He couldn’t sleep. Every little noise was keeping him awake. The tap dripping in the kitchen sink, the toilet kicking on and off, even his own breathing. He could hear some wheezing deep in his chest. That wasn’t good.

Rob gave up and threw back the covers, his feet hitting the floor. “Fuck,” he swore.

The tour bus would be leaving first thing in the morning for San Diego. He would never make it at this rate. He desperately needed to sleep.

“Fuck,” he said again.

Rob left the bed and went to the bathroom, throwing open the medicine chest. Taking the bottle of cough syrup from the top shelf, he shook it, then squinted his eyes, trying to see how much was left in the dark bottle. From what he could tell, it wasn’t much.

Putting the bottle to his lips, he upended it and drank the last of the contents. It soothed his throat. Maybe it would clear the wheezing in his chest. Maybe it would help him sleep.

He turned around and flipped the handle on the toilet tank several times to stop it from running, then padded back to his bed.

Everything in his apartment reminded him of Lucy. He hadn’t heard anything from her. He had no idea where she was or what happened to her. He still called her every day and left a voicemail, hoping she would call back.

Fear seemed to clutch at him every time he thought of her. Something happened; he was sure of it. There was no one he could call to find out. Neither one of them had any family to speak of, and neither one had made friends in LA. Making friends in LA was impossible.

Rob decided to keep the apartment when he left. He paid eight months' rent in advance, just in case, and informed the landlady about Lucy.  He hoped she was taking care of herself and their unborn baby.

Rob’s mind was a jumble of presumptions. He tried to remember their last conversation but kept coming up empty. At first, he thought it was the night he took the overdose. He vaguely remembered her talking about getting married, the baby, and going on the tour with him. He searched his mind. The memory was so shapeless he couldn’t grasp it.

He had a feeling that they argued. That wasn't something new, but this argument seemed worse than the others. Rob wondered if the fight was so severe that Lucy finally walked out on him. He hoped that wasn’t the case.

There was another fragile memory, though, and it seemed to be in the forefront of his mind. He was tied to a hospital bed, and Lucy had promised to get him out. She left to bring clothes. She never returned.

Rob grew hot under the blanket, so he tossed it aside and lay naked and uncovered. He felt his heart thudding against his ribs. He wished Lucy were with him right now. She could calm the anxiety attack that was trying to overtake him.

The way he was feeling now, he believed he was past the trying to phase and heading into a full-blown panic attack. He got out of the bed and started pacing the floor. This was the worst thing to do under the circumstances, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. With every step he took across the floor, panic and anxiety built.

“Goddammit!” he shouted to the ceiling.

Leaving the bedroom, Rob padded to the kitchen and poured a tall Jack and Coke, drinking it thirstily. The first one only eased the anxiety a little bit. He made a second one and drank that down.

“Fffuuuccckkk!” he screamed.

Getting angrier by the moment, he went to pour another drink and, instead, threw the glass in the sink where it shattered against the yellowed porcelain. He grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels by the neck, almost smashing it against the wall before he caught himself. Removing the cap off the bottle, he tipped it up and drank until he needed to take a breath. When he pulled the bottle away from his lips, he had consumed half of it.

“Fuck!” he screamed again at the walls. He was so upset and so angry he lost control of everything, even his speech. There was no remembering the way Lucy could talk him down. He was beyond any common sense. All he could see was red.

He pulled open the cupboard doors in the kitchen and started tossing. Dishes, coffee cups, silverware, even pots, and pans went flying at the walls. He got under the sink and threw the glass jar that held the spare coins he had made with Lucy. It hit the refrigerator and shattered.

When Rob had done all the damage he could do there, he turned his sights on the refrigerator. He pulled open the door so hard it almost snapped off its hinges. The ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, and other condiments he hurled were smeared on the kitchen floor. Rob stood up and tried to close the fridge.

His anger peaked when the fridge wouldn’t close. He slammed it. Then he slammed it again. One more time, he slammed it. When it wouldn’t close, he kicked it, knocking the door completely off.

“Motherfucker!” he shrieked at the top of his lungs.

He went to the bedroom and started ripping clothes off the hangers. He had to pack. Did he even own a suitcase? No, he didn’t. Well, he had plenty of garbage bags. He used to cover the windows with them. He returned to the kitchen and rooted around in the drawers for the trash bags.

When he couldn’t find any, his anger finally gave way, and he slipped to the floor and started to cry.

“Motherfucker,” he cried. This time it wasn’t in anger but in defeat. What had he done?

***

Someone was pounding on the door. A muffled voice came through the woodwork.

“LAPD, open the door.”

Rob couldn’t move. He lay on the kitchen floor, stark naked, covered in Heinz Tomato Ketchup, French’s Yellow Mustard, Jack Daniels, and his own piss.

“LAPD, open the door, Mr. Starre,” the voice said again. The pounding on the door started again.

Rob groaned and rolled onto his side. It must be the middle of the night. Why was someone pounding on his door, for Christ's sake? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t seem to move. Ignoring the constant knocking, he closed his eyes and fell back into fevered dreams.

The sound of wood splintering reached his ears. Rob felt a rush of cool air on his face.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice said. “Look at this mess. You better check to see if he’s alive.”

A cool hand touched his throat, then his chest. “He’s alive, but barely, I think. At least he’s still breathing.”

Rob could hear lots of voices now. They seemed to be coming from a radio or transmitter. He couldn’t understand what they were saying but seemed to be using a lot of numbers. 10/4? He knew that one.

Now he was being lifted from the ground, a blanket thrown over him. That was nice. He was cold. He was placed on a rigid board and could feel himself moving. The wheels of the cart he was on were going bump, bump over the rough patches in the parking lot. He tried to roll over and get more comfortable, but he couldn’t seem to move at all. Did they strap him down again? Damn them. At least he was warm. Rob let the cart take him where it wanted and fell back to sleep.

***

“Rob, wake up.” Someone was shaking him.

“Rob, damn it, wake up!” The voice grew more insistent, the shaking more forceful.

“Get the fuck off me,” Rob mumbled. “Leave me alone.”

“If I leave you alone, dumbass, you’re going to jail. Now wake the fuck up!”

The shaking turned into the hardest punch Rob ever experienced.

His eyes flew open, and he tried to focus them. He was in a hospital bed, strapped to the sidebars. Again?

“What the fuck…”

“Wake up, Rob.” The deep voice said again. “It’s time to go.”

He turned his head toward the voice, focusing his eyes on DeWayne. “What are you doing here, D?”

“Saving your ass,” DeWayne answered. “Now, wake up. I’m going to cut these straps, and we’re getting the hell out of here. Because if we don’t, good buddy, it’s all over for you.”

Alarm ran through Rob as he tried to crawl from the fog that surrounded his head. What did D mean? It’s all over for you? Was he in trouble again?

DeWayne pulled the strap tight against his belly, and, using a swiss army knife, he sawed through the leather. It didn’t take much effort. He was strong, and the leather was cheaply made.

“Sit up, Rob,” he ordered once the straps were cut. “You need to get dressed.”

Get dressed? Wasn’t he already dressed? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t seem to sit up anyway. His brain was in a fog, and his body was limp.

DeWayne slid his big arms beneath Rob’s shoulders and forced him to a sitting position. He pulled the hospital gown over Rob’s head, and in one swift movement, shoved a white orderly uniform on him.

“Now you got to stand up, Rob,” DeWayne ordered. “I can’t help you; you have to do this part alone. Are you feeling me?”

“Yeah,” Rob tried to nod his head, but it made him dizzy. “I’m feeling you.”

Rob stood on rubbery legs and let DeWayne lift one leg after the other, sliding them into a pair of matching orderly pants. He tightened the belt around Rob’s waist and stood up straight.

“Too tight?” he asked Rob.

“No,” Rob drawled, shaking his head. Once more, the dizziness tried to knock him down.

“Shit,” He swore suddenly. “I forgot shoes. Fuck it. Whatever. You’ll have to keep any attention away from your feet, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Rob agreed, not knowing what he agreed to.

“Here’s the deal,” DeWayne said gravely. “You’re going to leave this room and walk down the hall like nobody’s business. Go straight to the elevators, then out the front door. Got it? Don’t bring any attention to yourself.”

“Got it,” Rob said.

“For God’s sake, Rob, shake it off. You have to get out of here. You’re in some serious shit.” DeWayne grabbed Rob by the shoulders and shook him until his head rocked back. “Listen to me and listen good. There’s a cop sitting right outside your room. He’s not paying a lot of attention; mostly, he’s playing on his cell. And that’s a good thing for us. All he saw when I walked in here was a white orderly uniform. All he’s going to see walking out of here is a white orderly uniform. You got me?” There was not a hint of laughter in DeWayne’s voice. The man was not kidding.

“I got you,” Rob replied. “I’m in big trouble, ain’t I?” He straightened his shoulders and lifted his head higher.

“The biggest.”

“How are you going to get out of here?”

“It’s fine. I’ll just walk out. Ain’t no cops got anything on me. By the time I walk out, you’ll be gone. Okay?”

“Okay, D, I got this,” Rob assured him.

“Good, then here we go.”

Rob took a deep breath. He was scared and wanted nothing to do with cops. He couldn’t remember what he had done for a cop to be sitting outside his door, but he knew it had to be serious.

Holding his head up, keeping his eyes straight ahead, Rob left the room and strolled down the hall of the hospital. He prayed no one would look at his feet. At least he had white socks on, and if he weren’t studied for too long, no one would notice. At a glance, they might pass for white tennis shoes.

Rob kept a steady pace down the hall until he reached the elevators. While he waited for the doors to slide open, he tried not to fidget. That would surely draw attention to him. Eventually, when they did, he stepped inside, pushing the button for the bottom floor.

Thank God the car was empty.

The ride down made him want to throw up. The first lurch of the car left him dizzy and feeling sick. He held his head with his hands and waited for the car to stop.

When it did, the doors slid open. Rob didn’t look around. He left the elevator and made his way to the front of the hospital. The automatic sliding doors came into view, and he almost cried out in relief.

A few more steps and the doors slid open, and he was stepping outside. He didn’t waste time looking for Dwayne’s car. He kept walking straight ahead until he came to the end of the parking lot, then sat down on the curb and waited for his friend to find him.

“Never again,” he said to himself. “I’m done with booze. It’s going to be the end of me.”

It seemed like a long time before the car pulled up to the curb where Rob sat. When it finally did, he threw open the door and climbed inside. He looked at DeWayne, his eyes wide open now.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said.

© Copyright 2026 k.l.warzala. All rights reserved.