dead memories.

8. scissors

Joey's POV

I  got shit for sleep last night.

I won't pretend that's a rare occurrence, but it was bad. I even popped some sleeping pills to help lull me, but I'm pretty sure they just cursed my dreams instead.

There was one dream that stood out the most to me.

It was of Corey, like some weird fever dream. I can't exactly remember all of it, but it was in a pitch black room, and we were making out. Like really going at it. His hands were on my neck. Mine were sliding up his abdomen. All of a sudden, his fingers started to dig inside of my throat, tearing through skin. I could feel his fingers gripping my veins and tendons. I tried screaming, yet nothing came out but a gasp. Finally, when he started pulling, hips still pressed against mine, I shot awake.

Whenever I clothes my eyes, the very end of the dream replays over and over. And over. It felt—no, it feels so real. My body remembers the sensations. All of them.

I hope to forget.

-

I walk into the garage, drumsticks in hand and a song scribbled onto a piece of paper that I've been working on for the past month, periodically.

I feel myself tense up once Corey's eyes dart to me. I take the 2 seconds he's locked on me to try and decode what he's feeling. He looks almost nervous, with a mix of je ne sais quoi. Most importantly, he definitely remembers what happened. And so do I. That's one thing we have in common.

I look away, avoiding any other glances. There has to be a way I can get through this without confronting him.

I make way to my drum kit, setting my shit down. I look down at the piece of paper. If I really want this on the album, I must speak to Corey. And the rest of the guys...but Corey's the one singing (or screaming) after all.

Maybe I can get one of the guys to do it?

I walk over to Jim, sheet in hand, "Hey."

"Wh's up?" He asks, looking up from his guitar.

"Could you possibly talk to Corey about this?" I wave the sheet in front of him and he just stares at me.

"What's that?"

"An uh, a song."

"Did you write it?"

I nod.

"Why can't you talk to him about it yourself?"

"Jesus fucking Christ Jim, okay!"

I storm off over to Corey, now affording the gaze of everyone in the room. I may as well just rip of the bandaid now and then cower.

"H..hey." I stutter, like a fucking idiot. Stupid. Fucking. Idiot.

"Hi?" His demeanor appears cold. It's like he's confused I'm talking to him. I'm his bandmate! Sure, maybe I did leave him with blue balls, drunk, at a party, but first and foremost I am his bandmate, speaking to him about band matters. Right?

"So uh, I have this song that I've been working on." I inch over to his side and hand him it. He reluctantly takes it from me, eyes moving right to left and up and down.

"Heartache and a pair of scissors?" He questions. I nod my head yes. I brace myself for an insult.

"How about we just shorten down to scissors?"

"Sure, yeah, that works." A little relieved, I let out a breath. That means he likes it, right? He likes what I wrote?

He takes a pen from the desk next to him, and scribbles over "Heartache and a Pair Of".

"It's a little rough but we can work on it this week." Corey gives me the fakest smile I've ever seen.

"Okay."

Corey sets it down and wanders over to Mick.

How is he so cool and collected? I didn't see a single distinct emotion on his face. It's like he doesn't care.

About last night.