*

“Nooooo.” Billy stared up at the ceiling. The water spots from his upstairs neighbor’s leaky tub had gotten bigger. Damn. More things to fix. And here he was, lying on the cold tiled floor clutching his stomach. Stupid ulcer. Damn thing always had to act up right when he needed to be on. He sure as hell wasn’t going to miss the show tonight, he couldn’t give up the money, much less disappoint the fans and his bandmates, all of whom were counting on the money, too.

“Shit.” He rolled onto his side and drew his knees up into his chest. It felt fractionally better that way.

“Breathe, Billy.” He’d found if he talked to himself, like really spoke out loud, it helped him deal with the pain. He wasn’t good at being alone, wasn’t it a fucking bitch he’d ended up that way? Woe is you, Billy, he thought.

“Okay. Breathe in.” He inhaled, feeling the twinge of pain right as his lungs swelled to their maximum. His prescription had run out a few weeks ago, and he’d been so busy with rehearsal, and so jazzed about the show he hadn’t bothered to get it refilled. Figured maybe he didn’t need it anymore.

He figured wrong. “You’re an asshole, Billy.” Okay, maybe that wasn’t the kind of talking to he needed right now.

*This is how I imagine Billy.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, June 17th, 2009 at 8:14 pm and is filed under DYWMB?. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.