Dre's Issues

Darkside/Gone

(Dre's POV)

They were in his home studio doing their usual of getting drunk, making crazy ass beats, and enjoying themselves. Nicole and the kids had gone to Seattle to see her family so he had the house to himself and the freedom to invite whoever to record as he pleased. Marshall was supposed to fly in that night to stay with him but his flight got cancelled. He had left a key under the mat for him incase he flew in before he woke up. He had been having a real good time early on in the night. He always seemed to find himself surrounded by people yet completely alone.  It always seemed to happen. He's fine one minute, then the next... the last thing he wanted to do was be there. His anxiety had been messing with him all day. Now this? The hours seemed to drag on and on. He was so tired. It's not like he couldn't handle being up that late, it was a different kind of tired. He was mentally exhausted by the time their session ended. He was relieved when everyone went home and he could just listen to what they recorded by himself. He sat back and listened to one of the many tracks that had been made that day.

'This sucks.'

So much was wrong with it. He didn't like the tempo. He didn't like the snare. His voice sounded stupid. He hated the way his voice sounded in a recording. He trashed that song and went onto the next.

'Hate it'

He continued this pattern until he could hear the voices of his peers and record execs in his head: "See Dre, this shit right here is why Detox hasn't been released." "Dre can you please just pick a fucking song you actually like?" "At this point it'd be easier for you to retire."

These voices kept taunting him until his own thoughts drowned out the noise.

'This is all fucking terrible. No one's going to buy this shit. No one likes this shit. You know why? Because you're irrelevant. You suck at what you do. And you're irrelevant.'

He sat there with his fists clenched and his jaw locked. He wanted to hit something so bad. He got up and paced the room quickly back and forth, biting the inside of his cheek. He slammed himself down so that he was sitting on the floor. He dug his nails into his upper arm until it felt like he was going to break skin. He couldn't do that. He couldn't leave marks. He decided to pull himself up and try to just go to bed. He walked upstairs into his living room and found himself alone. It was quiet. It haunted him. He felt his stomach growling. He had forgotten to eat earlier in the day.

'You don't deserve to eat. You didn't earn it. Besides, you could afford to lose a few pounds anyways. You don't want to go back to looking like you did in 2004 do you?'

He felt his chest start to get heavy and his eyes start to water. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and made his way upstairs to his bedroom. He shut the door behind him. He walked over to his full length mirror and just stared at the ghost looking back at him. He could feel himself dissociate. He started to strip off his clothes layer by layer in an attempt to feel something. Maybe the cold air against his skin? He found himself standing in front of his shower, so he turned the knob and got in. He didn't have the energy to actually wash himself so he sat on the floor of his shower as the steaming hot water fell over him. He didn't know how long he'd been in there but by the time he got out his skin was red from the heat. He slipped on his boxers and stood looking at himself in the mirror before he got a terrible idea. He went into his bedside drawer and found a pocket knife. He flipped it open and stared from the blade back to his reflection. He sat on the bed and pulled the left side of his boxers up so that it was exposing his upper thigh. It's not like he and Nicole had sex very often anymore. So it's not like anyone would see him without boxers any time soon. He took a sharp breath as he slid the blade across his thigh. He watched as dots of blood started to form in a small thin line. He did it again. And again. And again.