Matt had to bang on the door forever to get me out of bed. Sharp pangs of brutal throbbing pain shot through my head and my hand, and as the memories started flooding in, I tried to turn them off. After I’d punched Rocket and fallen on the bottle, Ian had taken me to his room, and called the medic we kept on staff to stitch me up. It hadn’t hurt last night, but it was screaming this morning. Ian had allowed me to leave, after promising to go right to my room. Instead, I’d stumbled to Catherine’s room and then back to my own room when she didn’t answer.

But I didn’t want to remember any of it. I didn’t want to see it all play out in my head over and over. I didn’t want to feel like such a fuckin’ prick, but I just was, for fuck’s sake. If everyone didn’t piss me off so much, maybe I wouldn’t have to lose my shit all the time.

Rage raced through my veins as I showered and dressed. I tried to avoid getting the stitches wet, but it wasn’t easy, which just pissed me off even more. Rage had been my closest companion since Lennon had died and had continued throughout losing Ally and now this huge responsibility of constant touring - sometimes it’s all too much to fuckin’ handle.

And then they push me. Over and over.

But that was no excuse for my fuckin’ violent outbursts. I felt like shit for hitting Rocket. I hadn’t hit an actual person in a long bloody time. Fuck, if I was him, I wouldn’t put up with this shit, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he had bailed on the tour by now. Who could blame him? I have no idea why any of them stay.

Oh, wait. Yes, I do.

The bloody money.

It’s always about the fuckin’ money.

Gotta sell tickets. Gotta keep moving. Gotta sling the merch. Gotta sell the records.

I always thought once we’d gotten this big, I wouldn’t have to worry about the money, that it would just flow in and I’d get to sail the Caribbean in my yacht or something. But it wasn’t like that. Not at all. It was a lot to take, it exhausted you, the constant traveling, and partying and then leaving every physical ounce of energy you have on the stage every night.

For fuck’s sake. I sounded like a pussy, but whatever. That’s just how it was. I sucked it up, I did my best and I was grateful, dammit, but it was hard. The booze just made me lose it now and then.

And now there was Catherine, who probably hated me by now, so I probably didn’t need to worry about it anyway, but I was. When she didn’t answer the door last night, I was stunned. I’d never been turned down by anyone, and my pride was taking a beating.

Maybe that’s just what I bloody needed, though. Every fuckin’ morning I woke up and vowed not to be an asshole that day and every fuckin’ day I managed to break it.

When I finally made my way down to the waiting crowd, I was a little surprised to see everyone there. Including Rocket. Including Catherine.

Even so, it was just as I’d expected.

Stony glares and icy silence. Rocket wouldn’t look my way at all, and I winced when I saw his swollen black eye. Catherine was the only one who would look at me. Her eyes met mine, and she smiled, but it didn’t make me feel any better. She looked at me with fuckin’ pity, and that was the last thing I wanted to see when she was looking at me.

Why had I fucked everything up so much?

“Alright, let’s go,” Ian said, and we all piled into the limo. For the first time, I wished we were in the buses today instead of flying. At least then I wouldn’t have to face their anger. Luckily, traffic was light, and the ride to the airport went quickly.

After boarding the plane, I went right to the back to avoid everyone. It was easier this way. If I didn’t have to talk to anyone, then I couldn’t be a prick.

To my surprise, Catherine followed me and sat down beside me.

“Hey,” she whispered. “How’s the hand?”

“It’s fine” I shrugged.

“Will it interfere with your playing?”

“No, I missed my fingers. I should be fine if I keep it covered.”

“That’s good,” she added.

“Yeah, I guess…” I had no idea what to say to her. I knew what I wanted to say to her. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell her that I really wasn’t such a fuckin’ bullheaded prick. I wanted to ask her to fuckin’ help me escape this hellish existence. But all those words were pointless. She’d still be looking at me with pity in her eyes. She’d still look at me like a fuckin’ puppy dog she felt sorry for. I didn’t want that. I wanted her to look at me like I was a fuckin’ man. The way she had yesterday, and the day before that. Before I’d fucked everything up beyond belief.

“Can we talk? Somewhere more private?” she asked. I knew I’d confused her. I knew I’d hurt her. But I’d pulled away to save her from getting her heart broken. And yet, here she was looking at me like there was still some kind of hope for something between us.

“Maybe later,” I said, standing up and walking back to the bedroom of the plane. I couldn’t bear looking at her. I couldn’t handle seeing what I’d done to her reflected in her eyes. I already knew what a selfish prick I was, I didn’t need to look in the mirror.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she said to my back.

I closed the door without meeting her eyes.