DeadStrings:Go against Scott Weiland?That’s sacrilege.But I get what you mean.Half a man is still breathing.Whole means waking up and actually trying.
I’ve been hiding behind lyrics too long.Maybe it’s time I start writing some of my own again—without pretending they’re about someone else.
StringTheory27:That would be a good start.Just you.Raw and uncomfortable.Let it bleed a little—just enough to know it’s real.And if it helps, I’ll read the lyrics.Won’t critique.Won’t quote Nietzsche.Just ...listen.I might even add a melody to them if I feel frisky.
DeadStrings:You always do.Even when I don’t know how to speak.It’s strange how someone you’ve never met can feel like the only one who doesn’t look away.Melodies are good.I haven’t been able to play anything good in a long time.
StringTheory27:I don’t look away because I know how it feels when everyone else does.
That’s why I stay.And maybe because I’m curious about the song you’d write if you weren’t trying to sound clever—or pretending for the rest of the world.If you just ...told the truth.
DeadStrings:It wouldn’t rhyme.
It wouldn’t chart.
But maybe it would feel like standing up straight for the first time in years.
StringTheory27:I’d listen to that.Even if it’s just one verse and a messy bridge that goes nowhere.Especially if it’s that.We’re all a bit off-key these days anyway.
DeadStrings:God, I wish I could hug you through this damn screen.You’re like a sad song that still makes me smile.
StringTheory27:That’s the best compliment I’ve had all week.Now write your damn song—or rest so you can find the life you want to live.If you do write a song—or an album—you can title it “Reckoning at the DMV.”
DeadStrings:Reckoning at the DMV.Track one on my redemption arc.Stay tuned.
ChapterSixty-Five
Roderick
It’s eight in the morning when Eddie’s driver picks me up.I’ve barely had coffee, haven’t eaten anything, and my hands won’t stop fidgeting in my lap the entire ride.The city looks too clean this early.I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it before.It’s almost as if the sidewalk wants to forget I ever crawled back here.
By nine, I’m in Eddie’s office, sitting across from him as he scarfs down the rest of a breakfast burrito that looks like it’s been reheated twice.There’s a second one in front of me.I’m halfway through pretending I’m not hungry when he slides a napkin toward me like it’s a peace offering.
“You need protein,” he says through a mouthful, gesturing at the untouched food like I’m the problem.“The shit they give you in rehab doesn’t count.”
I should remind him that it’s been thirty-six days since I left rehab, but instead, I pick up the burrito without arguing.The silence stretches between us as I chew, the only sounds in the room the faint tick of a wall clock and the soft rustle of newsprint as Eddie scans the financial section, flipping the page with ink-smudged fingers.His knee bounces under the table, twitching like there’s a storm brewing behind his eyes he hasn’t decided whether to release or hold back.
Finally, he folds the newspaper in half, sets it aside with a quiet thump, and looks at me.He meets my eyes like he’s about to hold a mirror up to my soul and dares me not to look away.Then he dives in.
“Roderick, I’m not here to coddle you,” he says.“You want a life that’s worth living, we start now.”
I nod, chewing slower, the tortilla suddenly dry in my mouth.
“You want your life back?”he asks, eyes locked on mine like he’s not afraid to look straight into the wreckage.“Then you need to decide what that actually looks like.Because it can’t just be fame, noise, and a backstage pass to your own self-destruction.You’re not that kid anymore.If you want to survive this, you’ve got to build something that fucking matters.”
I lean back in the chair, fingers stained with salsa, wiping them on the napkin like that’ll get rid of the guilt sticking to me.“I don’t even know what a life worth living is supposed to look like anymore.”
“Then let’s figure it out.”
There’s no pity in his voice—just fire.A burn that licks down my spine and dares me to move.There’s something else in it too.Recognition.Like he knows the taste of rock bottom, knows what it’s like to wake up on the floor of your own fucking life and wonder how you got there.He’s crawled through the same ash, barefoot and raw, and now he’s offering me a goddamn map.
“You’re a musician,” he says, voice low but as sharp as a guitar string tuned just shy of breaking.“At your core.We know it.You carry it in your veins.Your father made sure you had no choice but to bleed rhythm and write lyrics instead of speaking.”
“I guess.”I nod, slow and uncertain, like maybe agreeing too fast will crack something wide open.“Music’s the only thing that ever made sense.”
Even when nothing else did—when the pills numbed too much and the drinks blurred too fast—music still cut through.The only clarity I had was on stage, under the glare of lights, my fingers on frets, sweat sliding down my spine, the audience screaming like they could save me if they were just loud enough.
Sometimes I wonder if it would’ve been easier to do something else.Maybe I should’ve followed Kit—gone to college, studied something with clear expectations and a path that didn’t involve screaming into microphones and drowning in backstage silence.
