My Love, My Drug, My Release

Paul's Perspective

So, I'm obsessed with looking at the number of views and the analytics of my stories, and I love how the one smutty chapter I've written so far has dramatically more views than the ones around it. I'm glad that you guys liked it enough to reread it! Sarah Silverman always says that she's the show, but her audience is also her show, and it's so true; it makes my day to see your comments and messages! 

Alright, here's the next chapter!!

When I woke up that morning, I felt strangely happy. I thought it was because I'd had a happy dream, which I did. It was a reoccurring one, Ritchie inviting me over, and we start jamming, and then George and John show up, and we decide to get back together. But usually, it left me sad, or angry, and always with a sour taste in my mouth, but I didn't have any of that. I was just content.

I passed Linda rocking Mary, bouncing her little body in her arms, and didn't have any questions, any doubts. Usually seeing them only stood to remind me of what I'd given up for their sake, but now, it all made perfect sense.

After showering, I went to the kitchen, and my hand didn't automatically reach for a bottle of something. Instead, I ate a yogurt, a fucking yogurt! I could hardly remember the last time I'd willingly ate something substantial. It'd been nothing but snacks and booze for months. Everything was like a dream, but better, because I knew it was real.

And then I saw her.

She passed me in her school uniform, smelling like she'd dumped a whole bottle of perfume on herself, face scrubbed clean of any makeup. My first thought was that she was fifteen now. I wanted to ask her how it felt to be a year older. But then she saw me, looked into my eyes, and I saw something I thought was fear, and then I recognized what it actually was: shame.

Now, hours later, high on the couch, I still couldn't shake that image out of my head. Even though I was as numb as I could manage to be with what was in the house, the feeling of self-hatred still lingered. I couldn't help but wonder if Jane felt that way about me, Maggie, Francie, Dot, if they all looked back on me the way Lorraine must, with regret and embarrassment. I stubbed out my half-finished joint, realizing the grass was exacerbating my ruminations instead fixing them like I'd intended. Substances weren't going to help me now. I needed a different diversion.

I jogged up the stairs, hoping I'd catch Linda in the mood. When I go to our room, she was breastfeeding Mary. Even though the baby was old enough to eat, she still fed her like this occasionally, a few times a week or so. The way they sat there in the morning light almost brought a tear to my eye.

When Linda noticed me in the room, she was blank-faced for a moment, and then her eyebrows pulled together in frustration. "Are you seriously high already, Paul? You know, in a few years, she's gonna be old enough to remember what you do. Is this really what you want Mary to know about you?" She huffed and went into the master bath.

Well, that wasn't going to work. Sleeping with Linda a few hours after I'd had her step-daughter would've been a little crass.

In my wanderings around the house, I ended up in the music room, or the green room, as it became known after Jack and Lo moved in. I remember the way that boy's face lit up when I offered to show him what we had done of the white album. Lo had seen through me, even then. She knew everything she needed to know about me from our very first interaction at the Pepper release party. I could talk to her, actually talk, about life and art and truth. 

Of course, I hadn't loved her then, she was only a child. Then again, she was still a child.

Maybe my problem was that I was trying to forget her and my feelings, when I should've been letting myself feel them. The only way out was through, or whatever that bullshit saying was. 

I leaned down and picked up a guitar. My guitar. An acoustic instrument I'd gotten a few years ago. What had it been, 1966? It was crazy to think less than half a decade ago, I was essentially a boy in a rock and roll group not knowing what the fuck I was doing. It was gone so quick I hadn't even had the chance to appreciate it. Most of the time, I was bitter I couldn't leave the hotel or go a day without being photographed. 

So I played, just let my fingers dance along the strings. But it was a waltz I didn't recognize, the steps unfamiliar. I tried to think of Linda, of how she made me feel, that was how I'd written some of my best songs when I'd been with Jane, but nothing flowed. And, almost accidentally, I thought of Lo last night, beneath me. Then, all of a sudden it flowed, and it was beautiful, sensual, but horrifying at the same time. 

I shoved the guitar away from me, putting my face in my hands. Okay, so that was a bust. I couldn't write songs about Lo. But I had learned one thing: I want to get back into music again.

Hey guys, hope you liked this chapter. It's a little short, the last few have been too, and I think it's partially due to pacing and use of flashbacks, but I've been trying to update frequently, so I hope that makes up for it. Thanks for reading!