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Carpe Diem

How is it, after years of success, of living in the limelight, I’ve been reduced to this? I used to be a f**king rock star, god d*mnit, and now I’ve been brought to my ultimate low, the shadows so much darker on the other side. I used to be a God among men, heralding them with lyrics from my mind, and now I’m just worse off than when I started, awaiting my doom in a cramped cell with only a man who wants to shank me at any moment if I talk too loud; so, I don’t talk at all.

I had it all. Three best friend who’d die for me, a loving girlfriend who would marry me at the drop of a hat, a man who would do the same, a…a f**king fan base full of people who adored me, bowed down to me, and I had the most awesome parents in the world…

Then, God, why do I feel so alone on Death Row?

I never meant to kill him. I swear I didn’t. It slipped; my finger on the trigger that is. Why the f**k would I want to kill one of my best friends? What was the motive they used? Oh, I don’t even remember it’s been so long. The trials are just a blur now, and after a while I just bent my head and took it. They say it was malicious intent, and that we had been fighting. Well, that much was true. We had our spats, and over the twins. He’d broken my girlfriend’s sister’s heart and I wasn’t happy about it…but that was no reason to kill him.

I was brandishing the gun just to scare him. I just wanted to frighten him into submission because he was just shooting off his mouth again, as always. That man just never shut up, and he said I never did! He was famous for talking too much, and even though most of it was amusing bullsh*t, this time it was just too much for me to handle as I held the steely weapon to his head. I was so jumpy when I heard the door slam across the house I tensed and that was when the gun cocked and the shot fired.

In that moment, though, when the trigger was pulled and I saw the widening of his eyes before the bullet hit his flesh, I felt a strange sense of power, and I thought I’d gone out of my mind, which I probably had. The way it felt to have someone’s life in the palm of your hand as imminent death approached them; it was a rush, I’ll give you that much.

I just wish it wasn’t him. Of all people, why did it have to be him?

God, I’m sure people are laughing out there. They always said I had a dangerous air about me, like I belonged in San Quentin or something. It wasn’t my fault I was built; I liked looking my best and if that meant benching and fasting, then so be it. It seems that’s all I do nowadays anyway.

I’m just waiting for them to take me into that little room and ask me the questions, the procedures for my last night on Earth. I almost long for that day just to get it all over with. I don’t want to rot away in this godforsaken cell anymore. I don’t want to feel empty as if everyone who loved me had abandoned me.

She never even visits me anymore. I don’t remember why, but it hurts. She was always the one I could depend on. She was my all, most of the time. She’d been through everything with me, absolutely everything. She was my rock, my sanity, and now she’s gone. She’s probably out there with someone else now, someone who isn’t behind bars waiting for their death sentence. I suppose she deserves that…I just miss her is all. It’s more the emptiness that I’m alone than anything else.

I used to hear the best f**king shredding guitar every day from every corner of where I lived, and now all I hear is the grinding of metal as the doors open and shut around me. I used to live by the backbeat of my drummer and bassist’s work, and now all I can depend on is my own heartbeat, faint as it is in my chest. I used to get drunk, high and party like there was no tomorrow, but I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in three years now.

Three f**king years on Death Row. Completely alone. Can you imagine? He would have come to visit me every day; I know it. He and I always had this special little connection, overlapping the boundaries of friendship just the slightest bit. I took him away from myself, and the thought twists my stomach every time I think it, and I think it a lot. The guilt is worse than any prison cell.

Sometimes I’ll just lay on the stiffened bed, with its coarse bed sheets and stare up at the ceiling, thinking about the way his amber eyes glistened cheekily under his sunglasses when we first got on tour, and the way his hair changed from curly to sleek as our band transitioned from punk to revolution, and the way his eyes lost the cheek and became more seductive, and less careless romantic. Sometimes all I think about is his eyes and how the change was so sudden from warm and pleading to cold with fear. Maybe that was what caused me to pull the trigger, because I couldn’t stand the look on his face.

In a way, I think I loved him more than her, in some strange way. Maybe that was why I did it, because I was afraid of my feelings for him, scared to admit that I was in love with him, and not her, the safety net that she was. Once in a while I can still feel the zing of his thin lips upon mine as he pinned me to the alley one night.

I remember walking, and suddenly being stopped, a slender yet rough hand pressing against my strong chest and looking up to see his brown eyes darkened as he looked into mine. My feet rested in place as he circled me, both his guitar-worn hands pressing against me until I felt the cold bite of the wall to my back and the warm shock of his lips on mine. I let out a low groan, rough in tone and he mirrored it, higher and a bit more smooth as our lips moved against each other’s, and a passion, a fire suddenly burned in me much hotter than anything I’d ever felt with her.

His hips shifted upward against mine, friction forming between us as we let out simultaneous sounds of pleasure. Muttered curses and incoherent admissions were uttered before he had my hand, leading me toward our tour bus. I don’t really remember much more about that night, other than it was one of the most sensual and fulfilling nights of my life. I don’t think she even knows about it.

Fear, loathing, guilt, pity. Those were the emotions that rack me every day, and I can’t get rid of them. Desire, passion, want, need. I miss her, but I miss him more, maybe because I know he’ll never be coming back…because of me. That thought in itself rips at me harder, deeper, more painfully than anything else.

I deserve this.

That thought is the reason why nothing more than a soft sigh of relief escapes me when I hear the smart rap of a nightstick against the cell, a murmur of my name and a grinding of the old lock as it’s opened. I stand easily, looking at the guard with a small smile as he motions for me to follow, perplexed, I can tell, by the smile on my face. It’s relaxed, almost peaceful as my hands slip into my pockets, following the guard out of the cell.

I hear the catcalls, but they’re just mutters to me, incoherent as I walk closer to that door, that smile still on my face. As the guard opens the door for me, I nod to him and slip in, vaguely acknowledging the warden speaking, hearing the rubbish about the last night, and all I can think is ‘Thank God.’

I nod to whatever they ask and give the first thing off my mind as my ‘last meal’ and they escort me outside to enjoy the sun once more before locked away in a coffin forever, if they’ll even give me that much. The rays warm my face and my eyes shut, and I think of him.

He was a California boy at heart, always perfectly content with being outside and frolicking in the sun, drunk or not. I always preferred it when he wasn’t, but him inebriated always put an amusing twist on things. He always had a glowing tan to his complexion, and a laughing grin playing at his lips, waiting to be unleashed on some poor, unsuspecting victim. By this time, all thoughts of her have evanesced, only him in my mind as I smile dazedly, earning a dig in the ribs by the guard, who says something about me being happy on my last day.

All I say in return is a soft ‘yeah, I am.’

The guard shakes his head at me, gripping my tattooed bicep as he leads me back into the building, the sun disappearing and I sigh, the content smile disappearing with it. The rest of the day is a blur; I barely savor the food, and the beer they give me is flat, tasteless. I’m just waiting for the moment of absolution where we can be one.

After I say I’m finished, they lead me to the small room encompassing a lethal substance that’s going to be shot into me, killing me slowly. It seems inhumane to me, but death is death whichever way you look at it. They strip me and leave me naked as they guide me onto a surgical table.

They assure me it’s not going to hurt and just to shut my eyes, and I do so. When I do, I see his smiling face etched into my eyelids and I smile in return as I feel the cold bite of the needle as it slips into my skin. I hiss slightly and feel the substance flood my system, taking effect immediately and slowing down my motor skills as it races through my system. The smile fades but the feel is still there as I see his hand reaching out for mine as my body goes numb. I can’t lift my hand so I feel him take it with that mischievous smirk of his, pulling me from my body as I watch it fade. There’s only that moment after, a content feeling overwhelming me as I slip away from myself and into him forever. It's then I realize I’m not alone anymore.
Does he have bone?
[HOT VIDEO] Does he have bone?

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Upload Date: 31/12/1969

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