Marnie adjusted his tie. Big rockstar still couldn’t do nothing but a schoolboy’s Windsor. The suit looked good, hanging off his (now) tiny frame. The thick cotton of his shirt acted as a shield, protecting his sallow skin from the world. Marnie smoothed the collar down three times and patted it. He coughed like he might collapse.
The suit hung well, but it hung.
He stroked the neck of the ’54 Goldtop before picking it up and felt a slight twinge in his dick that reminded him of times.
They were all gone now.
To the needle, to the gun and the noose or white rails or alive and gone to decaying bodies and minds. And now it was his time too. Hepatitis countdown. As much as anyone had ever said they were ready, they normally buckled at the end and pleaded for longer or another go-round. But he was all pleaded out. He’d lived far longer than he ever should have and was ready. Everything was ready. The amps. The band. The lights. The soundman. The set. Everything was perfect.
For one last time he made people dance and scream and weep. Every note sang. Every silence held command. They were all his. Everything was perfect.
He went home, closed his eyes and waited for the nothing to take hold.
The morning came with a sigh. He ran his hands over his face and spent scant seconds realising that the soft cotton he was pulling disappeared with the strengthening sun. Limbo was nothing but light through a soft blind and the hangover he thought he’d never have to face.
The days dragged and disappeared as he waited. Eating only when he had to. Not answering the phone. The messages mounted up. His phone died. There were knocks on the door. But it all happened outside of the frame. After a while he stopped listening. Stopped eating. Stopped everything but watching for reports of his death which didn’t come. He wasn’t sure what day it was. If there were even knocks or buzzes or an outside world or if there had been anything apart from the bleaching blue of the television. Just abstract colours and noises.
With knees that hardly worked, with paper skin and tongue he left. Shaking foot after shaking foot. The world was a screaming riot. The door was open. He no longer had a use for it.
The familiar signposts had swapped and shifted like apocalyptic chains. Trees and skylines all played tricks and the horns of ending screamed his name. The children who would ask him where he was going whispered their expected questions. He walked, barely, as wars destroyed civilisations. New ones formed themselves and aped and differed in ways that bored him, being destroyed and reborn again and again. The sky ate buildings and gave birth to the new until there was nothing more to give birth to. His own innate desires became quieter and quieter until the nagging pain stretched out like a canvas across everything.
The ground dragged in and pulled out, tearing the last bits of it all apart with a shrug. The last tiny, unrecognisable pieces.
As his breathing continued unrelentingly, he watched the waves to the sounds of the howling earth.