Sin Ti (Del James)

Without You

By Del James

Although he wanted to share the dance, Mayne could not bring himself to interrupt such beauty. Her welltoned

body swayed childlike, peacefully, slowly moving to the rhythm. Her innocence was enchanting, her

beauty breathtaking. Mayne knew she’d be angry at him for sneaking about, watching without letting her

know, but the teenage voyeur inside his adult body encouraged him and didn’t care about the

consequences. Besides, this was for his eyes only. Her eyes sparkled, reminding him of the ocean, vast

with beauty and mystery. A slight breeze danced through her lion’s mane. A full-length see-through dress

covered her shapely body and a light glaze of sweat made her glisten. She seemed too beautiful to be

real. During this split second of visual euphoria, Mayne conceded that she was the only woman he ever

truly loved. Her eyes flickered. She must have heard me, he thought as she turned toward him. He didn’t

want to ruin the beauty, only to enjoy it. Her thick lips smiled sympathetically. Then the song started

growing in volume.

A sharp twinge of panic shot through him when he realized which of his songs it was. Cold sweat seeped

out of his pores and dread consumed him. His vision spiraled as reality distorted. Breathing became

difficult, complicated. Desperation attacked and twisted every muscle in his thin body. Much worse than

the pain was his fear. Unsuppressable anxiety swept through him as he started toward the stereo.

Everything lost its natural texture; the walls, the floor, the air became surreal. The louder the music, the

more difficult he found it to move. He had to remove the compact disc but his feet felt like large concrete

blocks. He couldn’t move fast enough. She already had the pistol’s barrel against her temple.

BLAMM!

Mayne awoke covered in sweat, a mute shriek still lodged in his throat. The past six hours had been

spent in a drug-and-alcohol-induced coma that he put over as sleep. Sleep was a rare commodity and

was impossible to achieve without some assistance. It didn’t matter whether he slept six hours or six

minutes, the nightmare always managed to creep in. No sleeping pill or antidepressant could spare him.

He had written the song and was forever damned by it. With unsteady hands, he wiped sweat from his

brow and rubbed his fingers against the satin sheets. His silver and gold bracelets clinked together.

Rolling onto his side, he stared at the digital alarm clock on top of the black night table that had a built -in

refrigerator as its base. On top of the clock was a half-empty pack of Marlboros. He stared at the green

digital numbers but they made no sense. It really didn’t matter what time it was anyway, his time was

other people’s money. Next to the clock was something more important than cash or time. Slowly he sat

up. Tortured eyes scanned the black marble tabletop, searching for any leftover precious brown powder.

There were burned matches, bent cigarettes, and empty bindles, but no dope. It didn’t matter. He could

always have more delivered. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mayne reached down and opened the night

table’s refrigerator door. Inside were several Budweiser’s, baking soda, and a chilled bottle of Dom

Perignon. He grabbed a cold can, killing half of it in one sip. He did this every morning. Instantly, his

aching head began to feel better. Although he didn’t want to admit it, the time had arrived to rejoin the

living. He knew he had to be at the studio soon but didn’t feel up to it. Besides, the recording of his latest

album, Alone, had been finished over a month ago. The album was now in the final mixing stages. If

Mayne liked what he heard, he’d approve it and the record would be released on schedule. If not, it would

have to be remixed until he did approve. So then, what the @!#$ did they need him for? He

procrastinated for as long as he possibly could before finally standing up.

Much like his bedroom, the bathroom was a disaster area. Discarded clothes, creams, trash, cassettes,

and towels dominated the view. Using radar to locate the bowl, he found the porcelain, fought off the urge

to puke, and relieved himself. He reentered the bedroom, not really feeling human, more like a robot

dressed in rented flesh. There was a dull pain in his abdomen that he’d grown accustomed to. It, like

many other flaws in his health, could be attributed to his excessive life-style. Besides hi jewelry, Mayne

only wore Jockey briefs. He stumbled over to his dresser, removed a pair of custom-tailored black leather

pants, and changed. He found a dark purple silk kimono hanging in a walk in closet and put it on. In a

dresser drawer was a gram vial of cocaine. Scooping with the long fingernail on his right pinkie, the

tattered musician snorted eight blasts of rock ‘n’ roll aspirin. The kimono felt cool against his warm flesh.

He wondered if he was feverish and concluded he probably was. He was always run down, as if with a

perpetual fever. That is, of course, until he got his chip. He finished his beer, tossing the empty can in the

general direction of a wastebasket that was already crammed with empties. Staring into a full-length

mirror, the run-down recluse didn’t recognize the reflection. Sure, the long blond hair and tattoos gave

him away, but he looked so frail. Mayne looked like someone who was ready for hospital pajamas. His

once attractive face was blue, taut, and expressionless. A scraggly beard covered his chin and his

emerald eyes were no longer authentic gems, but rather costume jewelry. He needed a drink.

For the past fourteen of his twenty-eight years, he’d spent the majority of his time inside a bottle. Teenage

beer and wine parties turned to vodka and rum at nightclubs, which in turn evolved into straight whiskey.

Exiting the bedroom, he said a silent prayer to his patron saint, Jim Beam, asking that there be some in

the liquor cabinet. An illuminating golden glow surrounded the thick blackout curtains. A small war had

gone down in the living room the previous evening. Full ashtrays, assorted liquor bottles, empty and halfempty

packs of cigarettes, and beer cans were strewn everywhere. Several CD covers were caked in

cocaine residue. Mayne tried remembering who had been partying there and couldn’t. An empty pack of

Kool cigarettes meant that one of his many dealers, Jamie Jazz had delivered something.

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