Stubby had been left alone his first five days out of the hospital. Well -- alone wasn’t quite true, not with the 24/7 security detail that his father insisted stay posted up inside Stubby’s flat. But there had been no visitors, and frankly that was a relief. The worse of his withdrawal had passed at St. Mungo’s, but the headaches and the tremors and the nausea that lasted past St. Mungo’s surely would only have gotten worse if he’d had to deal with his parents or worse, Hestia’s positivity. Instead he’d slept most of them off for a few days that seemed to blur together and woken up feeling remarkably clear-headed. More than he had in a long time. His flat was quiet. All his mail deliveries had been forwarded to his parents’ house so there was no fan mail or copies of the Prophet or Witch Weekly with stories about what happened to “Ferdi.”
There were no potions or liquor in his flat -- he’d drank all he had before he’d ended up passed out in that ditch. The events leading up to that moment were gone from his memory, but the desperation wasn’t. And it was still there, urging him to go out and get more potions, more alcohol, to fill the hole that hadn’t gone away. But his head wasn’t pounding like it did most mornings he woke up craving a drink. His body wasn’t aching. And he could still remember what the healers had told him, that if he kept drinking and taking potions it would kill him. This morning it was quiet, he was up at 6 am with a cup of coffee he’d made himself, he could see the sunrise through his kitchen window, and he couldn’t help thinking maybe he didn’t want to die today. Instead he took his favorite guitar from where it was displayed on his wall and sat down on his couch, strumming a few notes, putting melody to the lyrics he’d scrawled on the back of his letter to Hestia at the hospital. Then he was getting more parchment and expanding the words, tinkering with more verses and changing the chorus a few times, alternating between writing words and playing notes, lost in the process until a knock at the door startled him out of it.
Stubby looked around, disoriented as he realized from the shadows of the light on his walls that it was late afternoon. Oh. He considered ignoring the knock; he hadn’t been expecting anyone, nor was there anyone he wanted to see. Then the knock came again, more insistent. He looked at his security guard, surprised to see the one there had changed shifts at some point while Stubby had been absorbed in writing his new song. “Whoever it is, send them away,” he said, turning back to what was now a mess of parchment spread out over his coffee table. He couldn’t remember the last time he’s felt this absorbed in the process of songwriting -- or the last time he’d gone so long without thinking about where he was going to get his next drink or potion.
And then his father’s voice came through the door. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your little vacation, Stubby, because it ends tonight. Your fans are asking too many questions and you’re not going to cost us the expense of another cancelled concert,” Sanford said as he stalked through the door, pausing as he took in the sight of Stubby with his guitar and parchment. His eyes narrowed. “What’s this?” He snapped. “Let me see.” Sanford didn’t wait before he snatched up a couple pieces of parchment and scanned over the words scrawled across them. “Wait, it’s not done yet--” Stubby started, but he was cut off as his father threw the paper down on the table with a scoff. “I thought I told you to stop writing this kind of nonsense, Stubby. This isn’t what your fans want. Playtime’s over, you’re due in your dressing room in 20 minutes.”
A show. He had a show tonight. Of course he did. In an instant that familiar sensation crawled back over him, an empty feeling that started in his chest and spread over the rest of his body. It was accompanied by dread at the thought of standing on a stage, the bright lights beating down on him, belting out that bubblegum pop trash to another sold-out crowd. His hands felt clammy; he could feel his chest tightening. It had been a long time since he’d had a panic attack, but it had been a long time since he’d been sober enough to feel that same level of anxiety. He tried to take a breath, but his breathing felt shallow. “I can’t --” he said in a shaky voice that Sanford cut off with a derisive, “Pathetic,” as he pulled a vial of potion from his pocket and set it down on the table. Instantly Stubby’s eyes fixed on it. It shimmered an impossibly bright shade of red that Stubby hadn’t seen since Rich cut him off. Stubby’s reaction was instantaneous and overwhelming: his heart racing, his mouth watering, his eyes fixed on the shining liquid as it called out to him, singing promises of filling the hole inside of him. He needed it. But before he could reach for it another voice spoke up, so unexpected it distracted Stubby.
“What the hell are you doing?” Stubby and his father’s heads turned sharply in unison to face his security guard, the one who Stubby could never seem to shake as easily as the others, even when he wanted to. “He just got out of rehab,” the guy said and Stubby stared at him in shock. The guards were not supposed to speak to Sanford Bishop, especially not to interfere in business matters. And what did he care whether Stubby drank a potion?
“Excuse me?” Sanford said in a voice that was quietly seething. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand what a performer needs, but I can assure you I know what’s best for my client.”
His client. Stubby was his client. Of course he was. A father wouldn’t be giving him potions after they’d almost killed him. But Stubby’s manager cared only about getting Stubby onstage to make him more money. Stubby reached for the vial as the hole inside him clawed at his insides. But he paused again in surprise when the guard spoke up a second time. “He almost died from that stuff, clearly you’re not concerned with what’s best for Stubby.”
Did that just happen? Stubby’s eyes widened as he looked from the guard to Sanford. His father. Who clearly wasn’t concerned with what was best for him. Only what he could get from Stubby, just like everyone else. Sanford was seething, but Stubby spoke up before his father could. “I’m your son,” he said, his voice soft and pleading even as his hand holding the vial of potion trembled. He wanted it. It would make this all go away. Or maybe his father could make it all go away. “I’m not just your client,” he said. “I’m your son.” Please.
Sanford’s face twisted into a sneer. “Your little stunt’s made you sentimental, has it?” Sanford sneered. “You are Stubby Boardman. So why don’t you fucking act like it?”
Stubby couldn’t take it anymore. Whatever else his father was shouting at the guard felt far away as Stubby spared one last glance at the bloke and then downed the whole vial of potion his father had brought. The relief was instantaneous. The clawing sensation inside him dulled, the trembling ceasing as if he’d been wrapped in a blanket. Everything felt lighter. Farther away. Nothing compared to this feeling and it had been too long since Rich cut him off. But it wasn’t enough. “I need more,” he said, his focus sharpened on Sanford now. Sanford pulled another vial from his pocket and Stubby’s eyes locked in on it. “It’s yours,” he said, but he pulled it out of Stubby’s reach as he grabbed for it. “After you get to the show.”
The show. Of course. The show. And this was how Stubby always got through his shows, wasn’t it? “Fine,” he said, and he got to his feet.
________________________________________________________
Stubby had never noticed how even before Rich cut him off, the other had been keeping an eye on his intake. Giving him smaller doses of the good stuff. Never a full vial all at once. Definitely never a second shortly after. And then there’d been the whiskey backstage. Some other drugs one of the drummers brought. Stubby was flying higher than he’d been in ages. He was numb. He was elated. He was nothing. He was everything. He took to the stage wild-eyed, his body going into autopilot as he sang through the first few numbers, the potions still coursing through his veins as the crowd cheered and called his name. That was its own kind of drug. They wanted him. They all wanted him. All Stubby wanted was to keep feeling like there was something inside of him, not just the ever-expanding emptiness that was always clawing at his frayed edges. “Thank you, London!” He shouted after only three songs, stumbling offstage and pushing past a couple of startled and confused stagehands and production assistants in the wings and grabbing the bottle of whiskey he’d left in the green room, downing another few swigs as he heard his backup singer saying something to the crowd about ‘a classic Stubby Boardman prank.’ A second later and a stage manager was snatching the whiskey from his hand and pushing him back toward the stage. “No,” Stubby pleaded. “I need it. Just another --” He grabbed the bottle and downed the rest of the contents, burped loudly in the stage manager’s face, and then stumbled back onto the stage to a sound of thunderous applause. They still loved him. Of course they did. He grinned a delirious grin and stepped back up to the mic. “Gotcha,” he said into it, as if he had indeed planned a hilarious fake departure, and the crowd ate it up just like they ate up everything he gave them. They took and they took and they’d keep taking until there was nothing left of him.
He strummed the guitar around his neck, playing the first song of their set, realizing too late the other band members hadn’t joined in. “What the hell are you doing? We’re on song four,” the bass player hissed at him. Stubby laughed into the microphone. “Song four!” He said, instantly playing that one without cueing the rest of the band members like he was supposed to. They caught up to him and the crowd seemed eager to overlook the weird moment. They’d paid too much to see him, after all, to dwell on any hiccups. Only what happened halfway through the song was not so much a hiccup as Stubby stopping abruptly, lifting his guitar strap from around his shoulder and gently setting it down gently even as the rest of the band kept playing, shooting him death glares, and then shuffling a few steps over to vomit on an extremely expensive piece of sound equipment. The bassist groaned and left the stage, but Stubby did his best to straighten up and said. “I’m okay!” As he heard the crowd murmuring. “Don’t worry, London!” He slurred out the words into the bassist’s mic. “I wrote a new song, just for you!” he moved to the keyboard, shouldering the keyboard player over, who rolled his eyes, shook his head and said, “I’m not dealing with this shit anymore,” and then stalked off the stage. Stubby was unconcerned as he started playing some upbeat chords. “This is what you want!” He sang into the microphone as he played the bubblegum pop notes. “But it’s all bullshit!” The drummer stalked off next and Stubby let out a loud cackle. “This was all rehearsed,” he was still singing, playing the keyboard with only one hand now so he could turn and start banging on the cymbal of the drumset with his other hand. “Everything is fake fake fake fake fake FAKE FAKE FAKE FAKE,” he played the same note over and over again, banging on the cymbal, going from singing to shouting the word over and over again. When he finally stopped, he looked out into what was now a dead silent crowd. He laughed. The stage lights were blinding, obscuring all the faces in the crowd. Stubby’s stomach heaved again and he couldn’t even turn away before he vomited on the keyboard. Normally when he got wasted to the point of illness, throwing up, while unpleasant, made him feel better. Tonight he felt worse afterwards. He felt woozy. He blinked rapidly as the lights became spotty, then they dimmed. He swayed on the spot. He leaned forward into the mic. “Help me,” was the last thing he said before he lost consciousness.
