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Sunshine	By : signorinaravelli Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 748 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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1977

Flunitrazepam is a very potent drug when administered in high enough doses. I should know. I’ve been popping them since the second month of the tour. One of the crew got a packet in Zurich, shared a little with me, and since then I’ve been sending out for them like Chinese take-aways. They’re always addressed to Steve in a manila envelope and he passes them onto me without question, though he knows what they are or at least has a vague idea. But why should he pry anyway? Whatever keeps us going, right? We’ve been going since late January with a short break at the end of May. It’s July now and irrepressibly hot and sticky, back in America for the second time since the tour started, playing the same venue for the third night in a row. I’m sick of the sight of the rest of the band, of the roadies, of Steve. Of non-descript hotel rooms and groupies and the sweaty tour bus and playing the same fucking songs with the same fucking people. Ginger’s at home with my little daughter who I’ve only gotten to see in brief intervals since January. Fifty-three shows with only two more to go, thank God.

I can’t even be happy about that, though. I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams. I hate him…I hate him so much I could kill him. The fact that I wanna fuck him so badly makes me hate him even more, as though it’s his fault. Never in our long history has he ever shown me any encouragement or teased me, so why should I blame him? It’s my own twisted mind’s fault for finding him attractive in the first place so I really can’t blame anyone but myself for my strange taste.

What I can despise him for, however, is the right bastard he’s been, especially lately. Recording Animals was an exercise in self-control – as in how long the three of us could go without killing him. Bricked up in the drab awfulness of Britannia Row day after day and being treated like a studio musician was nearly as unbearable as this tour. There was a time in a career when I could actually talk some sense into him and make him realize that he needed to see things from four different points of view, not one, but it’s damn near pointless now. At least I could leave Britannia Row and go home to my own bed in my own home.

I rake my nails up and down my arm over and over again until my skin’s raw. It’s about four-thirty and fans have started queuing up outside the venue. We’re about to go on for rehearsal, running a bit late. We all came in the limo today, though when I say “the limo”, I mean three separate ones, Nick and I sharing. For quite a few dates, Roger apparently thought the limousine a bit below him and actually came to venue by helicopter when it was available to him. None of us could really believe this, that he’d do something so flagrant. Was it just another product of his rapidly-expanding ego? I personally considered it a very obvious slap in the face, as though he were saying to the rest of us “fuck your silly lot. I’m (literally) above this.” But no, in New York he’s come with us plebes in our lowly limousine fleet.

The helicopter thing made me wonder, though…is he going insane right along with the rest of us? Everyone’s coping in their own ways, mostly with through the use of illicit substances. The night we played in Boston last week, Nick was sitting on the dressing room couch after the show, a white towel slung around his neck. On the coffee table in front of him the drugs were laid out like a buffet: pills of every size, shape and color, white stuff, booze, grass and rolling paper, the odd tourniquet. Everyone was picking their respective preference, mostly blow for the pick-me-up, and I could see Nick just watching all this blankly. Any other night he’d be right along with us but he just stared, all the life, all the humor that used to be in his face completely gone. Pale as death. Sweating. I could tell he was fighting it. After a bit, he looked up at me and announced with a smile that he’d be checking himself into rehab when we got back to England.

“Not another thing, Dave.” He smiled humorlessly. “Not another foreign substance is going into my body after this moment.”

He meant it, I could tell he did. When we were walking out the backdoor of the venue later on, I could see his red nose, though. I wish that I had the capacity to care more about what the others are than I already do.

Tonight I feel reckless. Ten minutes ‘til showtime and everyone’s readying themselves. Over the din of the screaming crowd, I can hear a certain nasally voice giving instructions to one of the crew and the sound makes my blood go like ice. The most fucking obnoxious voice in the world. My favorite voice in the world. What’s the difference? One more night of listening to him sing “Pigs” and I swear to God, I’ll go spare.

“Ha ha, charade you are!”

I sing that bit with him and when I do, I try my hardest to shout above him ‘cause if I don’t, the sound of his mock laugh is equivalent to a red hot poker thrust into my ear. I’m reckless and randy and absolutely hateful. I want to get him in my room and beat the piss out of him. Then I wanna pound his horrid, gangly body into the mattress and afterwards I wanna spit in his face. Is it possible that this much hate and lust could be geared toward one person? Any other night it would make me sick to think about actually hurting another human being the way I’m thinking of hurting him. But tonight I’m reckless and randy and hateful, riding high on Black Beauties, and getting ready to play our third New York show for the same faceless crowd with the same band I can scarcely bear to look at anymore.

Flunitrazepam is a very potent drug when administered in high enough doses.
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