Chapter 13:

So I came too far,

To end up this way.

Feeling like I’m God

Feeling there’s no way.

Jon had finally done it. A bullet to his head on Father's Day. Renee and him had long since divorced-Renee couldn't handle him being away for such long periods of time-and so he'd left, and killed himself. On Father's Day. It had been so easy to do. He flashed back to the time when he'd wrapped himself in a blanket, pathetic and weak. He didn't want that to happen again. Didn't want to be that weak. Nathan had died three years before; drowned when his baby-sitter left to make out with her boyfriend at the beach. After Renee and Jon totally lost it. They were distant, suddenly, so distant.

He'd bought a gun, and sat in the car for a long time, looking at the ocean that stole their son from them. He remembered Nathan's sparkling eyes, how he had loved him so dearly, sick or no. He sat in the car at the end of a precipice overlooking the ocean and wrote a will. He didn't want anyone to fight over his money. He wrote:

I know that everyone out there will think I'm the next Kurt Cobain; go right ahead. But I want all my fans to know is that this isn't the right way out; I'm a weak, awful person. I deserve to burn in hell, and I think that everyone here knew all along what I'm going to do. This is a will, so that everyone knows where all my money is going.

From now on every KoRn record that sells-take my part of the money and donate it to a child abuse fund chosen by the other members in my band. My house itself goes to Renee, so that she can sell it and get the money that she wants from it. For ten years of putting up with my bullshit, it's the least I can give her.

1. Brian gets all my pornos, all my dirty magazines, and every other movie that I own. You're one of the best friends I ever had man. Like a brother.

2. Reggie gets my Porsche, and my studio.

3. David gets all my instruments, and he gets the weight set I bought but never used. I know you'll use it.

4.Jimmy gets my savings, to pay for his treatments. I also want to apologize to him for everything he's been through lately. Sorry, man. I know what I'm gonna do isn't gonna help anything, but just know that I love you.

5. I want to give Sheena Upton my bagpipes, and all of my thanks.

That about sums it up. But to all the fans: I love you, and with me do I leave this world knowing in my heart that I am loved. Loved by you all.

Yes, he lay in that coffin, his face distorted from the bullet that set him free. Munky hated funerals. Nathan's funeral had been awful; it had been without a body. A funeral without a body. That had been the worst thing Munky ever experienced.

It had been four years now; the wrinkles on Munky's face had deepened; his sunken eyes framed short black hair with a few alien strands of white in them. He wasn't quite as thin as he'd once been; he'd gained a few pounds in his gut, and his arms had thickened as he'd approached real manhood. However, he was still handsome, despite the fact that now his fingers were pained with arthritis, callused and rough from much playing. It was becoming painful to play now; he had carpal tunnel from the years of bending his left wrist underneath the neck of the instrument he so loved.

When he heard that Jon had killed himself-Brian had called him, sobbing in shock-he'd lost a brother. Unlike the other members, who sat and mourned with their families, he sat alone, in a pew by himself. The front pew. He let his long shoulders sag as the priest rambled on about death. When they carried his coffin into the church, the television cameras clicked on. It was being broadcast all over the news, this funeral. The funeral of the man everyone had just known would be the next Kurt Cobain.

To say Munky hadn't known that this would happen was a lie; the depressions Jon had fallen into while on tour got worse every time. He was almost positive it would happen someday when Renee and Jon divorced. And at Nathan's funeral. It had been small and private, with only the band members and their families, and Nathan's schoolteachers there.

Yes, Munky sat alone. He climbed into his car and drove in a long, mournful line down the interstate. At the cemetery, the priest said some prayers. Munky through down a single white rose and a sheet of music as they lowered him into the ground. He turned away as they began to shovel dirt onto the beautiful, expensive coffin. He walked away as the mourners began to talk. Someone Munky didn't know had the audacity to laugh. A tear rolled down his cheek. He didn't even want to turn and see who it was. To see the face that was laughing bitterly at this unspeakable tragedy. He pulled his car keys out of his pocket, but stopped when he saw someone leaning against his car door.

Renee.

Would he have ever guessed, years ago, that he would be hugging her still-34 now-at her husband's funeral? Never. But they hugged then. They were young, in reality, but they were so old. Each had seen so many things in this life. So much loss.

"Renee, are you going to be okay?" he asked her, knowing very well she wasn't. She had no one in her life now. She was alone. No family, nothing. Alone.

And the media was even blaming her. They said that she was the reason he killed himself. Munky thought that maybe it was true. Love could drive you to do crazy things. After she'd insisted that she was okay, they walked away from his car and now stood on the fringe of the bustling crowd of people. "You can stay at my place for a few days," he offered her quietly, putting a friendly hand on her shoulder.

"No. I'll be fine. I'll make it through this. I wouldn't want to be a bother-"

"You wouldn't," he insisted. "I have to go in for treatments on Thursday, but other than that-"

She stopped him. Her hand tightened on his chest. Her look revealed her thoughts, and he suddenly hated her for it. Without words she told him what he knew; what he'd been avoiding for years. He'd be next. They all knew he'd be the next one to go. The blisters on his heart ached; the pounding headache he'd had for the past three days rushed back.

He'd have to have it checked out. In his condition, anything was deadly.

He talked to David and Fieldy, each of them avoiding his gaze. At first he thought it was because they were mourning, but then he realized they knew it, too. They, in fact, thought that Munky would go before Jon. One of the two. But it had been Jon. Munky was next.

He suddenly couldn't take this. He had to get out of here, get away from all this death and suffering. Being here only reminded him of what he'd someday soon inevitably face. The thing that would soon drag him down into the depths of darkness alone and cold...besides, his doctor told him that being around people increased his chances of...

"Jimmy?" a familiar female voice asked. He froze. Quickly turned his head. He knew that voice like the palm of his hand.

Sheena.

He waited as she walked over to him, and shrunk away when she touched him. She looked away knowingly, ashamed. The last memory he had of her was standing in the doorway, no tears streaming down her face as she cut off the only relationship that Munky had that was worth a damn. Munky knew he'd never have a relationship-never love anyone-as he'd loved Sheena. He couldn't. All the nights he'd spent awake-alone-crying, crying, over all the overwhelming feelings he hadn't realized until she abandoned him. It became easier to move on when he realized that he had, in fact, been too close to her. They'd shared too much, probed too deep into what they'd started. It would inevitably end.

Yes, it was hell. He'd never gotten over her, and was reminded every time he called her house to hear her hang up the phone. There had been one last time-now years ago-that he'd heard a sob in her voice as she begged him not to call again. "I have things-to settle here," she'd said. "Leave me alone-and find someone else."

"I can't. I love you."

"Leave me alone." Click.

It had been so hard. Even harder when he found out he'd never get her back-never get anyone ever again. He was reminded of her beauty-which hadn't faded with age. To Jon's funeral she'd ritually worn all black, a dress of such mourning it almost brought tears to his eyes. Just as he'd remembered that sweet, rich voice, he remembered the body. He imagined it underneath the clothing...so soft, wonderful. He bit back a swear when he looked at her again.

She didn't have her tongue earring anymore, was the first thing she said. Neither did he.

"So, how have things been going?" he asked as they took off in a direction, away from the crowd of people. "You still at home?"

"No, I'm not at home," she said. The regret in her voice was easily recognizable. "I-I've been doing okay."

"Why did you stop writing?" he asked her. The book she'd finished while Munky was on the world tour was the last published work she'd written. She used to write one a year, annually-now there were no new releases. He'd researched it, made sure he wasn't mistaken.

She shrugged. "I was too busy taking care of my mother to do much else. And helping my sister. My mother died finally, though, last March-"

"-I'm sorry to hear that-"

Sigh. "And so did my father. He-killed her and then himself."

Munky's footsteps stopped. He could still read the sorrow in her words. A lot happens in four years, yes-Munky knew that better than anyone-and yet he had never predicted this turn of events. He considered taking her hand. Reached for it. Stopped himself. She noticed how tall he was-how different he looked with short hair. He had aged; blamed herself for it, knowing it was her fault.

"So-you're here alone?" she asked. He smiled at her sadly, so sadly that she couldn't ignore a pang of guilt.

"Yeah. How about you?"

"No," she admitted. As if on cue, her son scampered towards them, his little legs working underneath his body.

"Mommy! Can I go play with Jen? The nice man there says I can," he insisted, tugging on his mother's dress. Sheena glanced over and saw Brian; waved to him. Jennea was about six now. She stood, nervous, blushing, as she watched the cute little boy she'd befriended ask his mother if he could play.

"Go ahead. But be good," she said at first. Munky observed the little boy. He had shoulder-length dreadlocks, with khakis and a white T-shirt...

"Come back here! Wait a minute, Jimmy!" Sheena called after the little boy. He turned and obediently scampered back. "Meet my friend. His name is Jimmy, too. He's someone I knew a long time ago. He's-he's the one I named you after."

Those eyes. Those same brown eyes...

Glared at him curiously. He held out his little hand. Munky gripped it, felt the softness of it as it cupped his. "Nice to meet you," he choked out. As the little boy turned to run away, Munky stared at Sheena with a fixed look. He pointed to his chest, then to her, then to himself. All he could think about was that night, as they lay in bed. She promised him that if she ever had his baby, she'd give it dreadlocks and dress it in khakis...

Chink.

Sheena quickly nodded, no. "He's not yours. I'm-I'm married."

"To who?"

"Ben Hascomb. Jimmy, I loved you, I really did-"

Munky smiled knowingly. He wished her farewell, planted a kiss on the side of her face, and for the second time walked away from his only love. He made it into his car, started the ignition, and rode homewards. Sheena watched him go. She had thought that perhaps he'd been kidding from his twinkling eyes as he told her he was alone, but knew it was true as he left, solitary.

She made her way to Brian. He hugged her.

"So, you saw Jimmy," he said. Even after breaking up with Jimmy, she'd known Brian wasn't cross with her. Turns out he'd been right all along. David and Fieldy, however, were somewhat reproachful. Which was why they walked away quietly when she approached. They'd given her the silent treatment since she'd left him, knowing how much he mourned for her.

"Did he tell you?" Brian asked as they watched their children play tag in the long green field being prepared for a new cemetery.

"Tell me what?"

He looked at her. "You don't know? You mean, Jon never told you? He said he did."

"No. He hasn't talked to me. I just came because Renee invited me, because we kept in touch." Her eyes narrowed in curiosity; shut tight as he told her the news. She couldn't let him see her heart rip in half. She wouldn't let herself be exposed.

His voice was soft. A tear ran down his face as he watched Munky's car, a black dot by now, pulling back onto the interstate. "He has AIDS, Sheena. A week after he broke up with you he slit his wrists, and needed a blood transfusion. By accident, they gave him infected blood. He's had these migraines lately-do you want my phone number? So I can contact you when he-- ?"

Jennea and Jimmy's game quickly ended as she snatched him into her arms and took them to her car. The drive back to Seattle was long, but not half as deep as the streaks in Sheena's heart.

Munky awoke to a seething pain behind his forehead. It throbbed and throbbed-his vision clouded over in yellow. Hand to his head, he dialed 911 before he passed out.

He was rudely awakened by a fat nurse pulling the sheets over him. Hospital rooms were supposed to be soothing. They are-at first. Until the blank whiteness of it all catches up with you. The throbbing in his head wouldn't go away. He asked the nurse for an Aspirin with a thick voice. His saliva was stagnant; he found that he had a hard time breathing as he was, on his back. He tried to move, but couldn't. Decided not to complain as a cross look soured her face.

"You really think an aspirin is gonna help you, sir?" she asked honestly. He put his hand to his head and told her no. He just wanted whatever could stop this pain, these headaches.

Dr. Kawalski finally entered the room. She bade the nurse leave, and sat on Munky's bed. Sympathy swam in her eyes. She took Munky's hand from his forehead, and held it in hers. He smiled weakly. He loved Dr. Kawalski. She examined his fingers as she spoke, with only sideways glances to him.

"This is what we're gonna do, Jimmy. You hear me?" his eyes had glazed over. For a second Dr. Kawalski entertained the horrific notion that he'd died. Then, it cleared up, and he shook his head. Her words from that point on were abrupt and sharp. She didn't have much time with this patient. There was definitely something wrong. Tears welled in his eyes, and he told her that he'd blanked out. He said she didn't need to water it down; he knew what was going to happen to him, anyway.

After a sigh, she started again. "We're going to give you a CAT scan as soon as possible, but until then, to avoid the pain and for the better of this, we're going to put you under tranquilizers."

"Why tranquilizers?" He remembered Jon having discussed an addiction to tranquilizers...

"Because we think you may have a brain tumor. We don't know where. It could either affect the physical part of your brain, in which you'll inevitably lose your ability to move certain parts of your body. Or, you could have it on the left side of your brain, which controls the emotional aspects of your intellect. We are pretty sure it is in the physical side, but if it's on the emotional side of your brain..."

"What?" it was hard enough to swallow that this had happened to him. He thought he'd never get AIDS. But he did. A brain tumor, though, on top of it? He denied it until the pounding in his head convinced him that it was definitely a possibility.

"If it's on the emotional side of your brain you could start to hallucinate or throw fits of anger. Which is why we're keeping you under tranquilizers, so that you don't do that until we're absolutely sure."

"Is this because of my AIDS? Did my AIDS do this?"

"Well, theoretically, the mutation of your normal white cells into AIDS cells could have triggered a chemical mutation which in turn-"

"Normal English, please."

"Yes, most likely your AIDS started it all," she answered in a simple breath after a sad smile.

"So, either way, I'm fucked," he said, summing it up.

She looked away. She patted his wrist again. Stood up, her clipboard snuggled under her arms. She cocked her pencil on the clipboard, and jotted some notes down. As she did she told him, "You may be here for a while. Is there anything you want from home to decorate this place? You can, you know."

Munky remembered when his mother had been diagnosed with cancer. In her final days they had let her decorate her room however she wanted. He had brought stuff from her house, all her pictures of her late husband, Munky and his sister, along with everything she'd always held dear. The people at the hospital wanted their patients to have a nice, homey environment when they croaked.

"I don't want anything. All I want is a journal and a pencil. And someone to write my will for me. Can you arrange that?" he asked.

She nodded to him. "Yes, we can. But don't give up hope. Don't give up on--"

"What?" he asked softly.

She kissed him on the cheek and left the room. Before the horrific idea that the germs from her mouth could seize and kill him, the fat nurse came in and shot him up with enough tranquilizers to down a horse.

Two months later, in the Bakersfield Town Hall, Sheena thought, My God, as everyone gathered into the room to hear the reading of his will. The remaining members of the band were there, along with the other people he had mentioned: his sister, herself (which had surprised Sheena), and Renee. There were a few business executives there, hoping to inherit his money or his consent for a compilation of the hidden work in his special room. Sheena hissed at them in disgust.

"To all here," he read, "this is the official reading of the will of James Shaffer, who composed this document with the knowledge of the uncertainty of life. He has been deceased for two days. The following people are entitled by the consent of the deceased person everything as follows."

He began to read in an impersonal voice what Jimmy had dictated. Sheena could imagine Jimmy saying those words, as he lay, dying in a hospital bed. The tears had streamed down his cheeks. "To my sister goes all of my fan mail, and all of my memorabilia. I also give her my share of any KoRn records that sell hereafter, and the amount of two million that I received for the production of our latest album.

"To Brian I leave all of my pornography, and my computer. I leave him the music I’ve written—located in my special room—to his disposal.

"To Reggie I leave all of my guitars, except for the blue Ibanez Model 60. You were my brother, man. I’ll miss you. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

"To David I leave my—

The reader rambled on and on. Sheena looked across the room to Head, who’d buried his face in his hands. She knew he’d never play again. Not as long as he lived. He left the room after his inheritance had been read for a cigarette. Sheena almost followed him, but stayed put. She was guiltily curious as to what he left her.

"To Renee I leave my dining room table and my fledgling wine collection to use as she pleases. I’ll never forget our wonderful friendship. I love you more than you’ll ever know. I’ve shared some of the best times of my life with you. Thanks for being there whenever I needed you.

"And finally, I leave to Sheena my house, and the journal I have kept in my final days.

"To my son, Jimmy Upton, I leave—

Sheena’s sob pierced the silent air as time stopped. She didn’t care that everyone looked at her. She didn’t care. He’d known—he’d known—oh my God he’d known—

After a pause, the reader continued. "I leave to my son Jimmy Upton my most prized guitar and my savings, which amount to approximately 35 million dollars. Use the guitar only if you want to pick it up. And use the money as you please. Tell your mother how much I love her. I miss her."

The reader paused again. He would have ended the reading with the formalities as was the custom, but Sheena’s wail rose above the others. Sobbing, she fled from the room. No one stopped her. As she ran down the long, white corridor of the town hall she could only think: He’d known. As soon as he’d looked into his son’s eyes he’d known. She’d denied it. Told him she was married, when in truth she was a struggling single mother trying to make it on her own. With her son the only reminder of the most wonderful relationship she’d ever had.

Yes, she had renewed her birth control subscription, but had stopped taking the pills after he went on tour. A week after her period had ended—right around the time of ovulation—he’d come back home, and they’d had plenty of opportunities to make a baby. Her father had been furious after she’d started to show—about four months after Jimmy and her broke up—and had kicked her out of the house. She’d then moved into a little apartment smaller than the one she’d had in New Jersey and given birth to their son. Thinking of Jimmy had gotten her through the pain. She named the little wailing baby after her love.

He’d known, even after she lied. She was good at lying; or very bad, one or the other. Jon had thought that it was his baby, when in fact it wasn’t. And Munky had known, he had known. Whether it was from the creepy way he could read her face, or the way her touch told all, he had known. And yet, he had left, as if he’d believed her story. She felt like the biggest bitch—the biggest hypocrite—in the world. She was always trying to be honest, discouraging lies. And yet she made the biggest, most important ones?

She burst from the door and inhaled deeply the stagnant Bakersfield air. It was January. He’d died in the dank month of January, where there was no life. And just blank whiteness.

No, that wasn’t right. There wasn’t any snow in Bakersfield. Just gray.

But, on the other hand, could she have told him? She argued with herself as she yanked her car door open. Could she have told him after four years that yes, that was his son? And tell Jimmy Jr. that too? Only to find out that he was dying, being ripped from this world? The guilt that bore upon her would have been insurmountable. They would have had to sit back and watch him die. Little Jimmy didn’t even know he had a father; and to suddenly have a dying one wasn’t a good substitute.

Jimmy had a right, however, to know he had a father—no matter who it was—and Munky had the right to know that he had a child. They had a right to hug, kiss, spend time together. Sheena instantly regretted what she had done to Munky, leaving him for an old life that brought only pain. He had taught her how to love; had taught her to know intimacy for what it really was. And she had taught him that love wasn’t just intimacy; that it was the little things that made it work. He loved her so much that he knew to let her go. He knew to do whatever made her happy at the time.

She hated him for it.

She loved him.

That night her dreams were filled with him. Of his love. Of his smiling face, of his long dreadlocks, of the amplified sound of his guitar as he bent over her, trying to play it as she strummed the chords. The soft lulling of the Spanish he spoke so beautifully resonated through her mind. The dreams were so real that she felt him in the dark, as she laid alone in her twin bed. She could hear him breathe…

With morning came bitter reality. She sat up. Got dressed. Woke up Jimmy, her little son. He was sleeping in his little room, a singular KoRn poster up, one with Munky. She allowed him to listen to KoRn; he loved it, even at his young age. All these years it had convinced Sheena that she was allowing her son to be around her father. That somehow the guitar riffs were teaching her son life’s lessons. This morning she pointed the poster out to him as he sat in his Southpark pajamas rubbing his eyes. His dark eyebrows furrowed in concern. She sobbed. He looked so much like his father. Those same eyes burned into hers. Always had. Always will.

"See that man, Jimmy?" she said. She pointed to the poster. She’d bought him the one where the members were among graffiti. Munky stood up in the middle, dressed in all black, the others kneeling before him.

"Yeah."

"That’s your father," she said. She ran a hand down the length of his body as she looked at him. "He died the other day."

"I have a daddy?" he asked carefully, after a minute. She quickly was struck by the notion that he had lived his short life thinking he’d come out of the blue.

"Of course you do! Everyone does!" Then, more carefully, "Remember the man you shook hands with? At mommy’s friend’s funeral a little while ago?"

He nodded.

"That was him."

Silence. "Are we going to see him? In his coffin? Are they going to bury him in the ground?" was all he asked. He jumped out of bed and hugged her as she frowned. She was getting sick to her stomach. This couldn’t be happening. She had lived her entire life incognito, keeping the secrets that mattered the most from others. Munky could have treated her right, could have loved her and their son his whole life through, even if it did end four years after their break-up. She had been naïve and foolish. She had thought he’d find someone else.

But he’d chosen her.

She reminded herself as she helped her little son into his clothes that he could have succeeded in attempting suicide so long ago. She would have gone, then, pregnant, to his funeral, where they would have stared accusingly at her. As they would today. Instead of ending it right there, it had lasted four years. She thought about the disease itself: night sweats, insomnia. The nights must have been so long without anyone. He must have been so scared.

The wake took place at the same place the meeting had; many people showed up to this. His sister only babbled quietly in Spanish with her weeping children. She avoided Sheena’s gaze as she wished them the best. They hated her, she could tell. It was the reason he was dead. She was the reason he was dead.

After a lot of deliberation, Sheena decided that Jimmy should see his father, and so led Jimmy into the empty room where the body was kept. The little boy petted the coffin, and lifted himself up so that he could see inside. Jimmy lay there peacefully, holding a rose and a sheet of music. He looked so peaceful in his sleep, Sheena thought. This was not the face that told her he loved her, not the face that shed confused tears; not the face that contorted in yearning or hurt or anxiety. Yet it wasn’t creased in happiness, smiling or playing. Or crying out to her. Clinging to her. His eyes weren’t shut tight; his mouth wasn’t open. He wasn’t playfully whispering or urgently calling out her name. He was simply lying there.

Neutral.

Gray.

Jimmy refrained from saying anything and walked out of the room. With a heavy heart, Sheena watched him go. Knew he would cry alone, so wrought with worries for his age. He’d had to grow up fast without two parents. Sheena could no longer write—whatever she tried turned out a sappy love story. Jimmy had become so important to her that he held her talent inside of him. Without him, she was nothing.

So, perhaps they had become too close. But as she looked at him, she knew it was worth the sacrifice. In her life she’d found someone who gave her those endearing looks, but that cared about her more than he cared for himself. With everything he did he tried to please her. Her alone. At any cost, at any sacrifice. He’d given to her willingly of his entire heart, soul, and body. In his subtle way he’d eventually stripped her, made her bear her heart to him, and loved her anyway. He’d taken her from bondage and showed her the wild liberty of love, even though he hadn’t even known it himself.

He’d set her free.

She touched his face. Jumped and wailed as the door opened. Brian meandered in quietly. He took off his stretchy hat—his head was still too big for regular hats—and slowly accepted Sheena as she collapsed into him.

"They all hate me. They hate me for what I did and it’s all my fault."

"No it’s not. Sheena, you can’t blame yourself for this," he assured. He remembered her when she was in high school. Never knew she could look as beautiful as this in a time of crisis. Nevertheless he saw why Jimmy had loved her so; she wasn’t perfect. And she saw people for who they truly were, not for what she wanted them to be. She had looked past Munky’s cold exterior. She had given him a chance.

Munky had died for her.

"Here. It’s the journal you inherited," he said. He passed it to her, unread. She sat down on the row of chairs a few feet away from the coffin and read his words. Head read over her shoulder.

December 26, 2005

Hello. I feel really awkward doing this. I’ve never made a journal entry in my life. But now I feel the need to record what happens to me, because if I live through this I can look back and laugh at my naïve fear; or leave this in my wake when I pass on. I don’t know who I’d give this to—I have no one left. If I could—if I could just reach her—I could give this to her.

I feel so pathetic doing this. Maybe Brian is right, and I’m so lonely that I’ve resorted to stupid pastimes like this. But what else am I to do? I’m stuck in a white room all day, with only the doctor to visit me.

And she always brings bad news.

But back to Sheena—the girl I saw the other day. At Jon’s funeral. She’s as beautiful as I remembered her being, if not more so. We talked for a little while, and I couldn’t have been more thankful for it. She had a little boy with her…with my hair, my eyes, and my name. It was my son. She lied to me about him, but I saw right through her, just like I had for years. She may be drop dead gorgeous, but she’s a sorry liar.

I still love her. Brian is coming to visit me tomorrow; I’ll have to find out if he knows where she is. Then I could talk to her, see my little boy before I’m gone. I know this is kind of pathetic, but after all these years I still wish that I could be with her…especially now. When I’m like this. She’s married, though—I envy the lucky man that won her heart.

Mine aches at my failure to do so every single second that it keeps beating.

December 28, 2005

Brian came over and spent the entire day with me yesterday. He’s such a good friend; I have a couple issues of the latest Playboys at my disposal. I swear that it’s hard sometimes to look at those women, but at other times it’s soothing. It reminds me of how lucky I used to be to have a woman (Sheena) that was far more beautiful than any of them.

I asked him if he knew where Sheena was, what her number was—and he said no, that he didn’t. However, he offered to try and find Sheena. He offered to give her this book and anything else I wanted to give her after the inevitable occurs. This idea soothes me. I can imagine her reading these words, knowing that I still love her and that I forgive her for leaving me.

I don’t know. If this book becomes too personal, I may burn it. I’m afraid that’s going to happen; I have no one else to open up to.

December 29, 2005

Treatments. I feel like shit. I got x-rays and a CAT scan to find if there are any tumors anywhere. I don’t see why it matters. God, I wish Sheena was here now.

I’m one sorry son of a bitch, aren’t I?

December 30, 2005

I feel like such a rebel! Against the doctor’s orders, I’m up past my bedtime, which is at exactly nine thirty. My little bed-light doesn’t help me see this page that well, but I can’t sleep and I feel that it won’t be too much longer before my hands lose the ability to write.

Today was scary. According to the doctors, I blacked out twice. But I think it was more than that, because the day was incredibly short. David brought me one of my guitars today. I couldn’t play. I hate to see my friends cry—or desperately hold it back so as not to scare me. That’s even worse.

Yep. I found out today: a tumor. In my brain. My AIDS caused my cells to mutate and now I have a brain tumor the size of a lemon inside of the "physical" part of my brain, whatever that is. I asked Dr. Kawalski if it was fatal and all she said was that it was inoperable, and walked out the door. I really would like to know how much longer I have left, how much more time Brian has to find Sheena. I’m thinking a month or two, but who knows? It could be longer or shorter.

So, I will join my father in the holy tradition of leaving our families. I remember laying in bed with Renee and thinking—wondering—if she was pregnant so long ago, hoping not but knowing that if she was that I would live forever for the little baby. I would be immortal just so that the baby wouldn’t have to go through what I was going through. The torture. The pain.

But my son won’t suffer. Sheena’s husband, I’m sure, is like a father to him. Little Jimmy won’t miss me. To him I’m not even his father.

Goodnight. My hand’s getting numb.

Today was a scary day.

December 31, 2005

Last night—after I finished that entry—I had the most wonderful dream. So wonderful that I at first thought it was real. It was about Sheena, of course. I know you’re probably sick of hearing about her, but I can’t help it. After Jon’s funeral seeing her again brought back so many hard memories, so many good memories. I’m so confused right now…

But, oh yeah, the dream. Her beautiful brown eyes were looking at me, piercing through me. We were back in my house, in my bed. I can still feel her naked body, and how it fit so perfectly with mine under the soft sheets. Our bodies were young and supple; eager and willing. She was talking to me as the leaned over me, telling me how much she loved me. I didn’t only hear her moans when they started. I felt them. They shook me from deep within, somewhere I haven’t touched since.

She used to watch my face, you know. Used to tell me that she wanted to come first just so that she could watch my face as I came. She used to kiss me, my chin, my neck, my lip.

Used to. Everything’s used to.

Goodnight.

I usher in the New Year, knowing it will be my last. I can’t write anymore. I only feel lonelier when I write about her than when I think about her. She used to write you see. She used to be an author.

Just like I used to be a guitarist.

January 1, 2006

Brian came to visit me today. The hospital was somewhat full, what with all the drunk-driving accident victims. Or so I hear. I don’t know. Up here in the AIDS ward the only people that I see are suffering like me.

Brian and me played cards, talked about how he started supervising our record label (Elementree) full time. They just signed a new band—for the life of me I can’t remember its name—and I have confidence that they’ll do well. I asked him if he’d bring a tape for me to listen to; he promised he would. Renee joined us at about noon with flowers. She hugged and kissed me. It felt so nice that I began to cry. I don’t know why. I just did. Maybe it was the sorrow and moroseness in her eyes. The words that lurked behind them. The fear that lurked behind them.

They left after a few hours. I wanted them both to go away; I couldn’t stand them looking at me the way they do. They pity me. I hate that. They believe me if I tell them I’m tired, and that’s what I did.

As soon as I was sure they were gone I got out of my bed and went out into the concession room with the mask I have to wear now when I’m out in public. I met a little girl. She was really pretty. She was about five, and was playing with blocks. She didn’t look sick. I played blocks with her for a little bit (Dr. Kawalski made me scrub my hands for ten minutes after). Before I knew it I was holding a book in my shaking hands and reading her Green Eggs and Ham.

Then her parents came. Before I could even say goodbye she was snatched away. I heard her sobs over her mother’s shoulder, tried to explain. She wouldn’t hear it. As my own loneliness escalated I collapsed.

Or so I hear. I don’t remember it.

January 2, 2006

Uneventful day. Don’t remember much of it. Blacked out four times. Supposedly.

I’m waiting to die. Everyone’s waiting for me to die.

Please God don’t let me go without one last kiss from my love.

January 3, 2006

Dr. Kawalski was obviously appalled today. I was up and walking. I ordered someone to shave my head; I can’t stand to see my hair coming out in clumps. I made an appointment to comprise my will. Two days. He’s coming to hear me dictate my will in two days…I am now faced with the task of assigning my possessions to people. I have no idea what to give whom. My main priorities are my band members, my family—and Sheena, along with my son. What I’ll give them, I don’t know. It would be easier if I knew Jimmy. But I don’t.

Dr. K says that I shouldn’t bother with Sheena—that I should watch out that she doesn’t try to collect all my savings—but I know she won’t. I want my son to know that I care about him. She hasn’t vied for child support all these years, even though she could have.

But she’s too proud. She loves me.

Used to.

The tumor’s growing, so quickly and yet so slowly.

I’ve been writing for three hours. I’m only halfway through this journal, but I already know that I won’t finish it.

January 5, 2006

The will was written today. I blacked out in the middle of dictating it. This journal is—after all—going to Sheena.

I can’t write anymore. I have to save my strength for tomorrow.

I’m scared. So scared.

Sheena,

Even after all these years I still care about you. Part of me says that I want to live forever, to find you, know you, and maybe even make you mine again. But the other part of me is so tired; wants to stay in this bed. To fall asleep and never wake up. I know that sounds awful to you, but I’m so tired it’s the only snippet of peace I cling to. I don’t know when this will end—I just hope it will be soon.

Know that I am not trying to make you feel bad, to make you feel guilty, as you might when you read these words. I don’t blame you for anything that happened; your duty to your family is prominent with you. You made the right decision.

I was the one that made the wrong decision and slit my wrists.

I’m just writing this so that you know I still care about you. That I have never forgotten and never will forget you. I want you to realize that every time you look at our son, you’ll see me, smiling upon you. I know times have passed and things have changed, but I still can’t forget about the love we had. It was so special, so intimately pure. You made me realize how important it is to love and to be loved. You filled a void within me that I had always known was there but had never been able to place.

You made me whole. You were the only love of my life.

Looking back, I realize how truly lucky I am to have had someone like you in my life. Some people never find such a confidante—someone they can pour their heart out to shamelessly. I was lucky enough to find that person and to have the chance to love them. I enter my final days knowing in my heart that I was cared about. They say that you don’t know what you have until you lose it; I knew what I had. Even when you left, I knew you still loved me for me.

That’s all that matters.

Thank you for everything you’ve done. Thank you for providing me with the strength to realize that someone is no one without love.

Love,

Jimmy

P.S. I live on within you. I will never leave your side as long as there is a smile in your heart.

The journal entry ended with a squiggly line. The pen had raced across the page in a sharp diagonal as he’d lost control of his hand. Sheena though that that was the last entry, but turning the page she found that there was in fact another page filled. His eloquent handwriting had turned clumsy and sloppy with the numbness that handicapped him.

Jimmy,

I hope you are having a nice time with your mommy. Know that she is a wonderful woman, and that I love—and did love her--very much. You were an incredible gift; a beloved miracle that your mommy allowed me to take part in.

I’m very sorry that I can’t spend that much time with you. Maybe mommy will explain it to you someday, but it was a very confusing time. I’m so sorry that we never got to know each other very well. I know what it’s like to grow up in a weird situation. All I have to say is that, although the hurting never really goes away, it gets better as you get older.

When I met you I noticed that you had mommy’s eyes, although the rest of you looks a lot like me. If you ever want to know what I look like, just look in the mirror, and there I am. You carry a picture of me around all the time.

Listen to you mother; she knows best. Only pick up the guitar if you want to, and if you’re not interested in it you can keep it as a present from me or sell it. Whatever you want to do with it if you don’t want to keep it is up to you.

There are so many things I want to tell you, but I’m afraid that it would take me forever to write everything down. Just remember this. It’s something my father told me, and something that his father told him. It’s one of the things that have helped me through many hard times.

When you look at the stars, they look so close together. But they are really far apart, a million miles away from each other, burning alone in a black void of space. They’re all alone, and yet they keep on burning as bright as they can. So when you feel all alone, just remember that you have to keep on shining. Because someday it’ll be over—stars die out, just like people—and the worst thing ever is to look back on your life and realize you could’ve burned brighter.

Love,

Your Daddy

P.S. I love you.

Chink.