Page 141 of The Sound Between Us

36

burning it all down

Harrison

“Change the locks. I’m changing my fucking house.”

The words come out clipped, brittle. They splinter the air.

Three men in navy polos are tearing my life apart, one cardboard box at a time. Every surface is gutted; cushions flung from sofas, cables dragged from walls, guitar cases stacked along the hallway.

“Be careful with that.” I mutter automatically as one of them lobs my Mercury Prize into a box labelled TROPHIES / MISC.

The man raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t respond, but the message is clear: You asked us to destroy this place. Now let us do it.

I don’t blame him.

The house is too quiet. I hate how the silence isn’t clean; how it echoes her voice. Not her speaking voice. Just fragments.

“This is what selling out sounds like.”

Her words hang in the air, ghosts with perfect timing.

I grab the nearest amp cable and yank it out of the wall, the plug snapping. This is what a breakdown looks when you’re rich; clean chaos, bubble wrap on £12k speakers, your spiral reduced to packing labels.

I can’t feel my face. Haven’t slept in forty hours, haven’t eaten in at least thirty. All I’ve done is drink; coffee, whisky, memory.

Every time I close my eyes, I see hers. The way she looked at me in that hotel room; blank at first, confused. Then the slow unravel.

Confusion. Realisation. Disgust.

But worst of all? Disappointment.

Because she expected better. And she was right to.

My phone buzzes again. Henry. Still trying. Probably wants to spin the press leak, mitigate the story. Maybe he’s realised too late that throwing Seren under the bus didn’t get him what he wanted.

I don’t bother reading the text. He can go fuck himself with a press release.

Another buzz. I flip the phone and throw it. It hits the marble floor and shatters with a satisfying crack.

It’s not enough. None of this is enough.

I stride toward the hallway where the Basquiat hangs crooked on the wall. Bought it at auction three years ago during some European tour I can barely remember. Everyone thought it was a statement. It was. A stupid one.

I grip the frame and rip it off the wall. The force sends me stumbling back, frame cracking against my shin as I go. I hiss in pain.

Good. At least I can still feel something.

The Basquiat hits the floor, splintering on one side.

“That’s insured, right?” I say to no one.

Dave/Dan/Dickhead doesn’t answer.

I walk past the painting and into the kitchen, pop the fridge open. It’s empty except for a half-full bottle of tequila and a Tupperware of something green that I’m not brave enough to identify.

I take the bottle. No glass. Just the burn straight from the neck.