In Any Other World

"Cause it's all in the hands of a bitter, bitter man

Say goodbye, to the world you thought you lived in.

Take a bowl play the part of a lonely, lonely heart

Say goodbye, to the world you thought you lived in."

I miss him. I miss him so much. Everything, my whole world, has changed since he's been gone. Performing, writing, the rest of the band, my life; everything has gone haywire right from the very the moment that his soul left this world. Strange, how the most insane of us all could provide me with the normalcy I hunger for.

But he's never coming back. I mean, how could he; people don't come back from the grave no matter how hard that you wish for it. People still ask me why he killed hisself. That's what makes me angry. It was a mistake; a stupid, stupid mistake. He would never take his life purposely. Not only did he know that he was the rock that holds us all together, but most of all, he was happy here; nothing would want to make him take his life. He enjoyed life, no matter how bad it got, he always saw the good in things.

He always made me see the good in things; always making good out of a bad situation. But now I'm thinking that there isn't any good in this world. He didn't make me see the good, he was the good. Now he's gone, and so has all the good in everything. Even performing now, something that once felt to natural, so brilliant, now leaves me dead inside. Looking up at his drum-kit—no, not his drum-kit. And that makes it all the worse, if it was his drum-kit maybe I could pretend it was still him behind it, banging out the notes we needed. But it's not his drum-kit, and it's not him behind them, even it the same notes are being relayed from behind them. His notes.

People tell you that it will get better. But it doesn't, not really. You just get better at hiding the pain. It's not like death was new to me, my grandad died a few years before. But that was nothing compared to this. I know it sounds horrible, but it's the truth. His death ripped me apart and shredded the remaining pieces. He was my best friend, my soulmate. When we was together, nothing else mattered—as long as he was there. Maybe once I believe that there was someone up there, controlling all our fates. But now, how could I believe that? What reason could they have to take him away from me? From the band? From our fans? He was loved by everyone he met, and he loved them in turn. I just can't see how there could be a God who would let something as terrible as this happen.

Although, I like to think there's still an afterlife. Well, not the fact of afterlife precisely, but I hope there's something after death. It makes it a little more bearable, thinking that he could be out there somewhere, happy and at rest. Or even if he was still in this world watching over us, yet unseen. Thinking of him lying in a wooden box in the cold, hard ground, with no life left in him—it doesn't bare thinking about. So I stick with my thoughts that Heaven or ghosts exist, not even for his sake, but to make myself cope with the situation just a little bit better.

I don't know if the rest of the guys still feel like this. I think they do. We don't mention him as much as we first did after his death, but he's still here. His name doesn't have to be said, or his stories retold, for us to remember him. Because his name always hangs in the air, living through our memories and our music. I wish he could be here to see how far we've gone. He would love the new album; I can imagine him now, that schoolboy grin plastered across his face as he bobs his head to the heavy drum beat. In contrast, I listen to Fiction, and wonder where his head was placed in his final few days. I continue to tell myself that he would have never have take his own life, but all the signs were there. Fiction—or 'Death' as he once called it—sounded so much like a prayer for us, a message for us to continue and remember him by. That couldn't be coincidence, could it?

The thought of him, suffering in silent pain, unbeknown to us but spilling through in his lyrics; the thought kills me a little inside. He was my bestfriend, we told each other evetything. He would have told me if he was suffering, wouldn't he? I hope he would. I still believe he would have done.

I can't stop thinking about that night. Even on his final night he seemed so alive. The heart of the party; just like he always had been, yet the next morning, he was gone. Just a body; a shell of his former self. And I don't understand. I saw his corpse—it was an open-casket funeral—, he looked like he was sleeping. I wanted to know why he couldn't just wake up and be himself again. It still felt like it was a big joke, and he would jump out at any moment with his signature grin plastered all over his face.

Four years later, and I'm still clinging to that hope. I know he's gone, yet in some small part of my brain, I still think he's here. I'll come home one day in the distant future, and he'll jump on me, knocking to the floor, in fits of laughter. I want to believe it so badly. I wondered if it was a defence mechanism, tricking your mind into believing someone was still alive so you could cope that little bit better.

Someone suggested therapy. I can't remember who it was now; maybe my sister. Therapy to try and be able to move on from the loss of him. But moving on meant forgetting. I didn't want to forget. The pain, the pain I'd felt ever since his death, right up until now, it somehow made me feel closer to him. Almost as if feeling the pain meant that he hadn't been gone as long as he actually had been. Four years. It felt like yesterday that we were getting thrown out of the hotel in London because of his antics, yet it was all that time ago that we shared the laughs. We even laughed about it then; if anyone else had gotten us thrown out of the hotel at that time, after a concert, we would have been angry at them for weeks before we saw the humour in the situation. But not him, all he had to do was flash us a grin, with those crystal blue eyes of his, and he would be forgiven. He was a child a heart, it wouldn't be fair to trial him as an adult. But apparently the police don't see it like that, spraying his with pepper spray after he abused the poor pigeon in Amsterdam. I still think armed police chasing him was a bit of an overreaction, I mean, he did warn the pigeons... But apparently that wasn't enough. And being his typical self, he didn't shower after the assault. I remember having to stop the show the next day, as he run off stage with pepper-filled sweat running into his eyes. The memories like that, as much pain as they bring, they're worth remembering. Remember the happy times to lessen the pain, isn't that what people say?

But it doesn't work. Remembering the happy times just makes the pain worse. It makes the pain flare up anew in your chest, but at the same time tears of happiness roll warmly down your cheeks. Happiness from the memory, and sadness from knowing that no new memories with that person will ever be added to your memory banks. I've often wished I could have one more day with him. I don't know what that would achieve. His death was so unexpected, maybe it would give a sense of finality to the death? Maybe then I could move on. I don't think so, but that's probably how I would justify it to myself. In reality I just want to see him one last time, just to feel the tickling of his hair and breath against my neck as he hugs me tightly, laughter bubbling in his chest. My own chest aches at the thought.

I finally lay the flowers down next to the headstone. His headstone; which seemed too small for the lanky man. The red flowers added a touch of happiness to the grave which I wanted to rip apart. There was no happiness here, just sorrow of a bright star that burnt out too young. "I love you, Jimmy. I always will." I leant down and kissed the cold stone, before standing on aching legs, ready to leave. As I walked silently from the cemetery, I swear the sound of the drummers laughter flitted along with the breeze, offering a touch of sympathy to a broken man.