“Don’t you fuckin’ dare, woman!” he roared, struggling to get to his feet and hobbling over with his walker.

I’d gotten a good two-thirds of it down the drain by the time he made it to me and snatched it back.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“The person who loves you more than anything and anyone in my life!” I shouted back. “The one who’s dedicated to healing you, who has been doing everything I can to get you and myself through this!”

“Well, stop bothering! I don’t give a shit about anythin’ anymore! I’m sick of you fuckin’ naggin’ my ass, tellin’ me what to do, what to fuckin’ eat, and bein’ an overall pain!”

Slapping me would have been less painful. “Fine,” I said, recoiling both physically and mentally.

“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that,” he sneered. “It’s bad enough I have a gapin’ hole in my fuckin’ chest over losin’ my best friend. I don’t need you tryin’ to heap a shit pile of guilt on me, too.”

Shaking my head, I grabbed my bag and got the hell out of there.

While hanging out with Gavin, eventually, my conscience convinced me that Phil still needed me. Hours later, I returned to find him weeping and contrite.

“Baby Girrrl,” he slurred, opening his arms. “I’m sooo ssorrry! Please don’ hate me!”

Starved for the love that had once been stronger than anything, I went into his arms and cried with him. I was mourning so many things. It was a wonder to me that I could get myself up and out of bed each day.

Daily, I made the time to meditate and communicate with my Little Zephyr. Another week went by, and during a session, I noticed the abnormal flicker had dimmed. The stress I was dealing with was taking its toll on both of us. I was no longer strong enough to keep us going.

“Don’t give up!” I told Little Zephyr. “Please, there has to be a way to save you! I love you. I love you!”

Phil was much more willing to do his therapy when he was scared that I’d up and leave his ass again. Although I wished his love for me and not his guilt had brought the change, I took it for all it was worth.

A few days of promise.

While watching Metal Madness Hour on Thursday evening, the show had a tribute to X, showing clips from concerts and dedicating a whole hour to nothing but NOLA’s Junk. A year and a half ago, I would have been thrilled to have so much airplay of my favorite band.

Phil grew quiet, his hooded eyes filling with tears, and in that instant, his newfound desire to get strong, heal, and move forward had banked, cooling to ashes.

“Do you want to watch something else?” I asked quietly, hoping that he’d bounce back if the channel changed.

“No,” he replied.

Alys, Jason, and Sheri watched with us. When Alys burst into tears, Phil pulled her into his arms and rocked her. In a strange sense of horror, I watched my man and best friend find comfort in each other’s arms. The rational part of me knew that there was nothing more than the deep mourning they shared, but the love-starved, sickened, jealous part of me was what I felt the most. It burned like acid through me, sowing a seed of hate for the both of them.

Phil didn’t hold me like that anymore. He hardly touched me. Not once since the night we’d gotten back had he made any attempt for something physical between us. While witnessing his ability to comfort someone, anyone, else…a part of me shriveled up and died right there on the couch next to him.

Jason busted out a large bottle of Jack, and the three of them got fucking wasted.

Sheri looked at me in stunned disbelief, stoically refusing the alcohol, showing them her loyalty was to me—not that any of them even noticed. Phil kept his arm around Alys’s shoulders. Sheri’s disbelief turned to quiet outrage and then mellowed into pity, and that was when I got up and made my way to our side—Phil’s side—and crawled into the bed in the living room.

Alone.

Walls, ceiling, floor—they are all bright white, blindingly white, soft and squishy…padded.

My eyes adjust to the painful crisp brilliance of it all before it slowly dims, revealing shadows where the fabric and cushion dips, fixing to the surfaces beneath.

“It’s all a lie, a dream, a fantasy I made up in my head to deal with the pain.”

I keep telling myself this, a mantra that repeats in my mind.

It’s not his voice. It’s my own, and I know I should take comfort in that somehow. But I can’t because a part of me simply can’t believe that it’s all a lie, a dream, a fantasy I made up in my head to deal with the pain.

The pain from what?

“Losing Mom.”

Glancing down, I see they’ve made me secure once more, strapped into my straitjacket like a good little head case who insists she’s the lover of a rock god.

“We have a whole life together!” I say.

“No, you don’t. It’s all in your head.”

That’s impossible. Am I really here?

“The crazies don’t know they’re crazy.”

They say I’m making progress, that I have more moments of lucidity. If I continue to get better, then I can go home and live with Grandma again. If I just give up this world in my head, I can get away from all this white.

But a world without Phi—

“No! Don’t say his name! They’ll know. They’ll keep me in here longer!”

“He exists, yes, but not in the world of your own creation, Zephyr.”

“Only my mother called me Zephyr!” I snap.

Who’s talking to me? I don’t see anyone!

My darting frantic eyeballs sift through the white and shadow, searching for the source. Nothing reveals itself. I don’t even detect a door.

“So consumed with grief and rage, it turned her head, turned her head, turned her head. She had so much promise. She was going to heal the world! And in an instant, she snapped, letting her obsession take over so that she wouldn’t have to face real life.”

Is this my real life?

“What? You can’t tell? Are you regressing, Miss MacGregor?”

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

“Where is Little Zephyr? Did it not exist?”

I felt it, heard it. It was within me.

But as I search for it now, I’m empty of the swish, swish-swish, swish.

“We had to take it from you. You weren’t taking care of it like you should have been.”

Ah-ha!

Little Zephyr is half Phil! If Little Zephyr had to be taken away, then that meant that my life with him was real, too!

“Same argument as before. She’s regressing. She needs a dose of shock therapy.”

Something creaks, slowly yawning into a full-blown screech of hinges and rust.

Screeeeeeeee!

Before my eyes, a white padded door opens, and from the depths of darkness, dressed head to toe in flowing black, emerges the Dark God of the Universe.

“Phil!” I gasp, trying to reach out for him to have him take me in his arms but the straitjacket…

Filling my vision, I happily devour the sight of him. It’s my Phil, the Phil before the accident. He’s whole, healthy, larger than life, full of power and raw energy, so beautiful and strong.

“You have to stop this, Miss MacGregor,” he says sharply. His voice is rich, smooth, and wonderful, but his words slice at me like knives.

Miss MacGregor?

“You’ve been livin’ in a world where you and I have some sort of connection.” He bends down, shoving his face in mine. “You have spent years stalkin’ me, showin’ up at our shows and tellin’ everyone you’re my fiancée. You are insane, Miss MacGregor, to ever think a god like myself would ever look twice at a piece of bayou-backwater trash such as yourself. You are not the love of my life. You are not my other half. I married my other half years ago in Switzerland. When you attacked Brigid in Miami, that was the last straw for all of us. I had you arrested, and you were admitted to this fuckin’ loony bin.”