The muffled hum and thump of the opening band comes through the wall as I lie on the couch in my dressing room.

One hand wrapped around a bottle of champagne, the other swiping through old pictures on my phone.

There's a knock at the door. I ignore it, absently dragging on the cigarette

dangling from my lips. The knock comes again, followed by my drummer's voice.

Rory, we're on in five minutes, and there's a nice young woman out here who wants to finish your makeup.

I kicked the makeup girl out before she finished. Now, all I have is a partial glow-in-the-dark

skull on my face, missing the upper left portion of the head. I ignore my drummer, raising my right

hand to grab the cigarette from my mouth, accidentally dumping champagne all over my shirt.

"'Sone of a bitch!' I shout, erupting in a rage that comes so suddenly I don't have a chance to quell it.

It's been happening more and more lately.

As if from afar, I watch myself sit up and hurl the champagne bottle at the mirror over the vanity.

Glass shatters.

There's a sharp pain in my crotch that brings me back to myself.

And I look down to see that I've dropped the cigarette between my legs,

and the cherry is burning through my leather pants.

I drop my phone as I lurched to my feet,

tottering drunkenly while swatting at my crotch to put the embers out.

Rory, you okay in there?

Fuck off! Asshole? My drummer mutters through the door.

As I'm reaching down to pick up my phone, another knock sounds.

I ignore it, retrieving the device and looking at their picture again.

It's one I took, back before the band got popular, when we were struggling to fill a

...