Ten Years After/Part 3
This part starts with Brian's POV before switching to someone else we know and love. Yeah, right. :-)
I bury my head under the pillow and struggle to shut out that voice. But
it's futile.
"Briannn!"
I surface, albeit briefly, simply to beg her to leave me alone. But she
never does.
"Please...go away, Shannon."
"There you are!" she exclaims, sounding like a warden capturing her
favorite prisoner. Again and again and...again.
"Get dressed. There's a reporter here to see you."
"No," I say, fully aware that I am incapable of real resistance at this
point.
"You have to do it."
"Why?" I wail. I know I sound pathetic, and I don't care.
"Tommy's fed up. He's gone on in your place all week long, and frankly,
darling, the show's not the same."
"That's why I pay him. To *be* Tommy Stone," I say through gritted teeth.
I can feel a headache coming on, and that's never a good sign.
"But he can't sing, Brian. People aren't deaf, you know." She sits down on
the bed next to me, and I cringe. I hate it when she tries to be nice. She
does her finest dirty work when she's pretending to be nice.
"What do you mean, he can't sing? For God's sake, all he has to do is
lip-synch," I growl, punching the pillow for good measure.
"But he can't sell a song. Not the way you do," she says in that
irritating voice that I know is meant to placate me. Well, it might have
worked once. When I was strung out on drugs. But now...well, let's just
say that there aren't enough drugs in the world to keep that noise out of
my head.
"He's a stick, Brian. He stands there and waves his arms, and he's so
bloody wooden, it's awful."
"We're still selling tickets, aren't we?"
"Yes--"
"We're still selling the bloody records, aren't we?"
"Yes, but--"
"Then go away, Shannon. And while you're at it, make the bloody reporter
go away, too. I can't go out. You know I can't." By this time, I feel
nauseated. From the headache. From the deception that has completely taken
over my life.
"But darling--"
I scream, and I am rewarded by the most painful throbbing I've ever
experienced. I renew my attempts to crawl under the pillow and there are
no words to describe what I feel. There never are.
There is only emptiness, and that, it seems, is the worst wound that
anyone could inflict on himself.
*****
"I can't do the interview," Tommy declares impatiently. "He'll ask
questions I can't answer, and you know what that does to me."
Yes, I think, it makes you look stupid, and you don't like that, do you?
No matter how much I pay you.
I smooth my hair back and force a too-bright smile. "Brian's not...feeling
well--"
"He never feels well, Shannon!" Tommy explodes. "You don't pay me enough
to take this shit! It's not what I signed on for! The occasional gig,
that's what you said. Just for a little while. Till he gets back on his
feet again, that's what you said. But it's been more than a little while,
hasn't it? Brian's not coming back, is he?"
I can't help it. I've always been protective of Brian Slade. From the
moment I first laid eyes on him, I've never wanted anything more than to
take care of him. But I'm beginning to think that all I've managed to do
is cripple him.
Tommy looks nothing like Brian. That's something that I've exploited to
Brian's benefit. Brian Slade literally disappeared ten years ago, and no
one has ever made a connection between the two men. Till now. Till this
reporter showed up, making vile, public accusations about Brian.
I won't have anyone bringing up Curt Wild again. Thank God it wasn't Brian
out there. Tommy was struck dumb, mercifully, and I was able to hustle him
away before he could say anything, no matter how insignificant.
I shudder to think what Brian would have done in his place. We never talk
about it. What Curt did. How Brian retaliated.
There has never been any love lost between me and Curt, but I must admit,
I admire the way he's kept his silence all these years. I've never paid
him to keep quiet. I've never had to.
If I cared, I suppose I would wonder why.
But Brian is my only concern.
And if Arthur Stuart refuses to take no for an answer...there are ways of
making him go away, too.
*****
I bury my head under the pillow and struggle to shut out that voice. But
it's futile.
"Briannn!"
I surface, albeit briefly, simply to beg her to leave me alone. But she
never does.
"Please...go away, Shannon."
"There you are!" she exclaims, sounding like a warden capturing her
favorite prisoner. Again and again and...again.
"Get dressed. There's a reporter here to see you."
"No," I say, fully aware that I am incapable of real resistance at this
point.
"You have to do it."
"Why?" I wail. I know I sound pathetic, and I don't care.
"Tommy's fed up. He's gone on in your place all week long, and frankly,
darling, the show's not the same."
"That's why I pay him. To *be* Tommy Stone," I say through gritted teeth.
I can feel a headache coming on, and that's never a good sign.
"But he can't sing, Brian. People aren't deaf, you know." She sits down on
the bed next to me, and I cringe. I hate it when she tries to be nice. She
does her finest dirty work when she's pretending to be nice.
"What do you mean, he can't sing? For God's sake, all he has to do is
lip-synch," I growl, punching the pillow for good measure.
"But he can't sell a song. Not the way you do," she says in that
irritating voice that I know is meant to placate me. Well, it might have
worked once. When I was strung out on drugs. But now...well, let's just
say that there aren't enough drugs in the world to keep that noise out of
my head.
"He's a stick, Brian. He stands there and waves his arms, and he's so
bloody wooden, it's awful."
"We're still selling tickets, aren't we?"
"Yes--"
"We're still selling the bloody records, aren't we?"
"Yes, but--"
"Then go away, Shannon. And while you're at it, make the bloody reporter
go away, too. I can't go out. You know I can't." By this time, I feel
nauseated. From the headache. From the deception that has completely taken
over my life.
"But darling--"
I scream, and I am rewarded by the most painful throbbing I've ever
experienced. I renew my attempts to crawl under the pillow and there are
no words to describe what I feel. There never are.
There is only emptiness, and that, it seems, is the worst wound that
anyone could inflict on himself.
*****
"I can't do the interview," Tommy declares impatiently. "He'll ask
questions I can't answer, and you know what that does to me."
Yes, I think, it makes you look stupid, and you don't like that, do you?
No matter how much I pay you.
I smooth my hair back and force a too-bright smile. "Brian's not...feeling
well--"
"He never feels well, Shannon!" Tommy explodes. "You don't pay me enough
to take this shit! It's not what I signed on for! The occasional gig,
that's what you said. Just for a little while. Till he gets back on his
feet again, that's what you said. But it's been more than a little while,
hasn't it? Brian's not coming back, is he?"
I can't help it. I've always been protective of Brian Slade. From the
moment I first laid eyes on him, I've never wanted anything more than to
take care of him. But I'm beginning to think that all I've managed to do
is cripple him.
Tommy looks nothing like Brian. That's something that I've exploited to
Brian's benefit. Brian Slade literally disappeared ten years ago, and no
one has ever made a connection between the two men. Till now. Till this
reporter showed up, making vile, public accusations about Brian.
I won't have anyone bringing up Curt Wild again. Thank God it wasn't Brian
out there. Tommy was struck dumb, mercifully, and I was able to hustle him
away before he could say anything, no matter how insignificant.
I shudder to think what Brian would have done in his place. We never talk
about it. What Curt did. How Brian retaliated.
There has never been any love lost between me and Curt, but I must admit,
I admire the way he's kept his silence all these years. I've never paid
him to keep quiet. I've never had to.
If I cared, I suppose I would wonder why.
But Brian is my only concern.
And if Arthur Stuart refuses to take no for an answer...there are ways of
making him go away, too.
*****