Afterglow by Charlotte O'Farrell

Afterglow

by Charlotte O’Farrell

Tom held the drumsticks aloft as if he couldn’t quite believe they existed. Throwing aside the packaging they’d arrived in, he kept repeating to himself “these are mine now. Mine”. Twenty years ago, they had belonged to him, when there was still a “him” alive to own things. But now they were Tom’s.

He sat on the sofa in the middle of his tiny apartment, rolling the worn wooden sticks between his fingers. Scraping together enough cash to win the auction – through selling his car and most of his otherworldly possessions – had been a great moment, but nothing had prepared Tom for this. He was holding the sticks of the world’s greatest ever rockstar, Fleet Hicks, in his shaking hands.

Fleet had been Tom’s hero since he was a lonely kid, penning terrible song lyrics about his latest crushes in his bedroom. There was something almost supernatural about the drummer’s talent; every song pulsated with longing and urgency. It had been Fleet that had inspired him to give up his abortive attempts to learn the guitar and try his hand at drumming. Decades on, Tom had practiced enough to consider himself a competent drummer, even fronting his own local band that played the clubs of his seaside home town most weekends – but he had already enjoyed ten more years of life than Fleet ever got, as he’d joined the 27 Club via hanging back in 1996.

Like most of Fleet’s hardcore fans, the young Tom had been devastated at the time. As the years ticked by, Tom’s admiration never wavered, but his response to the star’s suicide had. It didn’t seem borderline glamorous like it had at the time, to a naïve seventeen-year-old. It seemed a tragic, needless waste. Tom could never quite get over the amount of experiences Fleet had denied himself – and, through the loss of his music, the world.

Tom never met Fleet or saw his band, Afterglow, live. They didn’t do a UK tour during those last few years and Tom, of course, hadn’t known there was such a harsh and unyielding deadline on seeing his heroes perform live. But this was the next best thing.

When he ordered them, he hadn’t decided whether to use them or not. They were a part of rock history and should be preserved forever, but on the other hand, they’d rested for more than twenty years. Sticks were made for drumming. He was sure it was in his imagination, but Tom could have sworn he felt Fleet’s unrivaled talent pulsating from them like an aura.

He took the next day off his job at the restaurant and just played. He had never played like this before. He hit every note effortlessly, and even improvised flawlessly – something he’d never found easy. He was never one to be superstitious but nevertheless Tom knew he had something good going, and whispered “thanks Fleet” after finishing every bit of music. It never hurt to be safe, right?

It was his band’s practice that night. His bandmates Evelyn, Jake and Tina crowded around the drumsticks with appropriate awe.

“It’s like he’s – in them,” Tom said, trying to keep his voice steady. Evelyn, their guitarist, gave him a look. “I know it sounds crazy. But as soon as I picked them up I felt different and I’ve been on fire since.”

The other bandmates exchanged meaningful looks with each other.

“Well, whatever works, man,” Jake said finally, suppressing a laugh.

They all noticed how well Tom played. He really was on fire. They all left practice feeling pumped.

That night, Tom put the sticks on his nightstand. He didn’t want to let them out of his sight ever again.

It was about 3 A.M. when he was woken up. Startled to hear a noise in his room, he sat up, heart racing. But there was no-one else there. All he could hear was a frenzied sobbing.

He picked up his phone to see if it was coming from there. Maybe someone had called and he’d somehow answered in his sleep? But the phone was quiet.

Feeling a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach, Tom realized what the source of the despairing sound was. And he knew whose voice it was; even racked with sobs, Fleet’s voice sounded rhythmical. He picked up the sticks as gently as he could.

As soon as he touched them he felt utter desolation wash over him. It was so strong it was almost physical in nature; a heavy sadness settling around his chest and weighing him down. Fleet’s sobs grew more urgent.

“Hey, Fleet,” Tom muttered. “Shhh. It’s over now.”

To his surprise, it made a difference. The feeling of depression lifted ever so slightly. His cries became slightly less pained, though still racked with agonizing sadness. Tom hushed them like a crying baby as he gradually lowered them back on to his bedside table.

He looked at the crying sticks and felt a new kind of sadness wash over him. Death had not brought peace. And he knew what he had to do.

The next morning, Tom went for one final practice with the drumsticks. He enjoyed the talent, the power, the feeling of absolute mastery over his instrument. Tears streamed down his face as he played all of his favorite songs, better than he had ever played them. Better than he would ever play them again.

Then he walked into his garden, drumsticks in one hand, lighter in the other.

“Goodbye, Fleet. You were the greatest.”

The sticks caught fire at the first attempt. He dropped the burning wood, watching it turn to ash on the ground. Maybe it was his imagination, but he could have sworn he heard a sigh of relief as they burnt away to nothingness.

Tom looked at the pile of worthless ash that had been his prized possessions for less than twenty-four hours. He had sold everything he owned to pay for them. And yet he felt a deep warmth and peace fill him.

“You’re free,” he said to the wind.

This story was originally included in Issue #6. You can get the print issue here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/674614280/the-rock-n-roll-horror-zine-6

You can see about Charlotte O'Farrell's writing and work here: https://twitter.com/chaofarrell