The Fool and the Donkey Track IIII

TRACK 4 - “Anxiety (in Arpeggio)” - Lewis, Lynsi - The Album

(substance abuse, suicidal thoughts, grief, provocative / offensive language, mature themes, etc)

She should’ve known better by now. Really, by any general estimates, one would assume that a woman who was no more than four feet eleven inches and 110 lbs would have a good idea of how much alcohol her constitution could handle.

Apparently not. So here Lynsi was, splattered across the bar counter, barely able to keep her head up to make conversation with the bartender. How had she found herself wavering between one moment and then the next?

It had been seven pm.

Now, it was eight thirty.

Now, it was ten.

Where the hell had those three hours gone by?

Blackouts she’d endured weren’t a crawling darkness beckoning her to pure abandon, but fractured memories held together by strings of conversations and actions she hadn’t been present for.

No, those moments were the Beast puppetering her limbs and mouth while she wandered in the deep nothing, even if to her it might as well have been so brief to not have lasted a second.

How could she be blacking out already? Sure, she’d had a couple of shots, but it was only like two or three, right?

“I’m kind of impressed,” said the bartender. “You’ve had, what, eight shots?”

Jesus Christ.

“…I have? Y’sure…?” she slurred, her lips barely parting with each pushed syllable.

“Huh?!”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, trying to enunciate her Ts now. “Whozeterunnuhup?”

“What?”

Lynsi shook her head. The bartender split into three and the walls shuddered and bent. She grabbed her stomach and allowed her head to rest against the counter. Ceiling became the floor and floor the ceiling. Lynsi blinked, the new perspective sending her back into…that feeling.

That feeling where her own veins and bones were as alien to her as Jupiter and, even worse, where the mere concept of holding the perspective of an organic being, one that could produce self aware thought and convey it through language…she giggled at the sight of the flesh encased around the joints of the part of “her” that society decided to label “hand”.

All cause she tilted her head kinda funny. All because she inhaled millions of particles and exhaled a million more. Literally all the time. Every second. So often that she didn’t have to think about—

Still giggling, Lynsi reached for the headset encased around her throbbing skull that wasn’t there. Yes, yes, this was real. No matter how much the nonsense of it all rattled her soul. How much the weight of it made her wish she could crawl her way out of this thing called matter and fuck off somewhere else.

This was stupid. Why the hell was she even here anyway? She should’ve never left. She should’ve never listened to her—

Where was that fucking Beast anyway?!

She turned her head to meet her “companion” beside her. He was as equally shit faced as she, but still smiling. Always with that stupid, mischievous, cat-like grin.

She narrowed her eyebrows and pointed at him. The Bartender turned his attention to the other shit faced drunks piling up on each other betwixt the bar stools.

“I didn’t wanna get this fuckin’ drunk, what the hell?!”

“Well, neither did I!”

“Then why’d we do this?”

“Meh, I think you just forgot how tiny you were—are. Again. Most people aren’t—how’d Harry phrase it? Pocket sized! That’s right. Dummy. Yer a fuckin pocket, dumb—dummy—dumbbutt. Pocket-butt.”

“I’m dumb?! Yer the one who told me to be here in the first place!”

“Oh, I’m SORRY, I didn’t fuckin—know—that I had a gun to yer head—pew—p’ou wanted to be here, I’m just the one who gave you the, uh, I pushed you. I can admit to that.”

“But I was high! And high people are stupid people!”

“That’s why yer a lil pocket-butt, dummy.”

“But you…” the Beast raised his arm and thumb, pointing two straightened fingers at the bridge of her nose.

“Pew, pew!”

Lynsi lowered the Beast’s arm.

“Fugg’off. You—no!—“ He raised it again and, once again, she lowered it out of her line of sight. “You gave me this stupid idea without lettin’me think…”

“Maybe I was doin’ you a favor, turning off that crazy brain-train, hm?”

“My brain’s not—well—okay, maybe it is a train, but that’s yer fault too.”

“How?! All I’sever done is try make you feel better…”

“How—how is obsessive—how’s that good? How’s it better? You…you’re obsessive!”

“Yeah, I am! About music! SONGS! And we’ve been this way—WHOLE life, Lynsi! And itz’just Album right now and it’s not even THE Album, but OUR album, which is not…they’re different, mkay? The se-men-ticks matter. Okay?”

“Yeah, well, people don’t like it.”

“Isadorable Davidoo.”

“Ya mean Isadora an’ David?,” the Beast nodded at Lynsi’s inquiry. She continued: “They’re prob’bly lyin’ cause I AM weird! I AM wrong and I dunno HOW to b-butter.”

“Apologizin’ for yelling at me like that would be a great start. Go on. Say sorry.”

“Yeah?! You want that? You want ah’pology? Here! Yera broken faucet overflowing my shit-water brain an—fer ev’ry no I give, you get worse. Out of all Beasts I was born with, it was you. You. So lucky. There. Now ah-cept my apology.”

“…That’s not an analogy,” the Beast rested his furry black chin on his open claw. He curled his free hand over Lynsi’s as his eyebrows rose. “…Apology! That’s wha’ I meant.”

“Maybe I don’t wan’ to. Maybe I just wanna be normal and quit ruining my life.”

“How…the fuck…is making art a life ruinin’ thing?”

“How is holdin’ piss fer hours, thinkin’ of lyrics fer hours, hyper-fix-tatin’ FOR HOURS to the point where I don’t eat or sleep—fer hours—NOT life ruining?! I should be over this.”

“Well, yer not,” the Beast tapped his claws against the counter and trilled thin gray lips. “How’bout gettin’ over that?”

Lynsi furrowed her eyebrows. That sounded like Mom.

Get over it, Lynsi. Just get over it.

She lifted her head, snarling.

“Fuck you! I wanna slit my throat cause of you. Litter’ly. Put a barrel in muh’fuckin mouth and pull the trigger.”

Lynsi adjusted her posture and swung her back in the direction of the Beast. He had his hands clasped together with two claws pointed in her face again.

“Pew, pew.”

Lynsi swiped at those damned claws.

“FUG’OFF!”

“No!” The Beast leered back, shoulders tense. “You wanna kill yourself? FUCKIN’ DO IT! Make like Sierra and drop dead while I watch! Why don’t’cha crack the marble floor?! Go swell up like a fuckin’ balloon! Maybe the babies can baby-babble-coo yer corpse at the hospital just like with her! Wouldn’t that be nice for lil’, piece of shit Lynsi?!”

Lynsi winced at that.

“Don’t…don’t you bring her up.”

“No, no, I AM! I will bring ‘errup! You wanna do this? Lezz fuckin’go!” The Beast leaned in then and growled in her ear. “Ya know, just-ta give you the edge yer clearly wantin’, right?! Cause you wanna dieee?!”

He leaned back again and lifted his glass well above his jagged, asymmetrical fur. “Well, here’s a thought! Mom gave such a little fuck about Sierra that, instead of paying for her rehab, she bought her a fuckin’ car!”

He swung his glass around, only bringing it to chest as he talked with his body as much with as his damned mouth.

“How about we ruminate on that instead of the Album?! How about we think about THAT instead of castles and frozen mountains and mechanical fucking bird-horses and shit-eatin’ monks?! Let’s go on and on about the woman who gave birth to you and how she let your own damn sister die and how her death could’a been completely null-an-void’dable if Mom actually loved her or Mara or Ellie or Courtney or YOU! Wanna think about THAT ‘til we kill ourselves?!”

Lynsi fell silent.

Where was she again?

* * *

A wretched sob came bubbling out. Tears trickled down her flushed cheeks, no matter how much she tried to wipe them away.

Nearly every day for the past two years since Sierra died was a day Lynsi spent high or drunk.

There was no stage or Eldritch audience or Beast or lights. Just a bar in some shitty amusement park and a drunk disabled woman stuck in her own head atop a half-broken bar stool.

Her sister was dead. 24 years old and six feet under. Her flesh being eaten away by maggots, her bones gradually eroding into oil.

Twenty four was old when Lynsi was 20. Two years after that, Lynsi sat with the cold, bone shivering realization that 24 was not, in fact, that old at all. Sierra had barely been an adult.

She squeezed her eyes shut, visualizing that little happy corner, that place where reality didn’t exist yet felt realer than this stool and bar counter and fingers clasped around a cold, sweaty glass.

She sung lyrics under her shaky breath:

“…And goodness knows, the wicked lives are…”

* * *

“Hey!” The Beast snapped his fingers in front of Lynsi’s face.

She blinked, once more under the various blues of Festival stage lights.

“You blacked out there. You okay?”

Lynsi looked back at the wall, at the swaying analogue clock above. 1am. She looked back at the Beast.

“So, while you were out, I came up with the CRAZIEST idea fer a song. Wanna hear it?”

Lynsi nodded. The Beast reached out and wrapped his hairy arm around her shoulders.

“It is: ‘Anxiety in the Arpeggio’. Image-in, an electronic beat—ya know, the beat, but there’s insane arpeggio! Loads of it, ev’rywhere!”

Why had she been so cruel to her Beast? Here he was, visage pointing toward the starry night, towards a shadowed Eldritch audience. Music notes dripped off his tongue and floated away with the breeze as he went on, all in an effort to keep her in the moment.

If this was so bad then why did it lift her spirit in ways alcohol or advice or parties never could?

“Mm’sorry.” She whispered, resting her head between his shoulder and neck. He snaked his hand underneath her hoodie to ruffle her blonde curls. Did the bartender notice?

Oh no, of course not. Everything was fine. She was safe here in the embrace of her Beast as he hummed different tunes and rhymed words.

A pit opened in her stomach and all of who she was sunk into it.

“Hey!” The Beast caught her attention again. “You wanna be a musician, right?”

That would make her happy…right?

The Beast giggled at the thought. He turned, his eyes less ruby and more a blazing inferno of years worth of sunsets.

“Then lezz do the network til Peter shows up. I mean, why not? We’re men. If we fuck up, we can just put on different clothes!”

“I dunno...”

“Trust me, I’m havin’ the hunchiest of hunches and it’s a good one.”

“Really? While I’m like this? I just finished cryin’!”

“Lizzen! S’called ah-hail prairie, bitch.”

Lynsi ran her fingers over wheels and rolled across the stage.

A memory lingered, hanging in the air like a chandelier with a near broken chain, ready to crash the moment and bring her from stage to oblivion.

* * *

Sierra left the office and sat on the lawn chair next to Lynsi. It was a dark, cloudy night. Only streetlights illuminated this wretched parking lot.

“They said I’m too old. The other programs weren’t available either.” Sierra pulled out a Camel menthol cigarette and lit it with ease. She pulled out another and handed it Lynsi.

Lynsi took it in kind and let her older sister light it.

“Maybe…maybe you could do a little less?”

Why the fuck had she said that?

“You know, while you’re still looking for a program?”

Why the fuck couldn’t she have turned her to sister and say:

“Sierra, we need you. I need you. You’re the only one who understands me. The only one who believes me. The only one here who actually fucking cares. I love you. Please stop doing this to yourself, for fucks sake, please—PLEASE!”

But she hadn’t said that. She was too worried about offending Sierra. Which was clearly more important than her sister’s life. Fuckin’ clearly.

Sierra nodded.

“Is that how you really feel?” Her voice was low, her words dragging and barely able to come out.

“I mean, it’s just an idea. Just do a little less and little less until you don’t do anymore.”

Sierra hadn’t explained that there was no feasible way for her to achieve sobriety without hospitalization.

“Hey,” Sierra turned to face Lynsi and held her hand. “I need you to something for me. Okay? Can you do that?”

“What is it?”

“I need you to make me a promise.”

“…Okay?”

“Three things,” Sierra raised a finger with her free hand. “One, I don’t wanna be remembered for this. I don’t wanna be known as the crazy bitch who OD’ed—I wanna be remembered for the good I did…”

Sierra frequently volunteered for homeless shelters. Sierra told her daughter every night that she was kind, that she was smart, that she was beautiful. Sierra was the kind of woman who told you how she really felt in the moment. Sierra took no shit from anyone. Sierra knew how to crack some of the best jokes Lynsi had ever heard. Sierra was so intelligent that she got a degree in criminal psychology.

Sierra raised a second finger.

“Two, I need you to take care of her. Or watch over her,”

Sierra was referring to her four year old daughter. They both knew that Mom would smear Sierra’s reputation to that little girl if it meant that Mom. That’s what “good people” did after all. Sierra raised a third finger.

“Three, and this one’s the most important, I need you to get away from Mom. Okay? Fuck college, fuck everything and anything Mom say. You ARE strong, you ARE capable, and you can be independent. I know you can. Go be independent and get the away from Mom. Please do that for me.”

Lynsi shook her head. There was something unspoken hanging in the air. An urgency.

“Please,” said Lynsi. “Can’t I come with you? Just let me stay with you and Courtney tonight. Just for tonight.”

She couldn’t explain why, but it was as if she knew if she didn’t come home with Sierra that night, Sierra would…

“Don’t get me wrong, Lynsi. As much as I want that, Courtney doesn’t think it’s a good idea.”

“…But I really want to. Please, Sierra.”

Sierra looked up at the sky, taking another puff of her cigarette and let the smoke trail out of her nostrils.

“…Maybe another time?”

“Please…?”

Courtney pulled up in the silver fucking car. The damned car Mom bought Sierra in full. The damned car Sierra only ever drove to stop the withdrawals from killing her.

Courtney rolled down the window.

“Come on, Sierra,” she called out. “Let’s go.”

Sierra stood.

“Please! Can’t you ask her one more time?” Lynsi reached out to her sister and grabbed her arm. Sierra sighed.

“Okay, I’ll ask again.”

Sierra walked over to the driver’s side, her words quiet enough Lynsi couldn’t make them out. Courtney shifted and cupped her hand round her mouth.

“No, Lynsi! You’re not coming over tonight. Okay?! Stop asking!”

Why?! Why the fuck wouldn’t it be?!

She should’ve begged harder. She should’ve rolled her way in front of the car and told Courtney she wasn’t gonna move unless Lynsi got to come home too.

But that didn’t happen. She just nodded, hung her head, and said: “O-okay.”

At nineteen, Lynsi didn’t wanna be a problem. She didn’t wanna offend Courtney any more than she already had. She just wanted her heart to stop beating so frantically in her chest.

The following morning, Lynsi got a call.

Sierra had dropped while Courtney had been at work. She wasn’t breathing. She wasn’t moving. She’d gone blue…there had been blood everywhere.

Sierra had been more than just that single moment.

According to Mom, Sierra was inherently bad. Just a terrible daughter, you know?

Violent. It didn’t matter if Ellie and Mara were more violent than Sierra. That Sierra typically lashed out because Mara had swung first.

Always angry. It didn’t matter that Mara stole Sierra’s clothes, deliberately slept with the men Sierra liked, and ran her mouth about Sierra.

And now using drugs?! What a failure of a daughter. Mara’s an alcoholic too, but hey, she’s troubled and needs help. The family needed to have sympathy for Mara. Mara has trauma! She deserves love!

Pregnant at seventeen?! Damn it, Sierra, you better keep that damn baby or else you’ll be even worse than you already are. Why can’t you be more like Mara? She’s fucking perfect! Perfect, perfect, perfect!

You don’t even deserve your daughter. You’re a shitty mom, Sierra. That daughter should be in Mom’s custody. Should be Mara’s! Mara always wanted a kid.

When Sierra hadn’t even been around for years, Mom ran her mouth. It was always, always:

“If it wasn’t for Sierra…Sierra’s just so terrible…I wouldn’t have done that if Sierra…”

Sierra. Sierra. Sierra.

And when the family got wind of the drugs?

Did they take her rehab?

No.

They beat her. They beat Sierra til she was black, blue, and shivering. How fucking dare she, after all.

Mom was not going to pay for her rehab.

Who cares if Sierra was broke and couldn’t afford health insurance? No, see, those thousands of dollars were better well spent on a car.

A car that was gifted to Mara after Sierra was declared dead in the hospital.

* * *

Lynsi swung her head back and took the last shot. Whatever insults came her way, that little pin prick of a thought urged her to keep at it nonetheless.

You deserve this, Lynsi. You’re a horrible fucking sister.