SHARING IS CARING

LEVI

“Levi, would you like to share with us today?”

I let out a heavy sigh and swing my gaze from Ted’s ugly-arse shoes up the length of his chubby body clad in a cheap knockoff Adidas tracksuit, to his ruddy face. Which just so happens to be uglier than his shoes. “Not really.”

“You know to make it through this program you have to share your feelings, your downfalls, and your victories.”

“Well, since you twisted my arm, let see. Victories: multibillion dollar platinum albums, playing to sell-out tours the world over, and a sex tape that went viral. Oh, and I have my own line of dildos.” I wink at Cherry, the skinny blonde who makes crackhead chic look like an occupation. When I agreed to do rehab—or more when the government and my label mandated it because I tried to off myself in a bathtub full of pills—this is not what I had in mind. I’d been hoping for one of those celebrity joints where you hang out with fellow rock stars and actors who don’t really have a need to be there except to get some much-needed R and R. Fuck me, was I wrong! Instead, I was spirited away to some shitty retreat in Sydney’s blue mountains. The view was nice, the food was disgusting, the people were annoying, and the drugs and liquor were nowhere in fucking sight, and I wanted to kill someone.

Ali, Coop, Zed, and Deb showed up every Sunday, just like families did. I refused to see them. I wasn’t ready for another arse-rimming, and I sure as fuck wasn’t ready to talk about Ash, or what we were going to do about his replacement. The truth is we can’t replace Ash. Just thinking about it is a fucking insult.

“Levi, you know we don’t allow discussions about sex or sexual paraphernalia.”

“Paraphernalia? It’s a dildo, Ted, not an alien probe.”

“At any rate, if we could keep the discussion to—”

“Boring-as-fuck topics? Or would you like me to share the time that I fucked up my life on a colossal scale and killed myself less than a week after my best friend died of AIDS? And my girlfriend—who’s hot, by the way, so fucking hot—and French, did I mention that? Well, she weighs about as much as my twelve-inch cock, and had to fish me out of the tub, and left for Paris before I even woke up in the hospital. I haven’t had a line of coke or a sip of whisky in two fucking months. Oh, and on top of that, I was brain-dead just long enough to lose all sensation in my right hand, so there goes my ability to masturbate which is the only thing this place has going for it, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to play the guitar again like I used to. How’s that for sharing, Ted?”

“Okay, why don’t we take a deep breath and start at the beginning?”

“Why don’t you lick my nutsack?” I stand and kick back my chair, because you can’t be a rock star and not be a complete fucking diva once in a while, especially in a place like this.

“Levi.”

“Fuck off, Ted.” I storm out of the room to a chorus of protests from the other group members. Fuck that shit. Fuck this place.

I head toward the exit, past a beautiful busty woman old enough to be my grandma. “Shouldn’t you be in group right now?”

“Group this,” I say and shoot her the bird.

She just shakes her head as I push out into the courtyard, which is really just a sun-drenched deck overlooking a huge mountain slope. You could gain some fucking speed falling down this cliff face, assuming you could climb up and over the safety barrier without being seen first. It’s like a fucking cage. Isn’t that just the perfect metaphor for my life. I need a fucking cigarette. But they don’t let us have those here either. It’s bullshit. How the hell are you supposed to get better without the use of drugs, nicotine, and alcohol? These are a few of my favourite things. Along with sex, angry French girls, and now the sound of a lone goddam cello.

I miss her like a fucking mental patient, but it’s not as if I can do anything about it from in here. I was hurt, pissed that she didn’t even wait around to see if I croaked it, but the way Ali tells it, she’d been destroyed when I’d tried to kill myself, so I couldn’t blame her for walking. Not really. I wanted to believe she was so in love with me that she’d stay, she’d put up with that bullshit because she loved me, but I understood why she’d walked. Only I was idiot enough to push away a woman like that, because I knew I didn’t deserve any better.

And there it is. The reason I fall in love with women who only love me conditionally. Because I wasn’t worthy of the kind of love the world lays down for. I wasn’t Cooper Ryan. I wasn’t Ash Cohen. I wasn’t even good enough to be Ash’s damn shadow.

Fuck you for dying, brother.

Fuck feelings.

Fuck two months sober.

Fuck rehab.

And fuck getting out of here because I have no idea how to be out there now, without my best friend, without the woman I love, and without the drink as a buffer between me and the rest of the world. I have no fucking clue, but I’ll soon be forced to find out anyway.