Without you (post lại cho luminis)

Without you (post lại cho luminis)

Without You

By Del James



Although he wanted to share the dance, Mayne could not bring himself to interrupt such beauty. Her well-toned body swayed childlike, peacefully, slowly moving to the rhythm. Her innocence was enchanting, her beauty breathtaking. Mayne knew shê?Td be angry at him for sneaking about, watching without letting her know, but the teenage voyeur inside his adult body encouraged him and didn?Tt care about the consequences. Besides, this was for his eyes only. Her eyes sparkled, reminding him of the ocean, vast with beauty and mystery. A slight breeze danced through her lion?Ts mane. A full-length see-through dress covered her shapely body and a light glaze of sweat made her glisten. She seemed too beautiful to be real. During this split second of visual euphoria, Mayne conceded that she was the only woman he ever truly loved. Her eyes flickered. She must have heard me, he thought as she turned toward him. He didn?Tt want to ruin the beauty, only to enjoy it. Her thick lips smiled sympathetically. Then the song started growing in volume.



A sharp twinge of panic shot through him when he realized which of his songs it was. Cold sweat seeped out of his pores and dread consumed him. His vision spiraled as reality distorted. Breathing became difficult, complicated. Desperation attacked and twisted every muscle in his thin body. Much worse than the pain was his fear. Unsuppressable anxiety swept through him as he started toward the stereo. Everything lost its natural texture; the walls, the floor, the air became surreal. The louder the music, the more difficult he found it to move. He had to remove the compact disc but his feet felt like large concrete blocks. He couldn?Tt move fast enough. She already had the pistol?Ts barrel against her temple.



BLAMM!



Mayne awoke covered in sweat, a mute shriek still lodged in his throat. The past six hours had been spent in a drug-and-alcohol-induced coma that he put over as sleep. Sleep was a rare commo***y and was impossible to achieve without some assistance. It didn?Tt matter whether he slept six hours or six minutes, the nightmare always managed to creep in. No sleeping pill or antidepressant could spare him. He had written the song and was forever damned by it. With unsteady hands, he wiped sweat from his brow and rubbed his fingers against the satin sheets. His silver and gold bracelets clinked together. Rolling onto his side, he stared at the digital alarm clock on top of the black night table that had a built -in refrigerator as its base. On top of the clock was a half-empty pack of Marlboros. He stared at the green digital numbers but they made no sense. It really didn?Tt matter what time it was anyway, his time was other peoplê?Ts money. Next to the clock was something more important than cash or time. Slowly he sat up. Tortured eyes scanned the black marble tabletop, searching for any leftover precious brown powder. There were burned matches, bent cigarettes, and empty bindles, but no dope. It didn?Tt matter. He could always have more delivered. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mayne reached down and opened the night tablê?Ts refrigerator door. Inside were several Budweiser?Ts, baking soda, and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon. He grabbed a cold can, killing half of it in one sip. He did this every morning. Instantly, his aching head began to feel better. Although he didn?Tt want to admit it, the time had arrived to rejoin the living. He knew he had to be at the studio soon but didn?Tt feel up to it. Besides, the recording of his latest album, Alone, had been finished over a month ago. The album was now in the final mixing stages. If Mayne liked what he heard, hê?Td approve it and the record would be released on schedule. If not, it would have to be remixed until he did approve. So then, what the **** did they need him for? He procrastinated for as long as he possibly could before finally standing up.



Much like his bedroom, the bathroom was a disaster area. Discarded clothes, creams, trash, cassettes, and towels dominated the view. Using radar to locate the bowl, he found the porcelain, fought off the urge to puke, and relieved himself. He reentered the bedroom, not really feeling human, more like a robot dressed in rented flesh. There was a dull pain in his abdomen that hê?Td grown accustomed to. It, like many other flaws in his health, could be attributed to his excessive life-style. Besides hi jewelry, Mayne only wore Jockey briefs. He stumbled over to his dresser, removed a pair of custom-tailored black leather pants, and changed. He found a dark purple silk kimono hanging in a walk in closet and put it on. In a dresser drawer was a gram vial of cocaine. Scooping with the long fingernail on his right pinkie, the tattered musician snorted eight blasts of rock ?~n?T roll aspirin. The kimono felt cool against his warm flesh. He wondered if he was feverish and concluded he probably was. He was always run down, as if with a perpetual fever. That is, of course, until he got his chip. He finished his beer, tossing the empty can in the general direction of a wastebasket that was already crammed with empties. Staring into a full-length mirror, the run-down recluse didn?Tt recognize the reflection. Sure, the long blond hair and tattoos gave him away, but he looked so frail. Mayne looked like someone who was ready for hospital pajamas. His once attractive face was blue, taut, and expressionless. A scraggly beard covered his chin and his emerald eyes were no longer authentic gems, but rather costume jewelry. He needed a drink.

For the past fourteen of his twenty-eight years, hê?Td spent the majority of his time inside a bottle. Teenage beer and wine parties turned to vodka and rum at nightclubs, which in turn evolved into straight whiskey. Exiting the bedroom, he said a silent prayer to his patron saint, Jim Beam, asking that there be some in the liquor cabinet. An illuminating golden glow surrounded the thick blackout curtains. A small war had gone down in the living room the previous evening. Full ashtrays, assorted liquor bottles, empty and half-empty packs of cigarettes, and beer cans were strewn everywhere. Several CD covers were caked in cocaine residue. Mayne tried remembering who had been partying there and couldn?Tt. An empty pack of Kool cigarettes meant that one of his many dealers, Jamie Jazz had delivered something. It didn?Tt take very long before he made the connection between the empty bindles in the bedroom and Jamie. Jamie (pronounced Jay-mee) was typical Hollywood trash who hand delivered coke, toke, crack, or smack to troubled celebrities, exploiting their vulnerabilities. Mayne searched for more clues as to who else had been over partying but came up blank. He slid behind the bar that was adjacent to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. There were several unopened bottles of assorted white liquors. A nervous surge shot through his small stomach. What if there was no whiskey? He shuffled the bottles around until he found the proper one. A sigh of relief escaped him as he twisted the cap off and made a mental note that he needed to restock. The whiskey?Ts aroma was his equivalent of fresh brewed coffee. ?oHerê?Ts looking at you, love,? Mayne said aloud, raising the bottle to his lips.

Like every day, one sip led to another. After several sips, he started feeling right. He put the bottle on the counter and made it to the refrigerator. If he was lucky, hê?Td be drunk before the day started. He removed another Budweiser and went back into the messy living room. There was a dull hum inside his cranium. He couldn?Tt differentiate whether it was cocaine-induced or the central air-con***ioning. If only he could remember what day today was, then hê?Td know if a maid was scheduled to come by. She could bring booze. The musician sat on the couch, picked up the phone, and dialed 411.

?oOperator. What city, please??
?oL.A.?
?oYes??
?oWhat day is it? Mayne asked sincerely, lighting a Marlboro.
?oWhat??
?oWhat day is it??
?oSir, I?Tm an operator.?
?oMâ?Tam, you?Tre Information and I asked you a question,? Mayne corrected her. A snide laugh escaped him. After a silent moment, she answered his question.
?oIt?Ts Wednesday, sir.?
?oThanks,? he said, and hung up. There would be no maid service today. This was not the way he wanted to start the day. He polished off the beer, finished his cigarette, and snorted more cocaine. After several confusing seconds, he remembered where he kept the large green garbage bags and began straightening up the mess. Moving around the large one-bedroom condominium, he picked up anything that wasn?Tt bolted down and threw it out. Bottles and empty food containers stretched the garbage bag to a point where it threatened to rip open. After ten minutes of straightening up, the apartment began taking shape. Besides this condominium, he also owned one in Manhattan and another in Houston. He rarely frequented his Hollywood Hills mansion, or for that matter, his house in Maui. Both brought back too many memories of her. It was in the Hollywood Hills house where he and Elizabeth Aston had spent most of their quality time. As his thoughts began betraying him, thinking more about her, Mayne instinctively went to the bar and retrieved the whiskey bottle. He could think of her as long as he had a safety net. With all the money, fame, and success he had attained, it was the simple things like friendship and love that were the hardest to keep. He never meant to hurt anyone, especially those closest to him, but for some reason that?Ts who he usually hurt the worst. He never set out to be malicious, but by living under a microscope with the world scrutinizing him, any wrongdoing, public or private, tended to blow up in his face and often wound up as Nightly News. Personal flaws and ****-ups are not allowed of the elite. He often suffered silently, trapped by his own fame, until he needed out of his cage. But the cage was as wide as his eyes could perceive. All Mayne had ever tried to be, right or wrong, was himself. With all the doctors, specialists, therapists, fans, and everyone in his organization trying to help him, he just sank further into his cocoon, alienating himself even more. He often wondered who he really was. Was he another regenerated social security number automatically inherited at birth or a genuine reflection of society? Was he a phenomenon or just a facade? Was he a product of his own imagination or just another brick? Would he ever understand his own destiny?

Inside his mind, he analyzed why his relationship with Elizabeth had failed more times than were countable. Like the scholar he wasn?Tt, he dissected situations, pondered things he should?Tve said and shouldn?Tt have been caught doing. When it came to ***, why couldn?Tt Elizabeth understand that just because he occasionally strayed from their bedroom didn?Tt mean he didn?Tt love her? *** was like role-playing. He never forced her to be monogamous but deep down he knew that if he found out she was ****ing someone else it would have hurt. A lot! Even with that knowledge, he couldn?Tt confine himself to only one woman. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He tried being open with her but concluded that certain things should?Tve remained secret. *** was an ego addiction similar to the one felt onstage. Different audiences, like different partners, were more challenging and made him work harder for the applause. Like drugs, he was addicted to the rush. Even with an empire at his disposal, money couldn?Tt buy him love, nor happiness, nor peace of mind. Nor Elizabeth. Looking around the large living room, a very disenchanted artist absorbed the modern decor. None of these possessions except a few token items had ever meant anything to Mayne. None of this **** was real. He was surrounded by trophies of a game that had no meaning. And he was tired of playing games.

A sharp pain in his left ear sent him back to the dark corridor that led from stage to dressing room. Inside his ringing head, speakers feeding back ignited and exploded. He was experiencing another rock ?~n?T roll side effect, ear damage. The dull hum lasted only seconds but the memories of his final show with his former band, Suicide Shift, would never fade. For reasons he couldn?Tt remember, Elizabeth had been unable to attend the tour?Ts final show. The band had been on the road for the better part of fourteen months, over 285 concerts. Every few weeks Mayne had flown her to whatever city he was performing in and shê?Td stay for a few nights. The final concert of any tour is an important night. It was Suicide Shift?Ts first headlining tour and Mayne wanted to share the experience with her. It was the culmination of many miles traveled, many hours worked, and the celebration that went on afterward was well deserved. He called her several times to offer her plane tickets, trying to persuade her, but she couldn?Tt make it.
The gig was well over two hours of electric ferocity. Of course Mayne consumed plenty of drugs and alcohol before and during the show (he did every gig), but it was the Florida crowd?Ts enthusiasm and knowing that hê?Td be able to sleep for a month that gave him extra spark. Every time he took a solo, he tried to best any previous soloing effort. Every time he approached his microphone to sing backups, his voice surged with whiskey vigor. For him, this was rock ?~n?T roll at its best. The 4,000-plus crowd acknowledged this with deafening applause.

After the final encore, it was time to celebrate. Mayne wound up with two eager females in his hotel room. In the privacy of his bathroom he injected a little heroin. Not enough to make him nod out but enough to get him good and high. The two nubile females would only make him feel better. After struggling to get his wet brown suede pants off, he joined the nude women, and thus the revelry began. The dope clouded his not-so-good memory but Mayne remembered a very drunk Peter Terrance walking into the room. The band?Ts drummer had mistaken Maynê?Ts room for his own. In the spirit of celebration, Mayne offered him a girl. Terrance declined saying hê?Td find his own and left. The menage-a-trois continued. Shortly afterward there was a knock on the door. Thinking it was Terrance taking up the offer, Mayne called out, telling whoever was at the door to enter. Standing at the door with an overnight bag was Elizabeth. On the spur of the moment shê?Td flown from L.A. to Miami to be with him. A very bad scene played itself out. Elizabeth left broken and hysterical. That was the beginning of the end for their relationship.

Mayne snapped out of the past. His left knee popped loudly as he straightened his legs and headed for the phone. He pushed a button. Elizabeth?Ts number was still programmed and every now and then he pushed it just to hear her phone ring. Also in the phonê?Ts memory was his record label, his manager, the three members of his current band, the Mayne Mann Group, and several drug dealers. After receiving no answer at Elizabeth?Ts, he pushed another button. His many bracelets clinked together and a few seconds later there was a reply.

?oYeah?? spat an unenthusiastic voice from a car phone.
?oIt?Ts me,? Mayne said, swallowing, cocaine dripping down his throat.
"My main man,? Jamiê?Ts voice declared like a cash register ringing. ?oWhat can I do ya for??
?oUptown and downtown.? Cocaine and heroin.
?oNo problem. You remember what I did for ya last night, right??
?oYeah.? He didn?Tt.
?oYou owe me three bills from that ****, brother man,? the dealer explained just in case memory failed. I?Tm sure I got some change floatin?T around. If I can?Tt find some I?Tll five ya my Versateller card and you can get what I owe.?
?oBet. I?Tll be right up,? Jamie said as if he was doing Mayne a favor and hung up.
?o****in?T prick,? Mayne mumbled to himself.

He lit up a cigarette and got himself another beer. The lid popped loudly and foam rose to the mouth hole. He watched, amused, then walked over to the black-out curtains and pulled the lever, letting bright sunlight invade his living room. ?o**** you very much,? he loudly announced, squinting, and raising his middle finger to the sky. The view from his balcony was vast, displaying the City of Angels below, yet more often than not Mayne kept the curtains shut, preferring not to be a part of the world outside. It was safe inside his apartment. Against a far wall, tucked in the corner so that the ivory keys faced out toward the living room, was a vintage Steinway. He spent many pleasure-filled hours on the instrument, and even when he wasn?Tt playing, the piano gave him visual stimulation. It was an instrument of precision and grace. Next to the piano, resting comfortably on stands were half a dozen vintage guitars: Les Pauls, Stratocasters, and Telecasters. The guitars he kept in the apartment were the ones that meant the most to him.

The buzzer sounded, waking Mayne from his drifting thoughts. He went to the intercom and pressed the button that unlocked the front door. A few minutes later, Jamie Jazz was inside his apartment. Dozens of platinum and gold records adorned the walls. Hours upon years of planning, writing, recording, and struggling had reaped these round rewards. His songwriting stemmed from inner pains and his slower, more blues-influenced songs often dealt with personal hardships. Those were the songs he was most proud of and believed might stand the test of time. The faster, more hard-rock-oriented songs often had little significance or wore their meanings on their sleeve. Unfortunately, the awards were no longer awards without Elizabeth. Mayne excused himself and went into the bedroom. Hidden behind yet another platinum disc was a safe. He removed the disc from the wall, twisted the combination, and opened the safe. Inside were jewelry, documents, over four thousand dollars cash, a freebase pipe, and a loaded .357 Magnum. He grabbed a few C-notes and went back into the living room, leaving the safe shut but unlocked. Jamie was seated on the black leather couch, feet up on the marble coffee table, looking casual in Suicide Shift sweatpants (that hê?Td gotten from Mayne) and a matching sweatshirt. Hê?Td helped himself to a beer.

?oWhat?Ts the total??
?oIncluding last night? Six,? Jamie replied, fidgeting with the beeper on his waist.
Mayne handed him six bills and put the rest in his pants pocket. Judging by the look on his face, the dealer understood he wanted to be alone and took the hint.
?oCall me if you need anything else,? Jamie offered, exiting the apartment.

The moment the front door clicked shut, Maynê?Ts mind rushed into overdrive but his body refused to move. He had drugs in hand, but instead of finding a syringe, he went back into the bedroom. Something in the wall safe more powerful than his addiction had caught his eye. He walked to the safe and pulled the door open. Inside was a photo album containing precious Kodachrome memories. Placing the drugs on top of the messy night table, he fell on the bed, and began flipping through the leather-bound book. Captured in photos were images and feelings so intense that it made him warm as well as suicidal. Elizabeth had challenged him intellectually while stimulating him ***ually. Shê?Td mothered him when he was sick, which was quite often. Shê?Td set free inner feelings that hê?Td often tried avoiding. Her beauty, both inner and physical, was something he wanted; yet when she was his, he did everything conceivable to lose her.
He turned to the second page. He had no idea how many times hê?Td masturbated to this photo. Every other day perhaps. It was just a snapshot hê?Td taken of her while on vacation in Las Vegas. In photo form, the wind blew her long hair away from her face and she was smiling. Behind her was the Caesar?Ts Palace hotel where they?Td spent the better part of two weeks in the penthouse suite. It was a typical tourist photo but it was her smile that turned him on. It was so free from pain. Mayne would do anything to have her smile for him like she had in the photograph. Hê?Td do anything to have her lips, her body again.
He unbuttoned his leather pants. Before beginning his self-stimulation, he pulled himself over to the night-table refrigerator and removed an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. The bottle opened with a loud pop and smoke billowed from the top, but no liquid spilled.

Sipping deeply from the bottle, he flipped through the photo album that was all too short, carefully avoiding the final page. He rarely looked at the last page. As always, he wound up back on page two. With the bottle two-thirds empty, he pulled his pants and briefs down to his knees and poured the remaining champagne onto his palms. This was part of the ritual. Fine champagne was something he and Elizabeth enjoyed sharing. He could still share it with her. As he took hold of his wet erection, his thoughts began to slip. It was during one of their final dinner dates that she had said something that inspired him to write the most beautiful song of his career. ?oI can?Tt live with you and I can?Tt live without you,? he could hear her saying as if it were just yesterday. Words flowed from pen to paper faster than he could write. Mayne concluded that this was his private way of explaining all that had happened between them. The song ?oWithout You,? was not an apology, it was his side of the story. It was rock ?~n?T roll sincerity that sold over three million copies in the U.S., topping the record sales charts and putting the Mayne Mann Group on top of the rock world. He offered Elizabeth half of the royalties from the song because without her there would be no song. She politely declined. A sold-out Mayne Mann Group tour ensued. When the tour arrived in Los Angeles, Mayne desperately wanted to see her. No matter how many women he had, no matter how over her he told everyone he was, hê?Td do anything for her except let her permanently slip out of his life.
Hê?Td called her a dozen times over the course of two days, leaving message after message on her answering machine. Even though she never responded, hê?Td left her ten All-Access passes at Will Call. She never showed.

After the show, Mayne vowed he wouldn?Tt make the same mistake twice. He quickly showered, changed into dry clothing, and left, avoiding all the backstage hoopla. He and his driver headed for Elizabeth?Ts apartment. Using the phone in the limousine, he dialed her from the street below her apartment. Again he was greeted by a recorded message.
?oElizabeth, I know?"I hope you?Tre there. I?Tm downstairs and even if I have to break down the door to see you, I?Tm willing. If you?Tre gonna call the cops, well, call ?~em now. . . I don?Tt expect anything from you. I don?Tt deserve anything . . . ****, I don?Tt even know what I?Tm trying to say other than I still care about you. Words can?Tt heal what I?Tve done but, ****, the past is done . . . I really need to see your face again,? Mayne softly explained after the beep. The words still echoed in his mind as he wondered if he could?Tve possibly phrased things differently. It was too late now, he thought, already inside the building. This was one of the rare occasions after a gig that Mayne was sober. As he arrived by way of elevator at her floor, he heard familiar music. The closer he got to her door the louder the volume grew. Then his world began to spin uncontrollably as a loud gunshot echoed through the hallway. He ran toward her apartment, lowered his shoulder, and with reckless abandon crashed through the wooden door. Hê?Td found Elizabeth on the couch, bleeding profusely, most of her head splattered on the wall behind her. On the blood-sprayed coffee table in front of her was the answering
machine, a ballpoint pen, and several crumpled balls of writing paper. He stood destroyed before her corpse. How could this have happened? All he had ever done was lover her. Devastated, he slowly walked over to the blaring stereo. A CD single of ?oWithout You? was programmed to repeat. He wondered how many times shê?Td listened to the same song and shut the power off. Then he noticed that next to the answering machine was a note.

Number one with a bullet, the red-speckled note read.

Shaking and convulsing, his tears falling freely, Mayne began screaming at the top of his lungs. It sounded like someone had unleashed a wild animal. His shrieks threatened to break the windows. A migraine pierced his throbbing temples and his entire head was overloaded with pressure. Did she kill herself because they had failed or because he wouldn?Tt leave her be? Was it the song, one of the few things hê?Td ever done autonomously, that had driven her to this? Was this really happening? Then another thought came out mind. He removed the pistol from her hand and put it against his temple.

He was going to join her.

CLICK.

It was empty. Elizabeth had known she would only need one bullet.

Mayne snapped out of that nightmare and was thrust into another memory. He recognized the familiar room as the honeymoon suite in Las Vegas and almost felt at ease. The bed was in disarray and Elizabeth was smiling mischievously.
?oWhat do you want to do??
?oWhâ?T?? Mayne responded, confused.

They?Td already drunk several bottles of champagne and made love twice.

?oWhat do you want to do?? she replied softly, daring Mayne to answer.

Mayne caught wind of her game and decided to play along. If she was giving him an option as to what they?Td do next, he was definitely going to take advantage of her generosity.

?oYou can either come up here and tell me that you love me or go down on me.?

Elizabeth?Ts face registered joy. Words like love were the hardest to get out of Maynê?Ts mouth. Once again she smiled as she began her descent toward his waistline. It didn?Tt take her very long to bring him back to life. Several minutes later, when she sensed that he was as excited as he was going to get, Elizabeth looked up at her man and with the ***iest expression she would conjure, softy said, ?oI love you.?

Mayne came with a slight grunt. The powerful surge had given him something to work at but there was no pleasure in the orgasm. There never was anymore. He tossed the photo album aside and lay on the bed feeling dead, staring at the ceiling. For a split second, he thought he heard musical strands of ?oWithout You? but it was only his imagination. His tired body lay there for what felt like a year before he sat up. At least the drugs on the night table were real. Everything he needed was on the table. Hidden beneath the clock radio was a syringe and a blackened spoon. There was a half-empty glass of water and a lighter next to it. In the spoon he mixed the proper amounts of heroin and water, and then, using the lighter, heated the bottom of the spoon until the mixture cleared up before placing a tiny piece of cotton into the spoon. With unsteady hands, he added some cocaine and his speedball was complete. Being a high-profile celebrity, he couldn?Tt afford to have his withered arms tracked up too badly. He usually shot into the back of his forearms or his feet. He also injected into his neck but the way he felt right now, he had no time to dillydally. Like an expert acupuncturist, he fixed into a bulging vein in his forearm.
?oCool,? he mumbled, carefully examining his arm, as he felt the speedball coming on.
He fell back down on the bed. Between the drugs and his emotions, he was exhausted. It was a good thing drugs numbed away most of the pressures. He was rushing out as the drug hit him in powerful waves. It took several moments before he realized his left arm was touching something. He slowly rolled over. The photo album was opened to the last page. The last page contained Elizabeth?Ts obituary and a sympathy card. Tears hê?Td held in since that day began to flow down his cheeks. His pale face flushed as he felt his strength evaporating. He was drowning in sorrow but didn?Tt believe in self-pity and that made him feel even worse. He sat up hyperventilating with a question echoing inside his head. Why did she have to die? He had no answer and stood up too quickly. Why was everything so ****ed? He went back into the living room. He needed whiskey.
Why?
He loved her so much.
Why?
Hê?Td offered her half the royalties. Half. That was a financial empire, but shê?Td refused.
Why?
Hê?Td tried to make amends. Hê?Td tried being good according to society?Ts standards. He wanted to understand everything that had happened to them. He wanted her to love him but no matter how hard he tried, he ****ed it up.
Why?
He wanted to be normal again but that wasn?Tt possible.
Why?
He wanted to feel closer to Elizabeth but she was dead. That tormented his fragile soul but for a split second of insane logic, Mayne concluded that his body should not be spared either.
?oArrrrrrggghh!? he growled, attacking his living room like a pissed-off brawler. Fists and feet attacked defenseless walls and furniture. He ****ed his right fist back and a large hole went through plaster. He snatched an Oriental lamp off an end table and hurled it across the room. He violently threw a marble ashtray into a plaque, ruining both. Breathing heavily and drenched in alcoholic sweat, he grabbed a platinum record and smashed it, spraying glass shards everywhere. The shattered glass on the floor twinkled like sun-reflected sand. No matter how many hotel rooms he trashed during his career, Mayne had never harmed a guitar. That was strictly taboo until today. He walked over to the row of guitars, grabbed a ?~68 Stratocaster by its stringed neck and swung, smashing the mahogany body until it was little more than firewood. With each self-destructive act, he felt slightly better. He walked over to another platinum disc, readied himself and put his right fist through the glass. Blood spurted from the hand that was heavily insured by Lloyds of London.
For the first time that day he smiled.
Mayne grabbed the Jim Beam bottle off the bar and guzzled. The liquid painkiller warmed his heaving chest and eased his bleeding hand, which looked like it needed stitches. He walked over to his Fischer stereo, and, using his good hand, turned on the receiver. The digital readout was locked on a classic rock station. It was the only safe station on the dial, since it never played any of his songs. Mayne Mann was too new, too current. The station only played material from the 60s and 70s. He instantly recognized the song playing; it was Humble Piê?Ts ?oI Don?Tt Need No Doctor.? It was raw rock like this that had inspired him to become a musician. Following the Pie were the Allman Brothers. Mayne could relate to what it felt like being tied to a whipping post.

During the commercials, he went into the kitchen to grab another beer. Out of his stereo speakers a record store chain announced its prices as the lowest in Los Angeles. The background music accompanying the record store commercial was ?oWithout You.?
His eyes stung but no tears fell as he realized that no matter where he was, he couldn?Tt hide from himself. Like a man on a mission, he walked over to the stereo, grabbed the receiver, and yanked with both hands. It took several strong tugs before the digital lights went off. With the receiver in hand, he stumbled backward, ripping wires and knocking over one of the large Bose speakers. Distraught and panting, he mad his way to the giant sliding safety glass door that led to the balcony. He casually dropped the high-tech receiver and undid the latch that kept the heavy door locked. Fresh air attacked his senses. The cool breeze felt invigorating as he stepped out onto the balcony and looked over the edge. His jet-black Bentley sat gleaming in the parking lot directly below. He picked the receiver up, held it over the balcony, and aimed it at the car. After several seconds of wondering if his aim was accurate, he let go. Glass spidered wildly when the receiver hit the car?Ts windshield and broke through. He went to fetch the beer hê?Td been distracted from and ripped the refrigerator door open as hard as he could. It crashed open, spilling several items onto the floor. The door dangled by a hinge. Mayne grabbed a beer, chugged half, and like a strong-armed baseball pitcher threw it at his guitar collection, barely missing his favorite: a vintage ?~57 Sunburst Les Paul. He grabbed another can from the crippled refrigerator as his eyes returned to the guitars.

The guitars were like adopted children and he loved each one in a different manner.
Certain guitars held certain memories but each guitar had the ability to create magic. It was that potential he respected and admired most about these guitars until this afternoon. Now, no matter how much he loved a certain guitar, or how valuable it might be, all he wanted to do was feel pain. Pain brought him closer to reality. It brought him closer to Elizabeth. He gave the world music, very good music, and asked for little in return. A little space to create, some kicks thrown in, and how about peace of mind? Instead, he had more material goods than he could ever use, more money than he could count, and nothing worth fighting for. There was a time not too long ago when hê?Td fought like hell for all of this. Now that he owned a piece of the rock he wished he could give it back. The view from the top wasn?Tt as picturesque as hê?Td imagined. What he did as his artistic expression, the record company sold for capital. Hê?Td quickly grown disillusioned with the system but what else could he do? Without the industry he couldn?Tt share his music. No matter how hard anyone tried explaining it to him, musical notes would never equal dollar signs. He made music because since his early childhood, he truly loved rock ?~n?T roll. It was the people, his people, he wrote music for after he finished writing for himself. So then, why couldn?Tt he sleep at night?
He stared at the answer.
He was going to kill his guitars. If it wasn?Tt for these guitars, he wouldn?Tt have the problems he did. And hê?Ts save the goddamn ?~57 Sunburst for last. He guzzled the beer, raising it away from his greedy mouth. Budweiser rained down the side of his face. When the can was almost empty, he crushed and spiked it like a football. Enraged, he grabbed a Les Paul Black Beauty and dealt it a quick but savage death against a wall. He raised a rare Telecaster over his head and clubbed the coffee table, breaking both. Then he picked up another Les Paul and, swinging it like a baseball bat, clobbered a lamp and several other objects before the guitar?Ts neck snapped off.
?o****in?T cheap ****,? he grumbled.
He heard something that had a bit of rhythm to it. Was there a drummer playing in his head? It took several seconds for him to realize that one of the neighbors was pounding on the wall.
?oWHAT, A LITTLE TOO LOUD FOR YA?? Mayne shouted at the direction the noise was coming from. It didn?Tt stop.
?oYER PISSING ME OFF, ASSHOLE!?
Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.
"Mother****er, I''m giving ya fair ****ing warning," he said.
Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.
Mayne walked into the bedroom and over to the night table. He grabbed his cocaine and poured a decent-sized mound on the back of his hand that wasn?Tt bleeding and snorted. Afterward he licked residue off his fist, numbing his teeth and gums. There was a pack of Marlboros on the table. He grabbed one and lit it. He took a deep drag and listened to his surroundings. The neighbor was still pounding. The ashtray was an overflowing mountain of dead butts so Mayne placed the cigarette on the edge of the night table. He had tried to avoid a confrontation, but the ****head next door wouldn?Tt let it lie. He went to his wall safe, grabbed the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, and charged out of the bedroom. ?oOKAY, HOME****, WANNA PLAY GAMES??

Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock.
KABAMMM, KABAMMM, KABAMMM.

He unloaded three shots toward the already hole-ridden wall. The pounding stopped instantly. Again he smiled. He aimed the pistol at one of his platinum discs on another wall and blasted the shiny sphere. He aimed at his TV and blew it to kingdom come. One bullet left. He held the silver-plated pistol in awe. He could easily join Elizabeth; all it would take was one quick squeeze of the trigger. The idea appealed to him. Maybe hê?Td get it right in his next life. Slowly, eyes closed, he raised the pistol. The trigger teased his scarlet index finger. The barrel felt good against his temple. Readying himself, he reopened his eyes. In front of him, mocking him, were two more Les Paul guitars. There once was a point in his life when these musical embodiments were holy. The dedication and years of practicing were a labor of love. Guitars were his passion, his expression, and his ticket out of obscurity. But all of that changed with one song. Now these guitars were reminders that Mayne could never regain his innocence.

?oCan?Tt I ****in?T die with some dignity?? he wondered as rage consumed him.

He couldn?Tt even commit suicide without music somehow interfering. His shaking arm lowered and took aim at one of the guitars. There was heavy recoil as wooden fragments flew everywhere. He put a massive hole in the guitar, and then walked over to examine his accuracy. It was definitely dead, but that wasn?Tt enough. He picked up the remains and threw them against the safety-glass door. He walked over to the balcony?Ts edge. Below, a small crowd had gathered around his ruined luxury car.

?oAnybody want an autograph?? he asked, tossing out the fragmented guitar.

?oWait a minute, wait a minute. I got another present!? he yelled, and ran into the bedroom.

His heavy footsteps jarred the cigarette hê?Td forgotten off the night table. It smoldered on the thick rug. Mayne dug inside the wall safe, grabbed a handful of hundred-dollar bills, and ran back to the balcony before his audience could scurry away.

?oDon?Tt say I never gave you anything,? he announced, letting the money fly.

Several wary spectators stepped backward but as soon as it was obvious that the confetti was currency, they rushed forward. Mayne waved to the small crowd and went back inside.

One guitar remained.

He stared at the ?~57, marveling at the beautiful colors. It was appropriately called a Sunburst. Reds, oranges, and yellows swirled in the wooden body. This one had gold trim as well as golden pickups. The Sunburst was his preference of all guitars. He had another two dozen in storage but this guitar was the first thing he bought after Suicide Shift was signed to a recording contract. It was how hê?Td rewarded himself for having ?omade it.? This was also the guitar hê?Td written the music to ?oWithout You? on. He approached it with caution and respect and gently picked it up. He sat down on the floor Indian style. Deep down, he was glad he hadn?Tt destroyed this ax. His picking hand hurt badly, but he wanted to play. Blood dripped off his hand and dripped down the guitar?Ts body. Enthralled, Mayne watched it run. No matter how intoxicated he was, his fingers never betrayed him, and this particular guitar always responded to his call. He began picking something that sounded like Hendrix. He paused abruptly. Something about that last guitar run shook him up and he couldn?Tt continue. In a vague way, it reminded him of a part in ?oWithout You.? After taking a deep breath, Mayne partially regained his composure. Multimillionaires like Mayne Mann aren?Tt supposed to cry. They?Tre beyond tears or at least that?Ts what society wants to believe. Mayne Mann was just Stephen Maynard Mandraich, a talented kid who could run his nimble fingers along a piece of stringed wood. He began to strum one of his favorite riffs, Thin Lizzy?Ts ?oDon?Tt Believe a Word.? Even though the guitar wasn?Tt amplified, he could hear it as if it was. He let the last note ring out as he stopped and reflected. He used to love the feel of this instrument in his hands. He used to love making the strings come to life. He used to love just holding this guitar. Then his mind viciously reminded him that hê?Td also loved the way Elizabeth felt. He quickly rose off the floor and tossed the guitar aside. It landed with a loud DWWWAANNNGGGG.

He stared blankly at the guitar and thought of her. Both had given him so much pleasure, but hê?Td never been able to properly express his gratitude. He never told her the truth about how she made him feel, about how much he loved her, and when he did, the song reaffirmed that he should?Tve kept his mouth shut. At least shê?Td still be alive. But the song was pure and he wanted to play it for her. Even if her physical body wasn?Tt present, he could still sing to her in heaven. He wanted to jam but was afraid to touch the guitar.
Then Mayne saw an alternative. He scooped up the almost-dead whiskey bottle and finished what little was left. It slipped silently from his hand. Very drunk, very drugged out, he staggered over to the piano. The smoldering cigarette on the bedroom rug had burned its way over to the goose-down comforter. The cover caught and flames quickly spread throughout the bedroom. Discarded clothing acted as kindling and soon the bedroom was on fire.

Until several hazy hours ago, Maynê?Ts life, no matter how miserable, had been something most people could only dream about. It was all an illusion, and he was one of rock ?~n?T roll?Ts elite, a hero. Now, hê?Td been reduced to his basic self and nothing really mattered. He felt the thorns wrapped around his heart and for the first time in far too long, felt human again. Hê?Td smothered his spirituality in drug abuse. Hê?Td stunted his health and personal growth with vice. Hê?Td blinded himself because he was afraid to see that his purpose, his gift in life, was to be true to himself. And the only time he was able to find that inner truth was when he played his music. He softly tapped the ivory keys, making melodies come to life through his fingers. No matter how badly his hand hurt, he persisted in making music. He was determined to play for Elizabeth and all the other angels. With every fluid run, every harmony, every musical accent, his inner pain subsided a little. With each passing musical note, he became one with the music.
Sweating profusely, Mayne felt something stirring behind him. He tried ignoring it for as long as possible. Finally, he turned and saw large flames billowing out of his bedroom. At first he thought it was a hallucination but the fire was scorchingly real and heading his way. His favorite guitar was already engulfed and dying. He wanted to save it but couldn?Tt. He refused to let his jamming be interrupted. Elizabeth was listening. Every time his fingers pressed the Steinway?Ts keys, crimson stained the ivory and smeared. He ignored the small red spots, sliding his long fingers through them. Scarred-up veins bulged from his forearms a sweat ran down his face. All hê?Td ever wanted to do with his life was play his music and now he was. For the moment, he felt free from his demons. He built up the courage and began singing ?oWithout You? in his natural gruff voice. The thick carpeting quickly became a wall-to-wall inferno as a giant wave of fire rose up and spread around the piano. He couldn?Tt have cared less. As flames swallowed the apartment, Mayne never screamed and never missed a note.

The End

Ai cần bản dịch thì nói nhé. Có bản dịch thì cũng post lên chia xẻ cùng cả nhà nhé.

thanks neverland

When my life is through and the angels ask me to recall the thrill of them all, I shall tell them I remember you

Bác có bản dịch post luôn đê,để tiếng Anh thế này thì em đầu hàng hehe
To live is to fight????????
To live is to hide?????????
To live is to f#ck????????
To live is to kill?????????
To live is to eat?????????
To live is to listen!!!!!!!!!
Or
To live is to die?????????
We Have Chosen

Dù rất muốn mời nàng khiêu vũ, Mayne lại không đủ can đảm để tiến gần đến một người đẹp như vậy. Thân hình hoàn hảo của nàng lắc lư nhịp nhàng theo điệu nhạc. Sự thơ ngây của nàng thật quyến rũ, vẻ đẹp của nàng thật sự làm hắn choáng ngợp. Mayne biết rằng nàng sẽ giận dữ nếu biết hắn ngắm trộm mình, nhưng sự tò mò con trẻ trong cái vẻ bề ngoài người lớn của hắn thôi thúc hắn tiến tới bất chấp chuyện gì sẽ xảy ra. Hơn nữa, đôi mắt nàng, đôi mắt long lanh, làm hắn liên tưởng đến một đại dương bao la, đẹp và huyền bí. Một cơn gió nhẹ lướt qua mái tóc của nàng. Chiếc váy dài mỏng tang phủ lên thân hình cân đối, mồ hôi trên da làm nàng như lấp lánh. Nàng đẹp đến nỗi như không có thực vậy.Trong cái khoảng khắc thị giác ngây ngất ấy, Mayne thừa nhận rằng nàng là người phụ nữ duy nhất mà hắn thực sự yêu. Ánh mắt nàng lấp lánh, có lẽ nàng đã nghe thấy mình, hắn nghĩ vậy khi thấy nàng quay về phía mình. Hắn không muốn huỷ hoại vẻ đẹp ấy, mà chỉ muốn có nó. Đôi môi dầy của nàng mỉm cười gợi cảm. Bỗng nhạc to dần lên.
Một cơn hoảng sợ thình lình ập đến khi hắn nhận ra đây là ca khúc nào của mình. Mồ hôi túa ra khắp người hắn và sự sợ hãi như đốt cháy hắn. Hắn nhìn thấy mọi vật bị méo mó, cảm thấy khó thở. Sự tuyệt vọng xâm chiếm hắn, làm co thắt mọi thớ thịt trong cái cơ thể gầy gò của hắn. Sự sợ hãi còn tồi tệ hơn cả sự đau đớn. Nỗi khắc khoải lướt qua người hắn khi hắn tiến gần đến chiếc máy chơi nhạc. Những bức tường, sàn nhà, không khí, mọi thứ trở nên nhợt nhạt và kì dị. Tiếng nhạc càng to thì hắn càng cảm thấy khó di chuyển. Hắn phải lấy cái đĩa nhạc ra, nhưng đôi chân hắn như có đeo đá vậy. Hắn đã không kịp, nàng đã kê nòng súng vào thái dương.
Blamm!
Mayne bật dậy, người ướt đẫm mồ hôi, tiếng thét tắc nghẹn như vẫn còn đọng lại trong cổ. Sáu tiếng đồng hồ trôi qua trong cơn mê mệt do rượu và ma tuý mang lại. Giấc ngủ đối với hắn như là một thứ xa xỉ phẩm và không thể có được nếu như không dùng chất an thần. Dù hắn có ngủ sáu giờ hay sáu phút thì cơn ác mộng cũng tìm cách bò đến. Không có loại thuốc ngủ hay thuốc chống suy nhược nào có thể giúp hắn. Hắn đã sáng tác bài hát đó, và mãi mãi bị nó đày đoạ. Hắn đưa đôi bàn tay run rẩy vuốt mồ hôi trên lông mày rồi chùi vào tấm satanh trải giường. Những chiếc vòng tay kim loại kêu leng keng. Nghiêng người sang một bên, hắn nhìn chằm chằm vào cái đồng hồ báo thức trên đầu chiếc bàn phòng ngủ có gắn một cái tủ lạnh ở dưới. Bên trên cái đồng hồ là một gói Marlboros đã hết một nửa. Hắn nhìn một cách vô hồn vào những con số màu xanh. Lúc này dù là mấy giờ thì cũng không thật sự quan trọng đối với hắn, thời gian của hắn đem lại tiền bạc cho người khác. Bên cạnh chiếc đồng là những thứ còn quan trọng hơn cả thời gian và tiền bạc nữa. Hắn uể oải ngồi dậy. Đôi mắt mệt mỏi lướt qua mặt chiếc bàn cẩm thạch để tìm chút bột nâu quí giá còn sót lại. Trên bàn có những que diêm cháy hết, những điếu thuốc cong queo, nhưng chẳng còn chút cocaine nào cả. Nhưng không hề gì, hắn luôn được cung cấp sẵn những thứ này. Ngồi bên thành giường, Mayne cúi xuống và mở tủ lạnh. Bên trong có vài lon Budweiser, baking soda, và một chai Dom Perignon lạnh cóng. Hắn chộp lấy một lon và nốc cạn một nửa. Hắn luôn làm vậy mỗi buổi sáng. Ngay lập tức, cơn đau đầu của hắn dịu đi. Dù không muốn thừa nhận nhưng cũng đã đến lúc hắn quay trở lại với cuộc sống. Hắn biết mình phải trở lại phòng thu sớm , nhưng hắn cảm thấy mình không có đủ sức để làm việc đó. Ngoài ra, việc ghi âm album mới nhất, Alone, đã được hoàn thành hơn một tháng rồi. Album này đang trong giai đoạn phối âm cuối cùng. Nếu Mayne cảm thấy thích những gì mình nghe, hắn sẽ chấp thuận và nó sẽ được phát hành theo kế hoạch. Nếu không, nó sẽ được phối âm lại cho đến khi hắn ưng ý. Vậy họ cần hắn vì cái mẹ gì kia chứ? Hắn chần chừ cho đến khi cuối cùng có thể đứng dậy khỏi giường.
Cũng giống như phòng ngủ của hắn, phòng tắm trông thật tan hoang, áo quần bỏ đi, kem, rác, băng cassette, khăn tắm, tất cả choáng hết tầm nhìn. Đảo mắt để tìm cái bát, hắn tìm thấy một cái bằng sứ, để chống lại cơn buồn nôn và tìm sự khuây khoả, hắn trở lại phòng ngủ, chưa thật sự cảm thấy là một con người, hắn cảm thấy mình giống như một robot khoác bên ngoài thân xác vay mượn của con người. Có một cơn đau âm ỉ trong bụng mà hắn đang dần quen, cũng như một số vấn đề khác về sức khoẻ, có thể quy cho lối sống phóng túng quá mức của hắn. Ngoài những thứ đồ trang sức đắt tiền, Mayne chỉ mặc một cái quần lót Jockey. Hắn vấp chiếc bàn trang điểm, lấy ra một cái quần đùi mà hắn đặt may theo yêu cầu và mặc vào. Hắn tìm thấy một bộ kimono màu tím sẫm treo trong một cái tủ khá to và khoác vào người. Trong ngăn kéo tủ đựng quần áo là một lọ nhỏ đựng cocaine. Xúc thuốc bằng móng tay út, tay nhạc sĩ tả tơi hít liền tám hơi. Bộ đồ kimono trở nên mát lạnh trên da thịt ấm áp của hắn. Hắn tự hỏi không biết mình có bị sốt hay không. Hắn luôn cảm thấy suy sụp, như có một cơn sốt triền miên vậy. Trước khi dùng món khoai tây, hắn uống hết lon bia và quẳng nó vào cái thùng rác đã được lèn chặt bởi các lon rỗng khác. Nhìn chằm chằm vào chiếc gương lớn, kẻ ẩn dật tụt dốc không còn nhận ra chính mình ở trong gương. Tất nhiên, mái tóc vàng dài và những vết xăm là của hắn rồi, nhưng sao trông hắn thật bạc nhược, trông qua thì có vẻ như đây là một kẻ sắp sửa phải vào bệnh viện vậy. Khuôn mặt một thời quyến rũ của hắn giờ đây tái xanh, căng ra và vô cảm. Bộ râu lởm chởm phủ lên cằm hắn, đôi mắt xanh ngọc giờ đây không còn sáng đẹp như trước nữa. Hắn cần phải uống cái gì đó.
Mười bốn năm trong hai mươi tám năm cuộc đời mà hắn đã trải qua gắn liền với cái chai. Từ những bữa tiệc bia và rượu vang trở thành vodka và rum ở các hộp đêm, và cuối cùng là whisky. Rời phòng ngủ, hắn thầm cầu nguyện vị thánh bảo trợ của mình mong sao còn chút rượu trong tủ. Một quầng sáng màu vàng bao quanh những bức màn dày. Dường như đã có một cuộc chiến nhỏ xảy ra ở phòng khách tối hôm trước. Những cái gạt tàn đầy, những chai rượu đủ loại, những bao thuốc rỗng hoặc đã vơi một nửa, những lon bia nằm la liệt khắp nơi. Một vài bìa CD đóng cặn cocaine. Mayne cố nhớ xem ai đã dự tiệc ở đây nhưng hắn không thể. Một gói Kool trống rỗng có nghĩa là một trong số những kẻ cung cấp hàng cho hắn đã ở đây, Jamie Jazz đã mang đến một thứ gì đó. Hắn nhanh chóng nhận ra mối liên hệ giữa những gói rỗng trong phòng ngủ và Jamie. Jamie là thứ rác rưởi điển hình ở Hollywood kẻ cung cấp rượu, ma túy, thức ăn cho những kẻ phiền muộn nổi tiếng, khai thác những chỗ yếu ở họ. Mayne cố nhớ thêm vài người nữa nhưng không thể.
Hắn trượt ra sau quầy rượu cạnh bếp và mở ngăn kéo. Có vài chai rượi mùi đủ loại chưa mở. Một cảm giác kích thích dâng lên trong cái bụng tóp rọp của hắn. Nếu không có Whisky thì sao nhỉ? Hắn lục tung lên cho đến khi tìm được một chai mà hắn thích. Hắn thở một hơi khoan khoái khi mở nắp chai. Mùi thơm của Whisky đối với hắn là sự thay thế cho cà phê mới pha.
?Chào cưng? Mayne nói to khi nâng chai lên môi.

Cũng như mọi ngày, hết ngụm này đến ngụm khác. Sau vài ngụm, hắn cảm thấy khá hơn. Hắn đặt chai rượu lên miếng lót và bỏ vào tủ lạnh. Nếu gặp may, hắn sẽ say trước khi ngày mới bắt đầu. Hắn mở tiếp một lon Budweiser và quay trở lại căn phòng khách lộn xộn. Có tiếng ong ong trong đầu hắn. Hắn không biết đó là tiếng của máy điều hoà nhiệt độ hay do cocaine gây ra nữa. Hắn không biết hôm nay là thứ mấy, không biết hôm nay có phải là ngày mà một ả chanh cốm theo lịch sẽ đến phục vụ hắn không. Ả có thể đem đến một bữa vui vẻ. Tay nhạc sĩ ngồi trên đi-văng, nhấc điện thoại và quay số 441.
?oTổng đài xin nghe. Thành phố nào vậy??
?oLos Angeles?
?oVâng??
?oHôm nay là thứ mấy?? Mayne từ tốn hỏi, và đốt một điếu Marlboro.
?oGì ạ??
?oHôm nay là thứ mấy??
?oThưa ông tôi là nhân viên tổng đài?
?oThưa bà, thông tin là ở nơi bà và tôi là người đang hỏi ,? Mayne chỉnh cô ta. Hắn cười khẩy một tiếng. Sau một thoáng im lặng cô trả lời hắn.
?oThứ tư, thưa ông.?
?oCảm ơn,? hắn nói rồi gác máy. Hôm nay sẽ không có gái đến phục vụ. Đây không phải là cách bắt đầu một ngày mà hắn muốn. Hắn nốc cạn bia, hút hết điếu thuốc, và hít thêm ít cocaine. Sau vài giây bối rối, hắn nhớ ra chỗ để cái bao đựng rác màu xanh và bắt đầu dọn dẹp phòng, hắn nhặt bất cứ thứ gì không được bắt ốc xuống nền nhà và tống vào bao. Chai lọ, hộp đựng thức ăn bị lèn chặt tới mức làm cái bao sắp toạc ra. Sau mười phút dọn dẹp, căn phòng trở nên gọn gàng hơn. Ngoài căn hộ này, hắn còn sở hữu một căn khác ở Manhattan và ở Houston. Hắn ít khi lui tới biệt thự ở Hollywood và ở Maui. Cả hai đều gợi lại quá nhiều kỉ niệm về nàng. Căn nhà ở Hollywood là nơi mà hắn và Elizabeth Aston đã trải qua những thời khắc tuyệt vời. Khi thấy mình lại bắt đầu suy nghĩ về nàng, theo bản năng Mayne trở lại quầy rượu và lấy một chai Whisky. Hắn có thể nghĩ mãi về nàng. Với tất cả tiền bạc, sự nổi tiếng, thành công, những điều tưởng chừng giản dị như tình bạn và tình yêu lại khó giữ biết bao. Hắn không hề có ý làm tổn hại ai, đặc biệt là những người thân thiết với hắn, nhưng vì một lý do nào đó mà chính họ lại là nhưng người bị hắn làm tổn thương nhiều nhất. Hắn chưa bao giờ là người độc ác, nhưng khi sống trong cái thế giới luôn bị dò xét, mọi chuyện sai trái dù là bất kỳ chuyện gì đi nữa đều có thể được dùng để lên án hắn và cuối cùng thường được kết thúc trên tờ ?oTin Tức Hàng Đêm?. Những thói hư tật xấu của hắn không được chấp nhận. Hắn thường chịu đựng trong im lặng, hắn bị cầm tù trong chính sự nổi tiếng của mình, hắn muốn thoát ra khỏi cái nhà tù này, nhưng nó quá rộng đối với hắn. Mayne đã cố bằng cách này hay cách khác để được là chính mình. Mọi sự giúp đỡ của các bác sĩ, các chuyên gia, các nhà trị liệu, người hâm mộ, và bạn bè càng làm hắn ẩn sâu hơn vào trong cái kén của mình, ngày càng xa lánh mọi người. Hắn thường tự hỏi không biết hắn thật sự là ai. Không biết hắn là kẻ sinh ra đã được xã hội che chở hay chính là một sự phản ánh chân thực của xã hội.
Hắn là một hiện tượng hay chỉ là cái vẻ bề ngoài? Có phải hắn là sản phẩm của chính trí tưởng tượng của mình hay hắn chỉ là một hòn gạch? Có bao giờ hắn hiểu được định mệnh của mình?
Trong thâm tâm, hắn phân tích tại sao mối quan hệ giữa hắn và Elizabeth lại đổ vỡ quá nhiều lần như vậy. Không giống như một nhà nghiên cứu, hắn mổ xẻ mọi tình huống, suy ngẫm về những điều mà hắn đáng lẽ ra phải nói và những việc hắn không nên làm. Khi nói đến ********, tại sao Elizabeth lại không hiểu rằng việc hắn ngủ với người khác không có nghĩa là hắn không yêu nàng. ******** cũng giống như là diễn kịch vậy. Hắn chưa bao giờ buộc nàng phải chung thủy, nhưng sâu trong thâm tâm hắn biết rằng hắn sẽ đau khổ nếu bắt gặp nàng đang ngủ với một kẻ nào khác. Tuy nghĩ như vậy nhưng hắn không thể giới hạn mình với chỉ một người phụ nữ. Hắn đã thử tìm cách thổ lộ với nàng nhưng cuối cùng lại nghĩ rằng nên giữ một vài điều bí mật. ******** là sự đam mê cái tôi giống như cảm giác trên sân khấu. Những khán giả khác nhau, những đồng sự khác nhau khiến hắn làm việc miệt mài hơn để nhận được sự tán thưởng. Giống như ma tuý, cơn nghiện của hắn tăng dần. Dù giàu có như một vị vua, tiền bạc không đem lại cho hắn tình yêu,hạnh phúc, sự thanh thản, và cả Elizabeth nữa. Nhìn quanh căn phòng rộng lớn, tay nghệ sỹ vỡ mộng ngắm nhìn những đồ trang hoàng hiện đại. Mọi thứ đều vô nghĩa với hắn ngoại trừ một vài món đồ lưu niệm.Chẳng có gì hiện hữu. Bao quanh hắn là những chiến lợi phẩm của một cuộc chơi vô nghĩa mà hắn đã nhàm chán.
Một cơn đau nhói trong tai trái đã khiến hắn quay lại cái hành lang tối dẫn từ sân khấu đến phòng thay đồ. Trong đầu hắn, những chiếc loa bốc lửa và nổ tung. Hắn đang phải chịu một trong những tác dụng phụ của nhạc rock ?~n?T roll. Hỏng tai. Tiếng vo ve âm ỉ chỉ kéo dài vài giây, nhưng những kỉ niệm của hắn với ban nhạc cũ, Suicide Shift, trong buổi diễn cuối cùng không bao giờ phai nhạt. Vì những lí do nào đó mà hắn không thể nhớ được, Elizabeth không thể đến dự buổi diễn cuối cùng được. Ban nhạc đang trong chuyến lưu diễn mười bốn tháng với hơn 285 buổi diễn. Cứ vài tuần Mayne lại mua vé máy bay cho nàng đến bất cứ thành phố nào mà hắn đang diễn và ở lại vài đêm. Buổi diễn cuối cùng với bất cứ chuyến lưu diễn nào cũng là một đêm quan trọng. Đây là một buổi diễn rất thành công của nhóm Suicide Shift?Ts và Mayne muốn chia sẻ niềm vui với nàng.
Nó là đỉnh điểm của những chuyến lưu diễn dài dằng dặc, những giờ lao động cực nhọc và nhóm xứng đáng được ăn mừng. Hắn đã nhiều lần gọi điện, thuyết phục nàng đến, nhưng nàng không thể. Buổi diễn hơn hai giờ đồng hồ thật náo động. Tất nhiên Mayne đã sử dụng nhiều rượu và ma tuý trước và trong buổi diễn(Buổi diễn nào hắn cũng làm như vậy), nhưng đây là đám đông cuồng nhiệt ở Florida và hắn biết rằng mình sẽ được ngủ cả tháng sau buổi diễn, vì vậy đêm ấy hắn toả sáng khác thường. Mỗi lần hắn chơi đoạn solo, hắn cố gắng chơi tốt hơn bất cứ lần nào hắn chơi trước đó. Mỗi lần hắn tiến đến chiếc microphone để hát hỗ trợ, giọng hắn dâng tràn với sự mãnh liệt của rượu Whisky. Với hắn, đó chính là tinh hoa của nhạc rock ?Tn?T roll. Đám đông hơn 4000 người đáp lại hắn bằng sự tán thưởng inh ỏi.
Sau bài cuối cùng, đã đến lúc ăn mừng. Mayne quấn lấy hai ả hừng hực trong phòng khách sạn. Trong phòng tắm hắn chích một ít heroin. Liều heroin không đủ làm hắn gà gật nhưng cũng đủ làm hắn phấn chấn. Sau khi cố gắng cởi chiếc quần lót màu nâu bóng mỡ, hắn nhập hội cùng hai ả trần truồng và cuộc truy hoan bắt đầu. Ma tuý phủ mây lên cái trí nhớ không mấy tốt của hắn, nhưng Mayne nhớ rằng Peter Terrance bước vào phòng hắn trong tình trạng say khướt. Tay trống của nhóm đã nhầm phòng của mình với phòng của Mayne. Trong lúc phấn chấn, Mayne tặng hắn một em. Terrance từ chối, nói rằng sẽ tự tìm lấy cho mình rồi bỏ đi. Cuộc mây mưa tay ba lại tiếp tục. Không lâu sau đó, có tiếng gõ cửa. Nghĩ rằng Terrance chấp nhận món quà của mình, Mayne gọi người đang gõ cửa vào. Đứng trước cửa là Elizabeth. Nàng bất ngờ bay từ Los Angeles đến Miami để gặp hắn. Cảnh tượng tồi tệ kia tự mình đã nói lên tất cả. Elizabeth bỏ đi trong tuyệt vọng và hoảng loạn. Đó chính là điểm khởi đầu cho sự kết thúc mối quan hệ của họ. Mayne trở về với thực tại. Đầu gối hắn kêu răng rắc khi hắn duỗi chân ra và đi tới chiếc điện thoại. Hắn ấn một nút. Số máy của Elizabeth vẫn còn trong bộ nhớ, thỉnh thoảng hắn vẫn bấm số ấy chỉ để được nghe tiếng chuông reo. Trong máy còn có số của phòng thu, ông bầu, ba thành viên của ban nhạc hiện tại của hắn, ban Mayne Mann Group, và một vài kẻ buôn bán ma túy. Không nghe thấy tiếng trả lời, hắn ấn số khác. Những chiếc vòng tay của hắn rung lên, vài giây sau ở đầu kia có tiếng đáp.
?oAlô?? một giọng nói không mấy nhiệt tình phun ra từ điện thoại trên ô tô.
?oTao đây,?Mayne nói, vừa nuốt cocaine.
?oÔng bạn yêu quý nhất của tôi,? Jamie reo lên như vớ được vàng.?Tôi có thể giúp gì cho anh??
?oCocaine và heroin?
?oKhông thành vấn đề.Chắc anh bạn nhớ những gì tôi đã làm cho anh tối qua phải không??
?oỪ.? Hắn chẳng nhớ gì cả.
?oAnh nợ tôi 300 $ cho cái món ngày hôm qua đấy, người anh em?, tay bán hàng giải thích phòng trường hợp Mayne quên. Chắc là tao có tiền lẻ ở đây. Nếu không, tao sẽ đưa cho mày cái thẻ Versateller của tao và mày có thể lấy những gì mà tao đã nợ mày.?
?oĐược.Tôi sẽ tới ngay,?Jamie nói cứ như vừa ban ân cho Mayne rồi gác máy.
?oThằng ********,?Mayne lầm bầm với chính mình.
Hắn châm một điếu thuốc và lấy thêm một chai bia nữa. Cái nắp bật tung và bọt tràn vào miệng hắn. Hắn ngắm một cách thích thú rồi đi về phía rèm cửa và kéo rèm lên, ánh sáng tràn ngập căn phòng.?Mẹ kiếp mày chứ,?hắn nói to, nheo mắt, và bật ngón tay giữa chỉ lên trời. Từ ban công nhà hắn có thể nhìn thật bao quát Thành Phố Của Những Thiên Thần ở phía dưới, thường thì Mayne ít khi kéo rèm lên, hắn không muốn là một phần của thế giới bên ngoài. Trong nhà hắn cảm thấy an toàn. Dựa vào bức tường phía xa, ở góc phòng là một chiếc đàn piano tuyệt hảo hiệu Steinway. Hắn đã tận hưởng những thời khắc thú vị với chiếc đàn này, và dù cho hắn không chơi đàn thì chiếc đàn cũng đem lại cho hắn sự kích thích về thị giác. Nó là một loại nhạc cụ của sự chính xác và duyên dáng. Bên cạnh chiếc piano, nằm trên những giá đỡ tiện nghi là nửa tá guitar: Những cây Les Paul, Stratocaster, và Telecaster. Những cây guitar hắn giữ trong nhà là những cây có đáng giá nhất đối với hắn.
Tiếng còi xe kéo Mayne ra khỏi dòng suy nghĩ miên man. Hắn đi ra tiền sảnh và ấn nút mở cửa. Vài phút sau Jamie Jazz đã có mặt trong nhà. Hàng tá đĩa vàng và đĩa bạch kim trang hoàng cho những bức tường. Những năm tháng phải lập kế hoạch, sáng tác, ghi âm và nỗ lực trong từng giờ từng phút đã giúp hắn gặt hái được những giải thưởng trên. Những sáng tác của hắn gắn liền với những nỗi đau thầm kín và sự cô đơn, những ca khúc mang âm hưởng blue thường liên quan đến những khó khăn rong cuộc sống. Đó là những ca khúc mà hắn rất tự hào và tin tưởng sẽ vượt qua được những thử thách của thời gian. Những bài hát có tiết tấu càng nhanh, càng gần với nhạc hard rock thường chẳng mấy ý nghĩa. Thật đáng tiếc, những giải thưởng sẽ chẳng còn ý nghĩa gì nữa nếu thiếu Elizabeth. Mayne cáo lỗi và đi vào phòng ngủ. Đằng sau một chiếc đĩa bạch kim là một cái két. Hắn lấy chiếc đĩa ra và quay số mở khoá. Bên trong có đồ trang sức, giấy tờ, và hơn 4000$ tiền mặt, một tẩu cocain cô đặc, và một khẩu Magnum 357 đã nạp đạn. Hắn chộp lấy vài tờ 100$ và trở lại phòng khách, bỏ mặc cái két đóng nhưng chưa khoá. Jamie đang ngồi trên đivăng, chân gác lên bàn,hắn tự lấy cho mình một chai bia.
?oTổng cộng là bao nhiêu??
?oBao gồm cả tối hôm qua hả? Sáu trăm,?Jamie đáp, sốt ruột với tiếng kêu của chiếc máy nhắn tin đeo bên hông.
Mayne đưa cho hắn sáu trăm và nhét phần còn lại vào túi quần hắn. Nhìn vẻ mặt của hắn, tên bán thuốc hiểu rằng Mayne muốn ở một mình.
?oGọi cho tôi nếu cần hàng,? Jamie nói rồi đi ra.