymore. That is discrimination at its finest. Fuck them all.
I sit in the boujee restaurant booth, watching the fish in the aquarium swim around each other. Adam orders our food. The ambience of this place reminds me of a hotel Jim insisted we didn't stay at to save money.
"Can you even pursue legal action for shit like this?"
"Don't know why you'd want to." He replies. "They're bums who are barely making it."
I burst out laughing, and many heads turn to see who the obnoxious woman is. An underdressed rising star. Too funny.
"I was the act." I say.
"Well, now you can sleep at night knowing you aren't with those clowns anymore. Who writes the lyrics?"
"Ben."
"The drummer?"
"Yes." I answer. "It's like Strawberry Fields except he is literally 'forever' writing." I giggle.
Adam averts his eyes to the fish tank before looking back at me. "Why did they kick you out?"
I look down.
"You won't believe a word I say."
"Try me."
I heave a sigh before answering.
"I think zombies are coming…" my voice produces itself in a mumble. My eyes can't meet his as I admit this.
"You what?" He laughs. Because it's so funny, right? "I thought it was the drugs. At least, that's what the doctor called it. Drug-induced psychosis."
Now people are looking.
I raise my voice.
"If I knew what that fucking thing was, I wouldn't have been so afraid. Since when do I fear for humanity, Adam?" I am yelling at this point, flinging my wrists to the side. "They're coming, whether you wanna believe it or not. And they aren't fucking aliens that just avoid us!"
As Adam drives us home, he says nothing aside from, "You really have a talent for getting kicked out of places."