He stood in the shadows of the balcony, watching the lights above radiating out like stars, welcoming the nights chill to keep him focused, keep back the mounting depression sweeping through his body. He’d meant to call Jay, but he hadn’t. Deep down, he hadn’t wanted to call. Deep down, he wondered if this time would be THE time. Would he? Could he?
Rock Gods died young, but he hadn’t. Not yet. His cell lay on the wrought-iron table nearby.
Call, he told himself. Call. Pick up the fucking phone and call!
The night lay silent. Still. Nothing around to stop him from doing it. Slit his wrists. How many times had he tried in the past?
Beside his cell lay the knife. He could feel the solidness of the handle in his hand, the sharpness of the blade against skin.
Call! Call! Fucking call!
Let go. Find peace. Let go.
He slid down the cold stone, coming to rest on his haunches, hands over his face. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
Why wouldn’t the voices leave him alone?
Clumsy, he knocked the phone off the table.
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
Pushed speed dial.
“Jay, it’s… Chris.”