I found him lying in the bathtub, the water stained dark pink with blood. I could even see the cuts on his writsts, drained and pale. His hair was cut short. I could see the items of his pre-suicidal events scattered about the floor. The scissors which he used to cut his hair, then to slit his wrists. His wavy, blond hair was spread across the floor. A bottle of Xanax, empty. Cannibis leaves, dry and crinkly. My blood went cold. I could hardly breathe. Everything was so surreal. My world spun around me, not cooperating with what I knew to be reality.
Only minutes later, when my tears had reached the height of their patheticacy, I heard Vincent's phone ring. It was Dominick, the drummer. "Hey." he said. "Vincent?"
"Dom," I began. "It's Alice."
"Alice?" I think he could sense that I had been crying. "Did something happen?"
"It's Vincent," I explained. "He's dead."
"What?!" Dom gasped. "But. . ."
"He slit his wrists and drugged himself up." I stammered. "There's blood in the bathwater."
"Are you serious?"
"Do I sound like I'm making this up?!" I snapped.
"Ok, ok." he mumbled. "I'll be right there. What's the room number, again?"
"One thirty-five."
"Thanks." Then, he hung up. I sat alone with the corpse of the man I once loved. I dared to touch his hand. It was cold. "Vincent," I whispered. "Why did you do this to yourself?" I let out a deep breath. "Why, Vincent?" But, he just lay there, lifeless. I put my fingers over my eyelids and closed his eyes, never to open, again.
Dominick came about fifteen minutes later. He told me that everything would be allright. But, I knew he only spoke those lies to comfort me. Vincent was dead. There was no way to turn it around.
Dominick told me to leave the suite. But, I refused. Dom didn't argue with me. He knew what Vincent meant to me, so he didn't argue with pain. Then, the police showed up. But, I knew the public would have to find out, sooner or later.
"Alice," Dom told me. "Go back to New York."
"Why," I asked. "What would that do for me?"
"It might get you out of all the chaos going on, here." He let out a heavy sigh. "I think the public has the right to know. So, I've decided to hold a press confrence this afternoon."
"Does anyone in Paris even know who Vincent Gordell is?" I swallowed hard. "Who he was? Besides, you barely know French."
"Most Parisians know English." he explained. "Alice, go back to New York. I think it would be easier for you."
"How?!" I snapped. "All my friends, my family, everyone I know would walk around saying how sorry they are for me! They'd say what a tragedy it is! I'd be living in my own sympathy party! You think I want to be reminded of something like this every single day until. . .for years to come?!I couldn't live like that!" I looked at the floor. "I just couldn't."
Dom stood there quietly. He was consitering what I thought. "Allright," he replied, finally. "I understand."
"Dom," I asked. "Could you do me a favor?"
"Sure," he replied. "What is it?"
"At the press confrence today," I began. "Don't just say that Vincet died. Say that I died, too. Okay?"
"What?!" Dom gasped. "Why?!"
"Because," I replied. "I watched Vincent destroy himself with his wreckless lifestyle. The fame and the drugs; you know what I mean, Dom. I have every right to be dead right now as he does. After all, Ophelia was the one who died, first."
Dom knew what I meant. He didn't argue. He just let out a heavy breath, nodded silently, and left the suite.