Micky felt his heart stop. Mike had left him, he was in trouble, and Mike had just turned his back. Looking around, he saw Davy, who hung his head slightly. Micky stared and stared, he felt like he was in some disastrous nightmare.
"'E's right, you know," Davy said finally, "You need some rest, Mick, maybe you'll feel better in the morning, then when Mike comes back, we'll all sort things out and hopefully get back to normal."
Micky shivered with those words, they were harsh words, and he felt them cut him and hit him. Davy seemed to choke in the tension and he quickly grabbed his jacket from a nearby chair. "I'm going to a club," he whispered, opening the door and disappearing into the closing night.
Micky kept glaring after the door as he heard the drone of the Monkeemobile pull off down the road. He was trapped and his sadness and anger were soon taken over with fear. As he turned, he found Peter standing stoically behind him, a fiendish grin shining through a split lip and two black eyes.
"You changed the label on those pills didn't you?" Micky's voice quivered and Peter nodded, the grin never changing.
Micky looked around quickly, hoping to find an escape route, but Peter was too quick. He grabbed Micky hard, wrapping an arm around Micky's throat from behind, forcing his head back. Micky's brain was in overdrive, as he thrashed madly, not this again.
Micky struggled, but Peter pulled harder, choking the drummer until he gasped desperately for air.
"Shhh," Peter whispered, caressing Micky's ear as he began to drag him backwards up the stairs. "You'll feel much better when we're in bed," Peter smiled, forcing the door open and throwing Micky on Mike's bed. Micky coughed and spluttered for a while, clutching his throat, and rubbing it frantically.
Before he had time to get to his feet, Peter was dragging him up again, only to push him back down, tearing at his clothes in the process. Micky kicked out and screamed but his body was so emotionally drained that the defense attack was feeble. How could this happen again? But despite all the pain he was about to endure, the heaviest heartache came from Mike's departure. How could he have just left? Tears welled up quickly, and Micky practically drowned in them. Betrayal, painful betrayal. He couldn't hear anything anymore; his brain had gone numb. Hope was waning. Peter was naked in no time and he clambered on top of the bewildered drummer, smothering him. Micky's tears fell heavily down his face as Peter pinned him helplessly.
Micky could feel Peter's erection in his thigh and wished he could just lose consciousness, just disappear, and not live through this torture again. He felt Peter ready himself and Micky closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
It never came. Peter seemed to tense up and then Micky was released. The drummer quickly opened his eyes and saw familiar English eyes stare back down at him.
"You ok?" Davy whispered.
Micky nodded wearily, unmoving, and turned his head to the direction he had felt Peter fall. The blond was lying, pinned on the floor, while Mike pounded him with iron fists. Micky had never seen such anger in those coffee eyes as he hit again and again, seemingly harder every time.
Peter screamed out for a moment, shaking his head wildly and Mike stood, glaring down at the sobbing heap of shit at his feet. Slowly he wiped the sweat from his forehead and stepped towards Micky.
"I'm sorry I had to put you through that again Mick, I just had to be sure."
Micky nodded and looked back towards the open wardrobe door across the room, where his saviors had hidden, and lying in wait.
"I'm glad you came back for me," he murmured through streaming tears, but these were more from relief than sadness.
Mike's ears caught a desperate cough and he turned to see Peter clambering to his feet, blood masking his face.
"Come on Pete," Mike gave a playful smile, "I have someone for you to meet." The Texan stepped up to Peter and forcibly pushed him to the door.
On the landing, Peter turned with a smug smile. "You're crazy Michael, the police will never arrest me!"
"Who said anything about meeting the cops? I was talking about my old friend Satan!" Mike laughed and gave Peter a heavy shove, sending him flying over the railing.
Micky shot to Mike's side, but was hesitant to look over the edge. When he did, he saw Peter's broken body lying in a mangled heap, blood gushing in torrents on the hard concrete floor.
Mike kept a smile on his face, before firmly wrapping an arm around Micky's shoulders, pulling the drummer's face into his chest to soothe him.
Davy appeared and shook his head warily. "What are we goin' to do now? What about the police?"
Everything was white. Crisp, cold, harsh white. But there was a heaviness pressing upon his body. This couldn't be paradise, there was too much gravity, and he felt too low.
Peter's eyes fluttered slightly and he gradually fell back to Earth. The room was quite dark once his eyes adjusted, but he felt an overwhelming feeling of confusion. Suddenly he spotted movement and noticed a woman in the corner of the room, examining various pieces of paper. Peter tried to speak, but found his mouth swollen and in agony. All he could manage was a throaty groan of pain. That got her attention and she hurried to his side.
"You're awake I see." She gave a very fake smile and sat beside his bed. "You're in the hospital," She carried on, "I am a nurse. We believe you were involved in a hit and run accident. You were found on the side of the coastal road."
Peter's eyes closed again as a million memories flashed through his brain. He remembered tears, Micky's tears. Then he was being beaten; he stood. Then he remembered Mike's face, that sinister smile. Then he left the smile quickly, he was going backwards, falling, spinning, and then all was pain and darkness.
It took three months before he could leave the hospital. They said they were worried about brain damage, but he knew that his brain was useless anyway. He didn't feel remorse for what he had done; just regret that he hadn't got away with it. It must have been Davy's plan; he should have got rid of Davy. No use now. Peter looked down at the dead side of his body. He'd lost everything. His right leg didn't work, neither did his right arm, or eye and ear. That was the side he had landed, awkwardly. Peter hobbled on his crutch towards the main exit. He was free at last, but he had nowhere to go. The world was getting dark as night drew in, and all he could think about was finding somewhere to go. He contemplated going back to the Village, but he would have to wait until he had enough money. He'd have to sleep on the streets until that happened.
Peter couldn't resist going back to the pad, maybe they were out, and he could somehow get in to get some stuff. He wandered around the back and climbed the steps to the veranda. The lights were on and his heart sank. Quietly, he hid in the shadows so that he could see in, but couldn't be seen. What he saw made him feel sick to his stomach.
He had never realized how beautifully golden Micky's body was, and it contrasted delicately with Mike's lily tone. Micky seemed to mould into the floor as he arched his back and let out a moan of pleasure. They seemed to have completely forgotten about the blond, and it seemed that with every thrust from Mike washed away another part of Peter's existence. They seemed to act as if he had never entered their lives. A sweat dotted across Micky's perfect chest and Mike dipped his head to kiss it and he moved inside Micky, making them one. Peter was almost embarrassed - almost. He was angry too; they were making love on the very spot that he always used to sit, just near the bandstand, completely uncaring of all that was around them. He watched until they had finished, but they were in no hurry to get changed, or even get up. Instead they lay kissing each other, and whispering what Peter could only guess was stupid love talk shit.
Peter was numb with defeat and as he retreated down to the beach, he knew he didn't exist anymore.
Burnt into the sand was a circle full of ashes, which was relatively recent, but he knew what had been burnt. The ashes were his clothes, photographs, books, and probably even his bass. Peter's eyes filled with tears, tears of self pity and he walked woefully towards the sea. When he reached the edge of the water, he didn't hesitate to keep on walking. Fuck the Village; he didn't want to go back now. Fuck Mike, fuck Davy. Peter kept on walking and did not feel a hint of panic as the sea began to take hold of him; he couldn't swim with his useless body. He cursed everybody as the water rose, but there was a name he didn't mention, yet his image raced around Peter's brain. Micky. Yes, he had fucked Micky, and it was beautiful. He could still remember the soft, almost innocent body writhing beneath him, squirming and moaning. The waters rose sharply, and everything grew darker as the light from the pad faded.
"I love you, Micky."