It began as a normal spring day, the birds were singing, a gentle breeze was blowing from the ocean, across 50 miles of concrete and glass, and through the open windows of my small bungalow. I could feel the warmth of the afternoon sun basking me in its radiant light, warming my empty bed, comforting me.

I rose at around 3pm: Not unusual for me.  This is our down time, the time my band and I part ways to prepare for the arduous task of recording another gut-wrenching album.   And I enjoy these times, as I don’t have to write music, I don’t have to expose myself.  I can sleep all day and night, I don’t have to look or even think about music.

I have always likened writing music to spending a week in hell, but our fans enjoy our sorrow-filled songs.  Critics say that our music is "a refreshing departure from the tripe that makes up modern music", but to me, it’s much more:  It’s a release of the oppressive thoughts.

Since Robert Smith of the Cure retired, we have been crowned the new kings of "Doom and Gloom".   Our first single debuted at number one on the Billboard Charts, and we have never looked back.  We are all very rich men, now: all except for me.

I have given all the proceeds from our shows, all my royalties, save a tiny nest egg for myself, to several causes.  I have no need for money or fame. The only thing I needed was my precious Brigit.  I longed for the love we shared, before all this, before she left, before my career.

I lay in bed, pondering it all; I have not spoken to her in 5 years.  How was she? Was she happy?  Did she find someone?   What was I doing? Was there a point to it all.

Questions I did not have answers to.  I had heard stories that she had moved away, to Los Angeles, and she was doing quite well with herself, a back-up singer for some up-and-coming rock band. 

I am sure she knew how I was fairing.  My visage had been plastered all over all the magazines, the band has played gigs at all the late-night shows; Leno, Letterman, Mad TV, and Saturday Night Live.  We had been on a world tour, playing mostly stadiums, but some smaller, more intimate clubs.  I am sure she caught one of the 3 sold-out shows we played in LA, or did she even care?

No matter.  She left me.  She pointed me down this road of dispair that I so sullenly trudged down.  She had completed my transformation into this husk of a man, this sobering creature that exists, and nothing more.

By now, the sun was slowly setting, I was still in bed.  I could see the bright sunlight slowly turn golden across the black satin comforter I laid under, and then slowly, ever so slowly, fade to a crimson orange, then to dark.

After rising, showering, and grabbing a bite to eat, I went outside and sat on the porch, listening to the calls of the small bats that populated the neighborhood.  Here, I was safe.  Here I could watch the stars, and the moon, and I could stay in my thoughts. 

Most people know the eyes are "the gateway to the soul", but mine are empty, the bitterness and angst of the years had taken its toll.  I was hardly the man she knew.  I gained weight, my long brown curls were now dyed a bright blue-black, and my skin had lost its tan, from the years of prowling the night.  The years of pain had taken its toll, as well.  My mouth hung in a frown most of the time, and when not frowning.  My once golden smile had turned into a half-smile, half frown: the corners of my mouth turned up, but the middle stayed in the same place.

But none-the-less, I suppose I was content with merely existing.  There had been rumors that I was secretly married or some such bullshit, as I never was one for groupies or fan mail. 

Can’t people understand that I share my music with people because that’s what is supposed to be done with music?  I never cared about fame and fortune, about wealth and television appearances.  All I wanted was to be loved and appreciated by Brigit, but that is now impossible.

I arose from my place on the steps to my porch, and headed to the beat up 1974 Chevy I called "my mode of transportation", and headed west on I-10.  Destination: Unknown.

*  *  *

I drove for what seemed like hours.  My thoughts wandered from what the next tour will be like, to why I am doing this. No thoughts of Brigit: I escaped her for the time being.

Crossing the Leon County border, and just beyond Tallahassee, I stopped for gas at a small mom-and-pops gas station.  The crumbling building must have been 100 years old.  It was made of cinder blocks, and had an old, wooden frame roof.  The service island consisted of two ancient unleaded only fuel pumps: the kind with the numbers that went round and round when one pumped gas into their vehicle.  I pulled up to the island, hearing the "Ding-Ding" of the pressure bell as I drove across its black tentacle-like sensor.

An old man hobbled out of the station and said in a think southern accent, "Fill ‘er up, sonny?"

            "Yes, please." I said mindlessly, my thoughts on my destination, still unknown.

I exited the car and stood on the island while the attendant, who’s patch on his left breast pocket declared his name was "Bubba", pumped the life-giving fuel into my transportation.

            "It’s gunna be quite a night, the weather man says a storm’s a-comin.  You should look for a place to wait it out, kid", he said looking up at me and grinning with a near-toothless grin. "Florida storms are not somethin’ to play around with."

I said nothing, but I knew he was right: Florida storms are not like other storms in this country.  They begin slowly enough, but then they turn into a torrent, a fury of nature, especially this time of year.  They don’t last too long, a few hours, but in that time, they can dump 10 inches or more of rain.

I paid the guy a twenty, and told him to keep the change, hopped in the car, and started the engine.  As I pulled out of the station, and back on the highway, I noticed small droplets of rain collecting on the windshield. 

Another 3 or 4 miles, and the gentle breeze-blown sprinkle turned into a gale-blown torrent, and I found myself looking for a place to turn around and head back to the gas station. 

After another 3 miles or so, I found a place to turn around, and headed back.  It was now pouring so hard, I could barely see the road.  The windshield was fogging up.  I thought about finding an overpass to hide under, but I did not recall one along the way.  The gas station was my salvation, my sanctuary from the cold spring rain.

I arrived about a quarter to three in the morning.  The last mile took an eternity, because the rain was so hard, I could not drive faster than 20 to 30 miles an hour. 

I stepped out of the car, and made a break for the darkened cinder hovel of the convenience store.  I would be safe there, out of the rain.  The power must be out, because it was pitch black, I could not see a thing.  The floodlights that covered the fuel pumps in artificial light no longer burned.

But the door was unlocked, and I hurried inside. 

* * *

The door slammed shut behind me.  I was completely drenched.

I could hear the pitter-patter of the wind blown rain beating up against the large glass portal by the register, and the silhouettes of assorted food products along the small aisles.  A musty smell of decay filled my nostrils with the sickly-sweet smell of finely aged twinkles and other assorted Hostess and Little Debbie products. 

I stood there in the doorway for a moment to take the scene in.  But then, I heard the sound.

It was kind of a creaking sound, like the sound made when walking across loose floorboards, I stepped forward, and noticed scattered remains of a snack-food display.  There, I found Bubba, gasping for air, and then falling silent.  His empty eyes gazed at me, am expression of pain forever carved into his face.  His mouth was slightly ajar, as if to say, "leave here, now!"  Blood was slowly dripping from his ears and nose.

The old man must have had a heart attack.  I ran behind the counter, and found the phone I was looking for.  It was one of the pulse kinds, where you have to stick your finger in the wheel and turn it around. I picked up the receiver, and attempted to call 911.  No dial tone.  I pressed the white buttons in between the hooks several times, each time, getting a satisfying clack-clack-clack sound, but it didn’t help.  The phone lines must be down, too.

Just then, the door thrust open, and in ran a panting figure, also soaked to the bone.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"  She called out, her voice somewhat familiar.

I stood there, frozen.  She stepped forward, and saw Bubba’s body.  She stifled a scream, and fell back, aghast of the scene laid out before her. 

            "He’s dead." I said, calmly. "He must have had a heart attack or a stroke.  He was dead when I got here."

            "Who are you!"? She replied, still in shock.

            "Gaelen Samuels", I replied.

            "The singer for Misery?" She asked, a little startled.

            "One and the same" I replied, my voice still monotone and calm.

She stood up and walked over towards the counter where I stood.  Slowly, so painfully slowly. I could hear the squishy click of her soaked shoes as she walked. 

I took a lighter from next to the register, and flicked it into action, so she could see my sorrow-filled, rain-soaked faced.

            "Oh! It IS you!" she exclaimed.  "I’m a big fan of your music! It speaks volumes to me!"

I could only gaze at her face, the locks of her hair obscuring her left eye, but I knew who she was.  She was my Brigit, a little taller, a little older, but still, my Brigit.  She knew me in my pre-misery days as David Smith, struggling bleeding heart and artist.  I had changed a lot since then, my face grown older, and colder, my body bloating out with fifty pounds of extra weight. She had no idea of who I was before the band, and she did not recognize my familiar features behind my dead eyes.

She knew me only as Gaelen Samuels, lead vocalist and shady recluse of the band "Misery".

            "Let’s see if we can find some candles", She said, excited that she was stranded with a celebrity.

I followed her to the shelves, and immediately found several boxes of tea-light candles.  I hurried back behind the counter and lit several of them.  Her full splendor came into view.  Her reddish-auburn hair was soaking wet, as was the black tee shirt she wore, She was wearing a long, black broomstick skirt, but the pleats had been rain-soaked out. She stared at me with her icy blue eyes, taking in the fact that she was standing in the same room as her idol, a musical genius in her eyes.

            "So, where are you headed?" she said, looking deep into my empty eyes.

            "I don’t know yet.  West.  I just want to get away for a while", I replied, meeting her gaze.

            "I can’t believe that I’m standing here with you", she said excitedly, almost giggling.  "I’m a huge fan!"

            "I bet you are, my darling", I said.

She looked at me in astonishment, then in slight horror.  I grinned my half-grin, then continued.

            "Where are you heading?"

            "Jacksonville", she replied. "I am going to see my parents, and hopefully, to find a love I lost a long time ago".

            "Oh?" I asked inquisitively.  "What was this lost love like?"

            "He was wonderful!" she said.  "I don’t know why I left him in the first place.  He did anything for me, anything at all; save let me see other men. I understand now, that he did it to protect me, and because he couldn’t possibly share me with another man, simply because he loved me so much."

My mind reeled.  She was coming to find me.  She was coming back to Jacksonville, because she wanted to have another go at things with me.  This, I knew, was impossible.  In my mind, she died that day she left me, as David died when she said "I don’t want to see you anymore."

I spent 5 years trying to forget that day, and now, the memory of her words to me came flooding back, memories like the torrents of raindrops outside. I was honestly taken aback about this, about how she could; after all she did for me, harbor feelings for me still, as I surely did for her.

She gazed at me, waiting for a response, while I spaced out in my own thoughts.

            "I have a confession to make." She said, as she sauntered around the counter.

 She was now close enough to me for me to smell her familiar perfume, and feel her breath on my face.  She looked up into the bottomless pits of my eyes for a moment, then reached up and caressed my cheek with the back of her milky-white hand.

            "I have always dreamed of being alone with you", she said.  "I’ve always wanted to be with you, Gaelen."

            "You don’t know me!" I exclaimed, stepping back.

            "Ahh, but I do. I do!" She said tenderly.  "You are the sexiest man alive, to me, at least."

            "What about your lost love?" I said, again, moving to avoid her touch.

            "Well, it looks like we’re stuck here.  He’ll wait.  He’s been waiting for 5 years." She moved in on me.

            "Five years is a long time.  I lost someone, Bridget." Her seductive face turned to horror.

            "How did you know my name?" She said, looking hard at me.

            "I don’t know your name, but my former self does.  He knows that you made him turn into me.  He knows that the pain in the lyrics I write are a direct consequence of your departure form his life."  I spoke rapidly and with anger.

"Dav..  Davie?" She said, staring at me in disbelief.

            "I have not been ‘Davie’ for five years. My name is Gaelen.  ‘Davie’ died when you left him for that asshole Chris", I hissed, genuinely angry.

She began to cry.

            "My god, Davie!  I never knew I hurt you so much! I am so sorry!  You loved me so much, and expected nothing in return. You gave yourself completely to me. I know that now", she sobbed.

            "You rejected me, and you expect me to take you back?" I said, the fire and fury rising within me.  "I vowed a long time ago to NEVER let you back into my life! You made me what I am today: A sickening husk of a man.  A recluse bent on dying alone, to never be hurt again by the likes of you!"

            "But Davie, I was young!  I didn’t understand all that you gave to me", she exclaimed.

            "That’s bullshit, and you know it!" I hissed. "I gave you everything, and I expected nothing in return. You said that yourself." Her face filled with horror.

            "And now I expect nothing from you other than you to leave me alone, and to experience the pain I feel daily, because of your selfishness!"

I pushed her aside, and walked around the counter, and opened the door.  The rain had let up a bit, and it was safer to drive.  I turned around and looked at her, her mascara running, tears streaming from her eyes.

            "You died to me the day you left me." Those words echoed in my head like the thunder echoing outside.

As I shut the door, I heard her cries for me to come back.   Her pitiful cries for mercy, to save her from her pain.  I ignored them, as if they were simply the howling of the wind against the rusted "76" sign that blew in the breeze above the gas station.

I headed back to Jacksonville, feeling a little better about myself.

I got back in town in time to catch the noontime broadcast of the news.  The top story for today was about the horrible Leon County murders.  Apparently, a Jacksonville native stopped to avoid the bad storms the night before at a local gas station, and found the attendant dead.  Distraught about the death, she took her life with a shotgun she found under the counter, and shot herself.

Her suicide note was carved into her arm by a cigarette lighter childproofing metal bracket.  It was merely the words "I love you, Davie".

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