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Cold As Stone: Broken

The beginning of the end
Going nowhere fast
Broken and disrepaired
Broken and no one cared
The beginning of the end
What was left to mend

Broken M.S. 1987

“Andrea, I’ve got some new music.” I said as I rushed into my bedroom excitedly just after 2am the morning after we returned from Melbourne.

I got no response from her the first time I spoke so I said it again, the second time my excitement level was so high I actually shook her at the same time. All I got in return was three words and they were fuck, off and leave.

Ok, 2am does sound like a real prick of a time to be barging into a room all happy and cheery about music, but considering it was earlier than the usual time we got home if we were working locally and considering Andrea had been becoming more of a night owl since she had taking leave from her job for the last month of summer, it wasn’t as bad as it sounds.

Something else I didn’t know at the time, partly because I was too caught up in my own world to notice hers, but also because she said nothing was that Andrea was suffering. The drugs were not helping, she was depressive and the deeper she went down the more cocaine she’d manage to find. Of course that’s easy to see and talk about now, but back when it happened I was as much a slave to Mary Jane and Jack Daniels as she was to cocaine.

Each time I watched her push that needle into her arm, then draw the plunger back drawing her thin blood into the chamber before she pushed the plunger back down and forced the blood and cocaine mixture into her arm I felt sorry for her. Not sorry enough to stop her obviously but you have to understand that no drug addict at the height of a trip down would ever considering stopping and just because I chose not to use the white powder didn’t mean I wasn’t an addict.

I might be painting an unfair picture here, it might seem like I’m blaming the downward spiral of my relationship with Andrea on the drugs and the depressive state she chose to live her life in for that time. But that is not the case and while they were contributing factors I also know, even if I didn’t want to admit at the time, that I was also one of the factors.

Work and music was becoming my life, everything I did revolved around those two things including my addictions but since I could preform at work under the influence of both alcohol and weed it’s probably fair to say that both those substances became part of my life rather than work and music which was my life. When I was home all I wanted to do was play the guitar, learn more if Jim was there, or listen to music.

Andrea became a second thought, and although I tried to please her occasionally, I even thought that I was doing a good job, obviously I wasn’t. In her own words not long before she left I had gone from making love to her to fucking her, they were words that didn’t mean much to me at the time or for quite a while after because of the way things happened.

I wanted to share my music with her, I want to share what Jim was teaching me and I wanted to share whatever else I could, but I didn’t realise that the ‘whatever else’ was actually nothing and she wanted so much more. Whether her drug addled mind could have handled more I would never find out but it’s what she thought she wanted.

Before the end we spiralled into the pit of loneliness. I’d come home from work, she’s be laying on the bed either stoned, drunk or both. I’d smoke a joint, down a quart of Jack, lay down beside her until I’d finished, then I’d undress both of us, lay on top of her and fuck her until I was finished. Whether she faked orgasms or not I never found out but she went through the process without saying a negative word, she’d even laugh and talk to me as if things were fine.

Now I seem to be painting myself in the unfair light, it almost sounds like I’m suggesting I was the instigator, I took what I wanted and used it until I’d had enough. But honestly that was not the truth there were times Andrea would be insatiable, at least that was how she would act, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Whether those times were, for her, more enjoyable I don’t know but she’d take control, ride me like a bucking bronco, then fall off and go to sleep. I guess it could be said that sex stopped being about love and just became a release mechanism. If only I had known that at the time I know I could have changed it but the drugs, both our drugs, had too much of a hold on us.

In the end my life with Andrea ended with her yelling at me one morning about 7am. We’d only just gotten our arses home from a gig, it was a fairly hostile one with the cops being called to break up fights in the crowd three times. Thankfully we were able to steer clear of most of the fighting but it did spill out into the streets and when we were loading out there was just as much security around the trucks as there was on the front door of the pub.

I of course wanted to wind down with a joint and a Jack, Andrea was getting ready for work. I don’t actually know what happened to make her snap but she went postal on me and my room. Thankfully my guitar was not damaged but my bed, the shelves and my Massive Appendage LP, yes the one titled ‘The Severed Erection’ didn’t fair so well.

The last I saw of Andrea was her storming out of Steve’s house screaming. “You fucking piece of shit. I never want to see you again!”

Previous chapter here.
Story starts here.

4 Comments

  1. Insightful chapter. I am enjoying the poetry at the beginning. That’s a lovely addition to fictional writing.
    This story is getting better to me. Thank you.

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