With Gio.

A sharp pain sliced through my gut at the thought of Gio. He’d pulled me from my shit life and had given me something to live for. I spent every day with him, he was my best friend… and I’d had him killed. The fact of which fucking haunted me every minute of every day.

I’d had to get my best friend killed to protect my brothers. No one knew what the guilt of that did to me.

I huffed a laugh to myself. My brothers that I’d done everything for didn’t even want me. Gio’s death buried any ties to my crew. And now I had a price on my head… and a damn ugly scar on the back of my neck to show how close my old crew brothers came to cashing in on it.

Moving my bottles of liquor to the passenger seat, I reached into the glove compartment and took out a roll of fifties I kept in there.

I stared at the crew again, and before I talked myself out of it, I headed in their direction.

A member of the crew clearly saw me coming, and pushed to the front of his brothers, his face stern and ready to take me on. I smirked as he did. The asshole had no idea who I was, who he was fucking with if things went south.

“What the fuck do you want?” the pint-sized punk asked as I joined them in the shadows.

Smiling coldly at the little Hispanic leader’s ballsy attitude, I reached into my pocket. All the brothers staggered back, reaching to the front of their jeans to pull out their guns. Without flinching, I pulled out my roll of fifties and held it up.

“Snow,” I said coldly. The leader relaxed and gestured, calling off his boys.

Handing me a couple of bags filled with white powder, the leader pressed them into my palm, the feel of those plastic packets so familiar that, weirdly, it soothed me. Turning on my heel, the leader shouted, “You with a crew? You got enough markings that say you are.”

Stopping, I glanced back, seeing the camaraderie amongst the guys standing protectively around their leader. I missed that. That shit was family to me. That was life.

“Not no more,” I replied sharply, feeling that long scar at the back of my neck burning like the day it was made.

Walking quickly, I got to my car, shoved the bags of coke into my jeans, cracked open the Jim Beam and drove back to the studio.

Kicking open the old wooden door to the studio, I pounded through holding the stash of liquor to my chest, whiskey already open, half empty from my ride home. The amber liquid was warming my chest, giving me a perfect fucking buzz. The studio was dark and cold and completely silent.

Silence… I couldn’t stand fucking silence.

Stumbling through the hallway, tripping over old boxes and lumps of discarded marble, I eventually reached the entrance of my studio, but not before stumping my foot on a large box just beside the doorway.

Frowning in confusion at what it was, I staggered to the workstation beside my work-in-progress, dumped my liquor on the wooden top, pulled out half of my coke, leaving the other bag for later. I threw it down beside the glass bottles of mind numbing perfection.

Flicking on a lamp on the workstation, I walked back to the hallway, picked up the strange box and brought it into the studio. Dropping the box next to my current sculpture, I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and slumped down to the floor. Taking four long gulps of Beam, I placed the bottle beside me and ripped the box open.

The contents immediately came into view and chased the breath from my lungs. The titles and text boards for my show.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled through my nose and used my hands to push myself to my feet.

Silent… it was all too fucking silent.

Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my phone, attempting to open my music, when all I could see were a shit ton of missed calls and text messages from Austin…

AUSTIN: Where are you, Axe? You still here at the stadium?

AUSTIN: Been looking for you all over. Where are you? Want to take you out for dinner.

AUSTIN: Back home now. I’m worried. Why did you take off without telling me? Did something happen?

Feeling a rush of guilt pass through my chest, I pushed it from my mind the minute I pictured that blond Redskins punk kissing Aliyana on the lips, her fucking bright smile and huge brown eyes looking up at him afterward, and her hand pressing on his chest. Then…

You were the only guy that I’ve ever felt that fucking bolt of lightning in my heart with, and you turn out to be… him! You!

Feeling like I’d taken a hit to my stomach at the replay of her words, her words that were right on the fucking money, I plugged in my speakers and let the heavy bass beats of Linkin Park pound through the studio.

Looking at the box sitting on the floor, I made my way forward, grabbing the Patron as I did so. Dropping my ass to the tiled floor, the room beginning to spin, I ripped off the top and took a long drink like it was water and not real good fucking Tequila.

Lining up the Patron next to the whiskey, I reached into the box, pulling out the title reading ‘Exsanguination’. My stomach muscles involuntary tightened seeing the title of one of my pieces there in black and white.

It somehow made all this shit real.

Placing the title plaque by my feet, I then picked up a larger board. The lettering was the same non-descript font, the color scheme black against white. But there was a lot more writing, and I began to read…

“The sculptor’s inspiration for his dark and highly emotional ‘Exsanguination’ piece is one born of man’s intense inner conflict with guilt. The subject’s fetal position is due to his inability to face his grief, his inner turmoil bringing him physically to his knees. Each carefully black painted dagger plunged into the cracked Carrara marble portrays the heavy burden of sin on a soul, the reparation of man’s deliberate violation of morality. The punishing daggers are irremovable and a permanent reminder to the subject that his crimes can never be forgotten or redeemed. Nor can he ever be saved. He bleeds his guilt in an eternal ever-flowing state of desolation.”