Blind Thunder (eBook)

Chapter Two

As someone repeatedly called my name, I floated on a cloud of soft, translucent white, feeling weightless and serene, without the strength to move. I didn’t have any desire to open my eyes but continue to float in this surreal womblike embrace without thoughts or memories invading my apathy. Emerging from the haze of unconsciousness, I became aware of my mother and father’s presence, their concerned figures leaning over me. Their faces were distraught, with tears escaping from their reddened eyes. I had never seen my mother so anxious. My father’s usual stoic face was absent, his eyes darkened with worry and apprehension.

The reason for their troubled expressions as they watched me was puzzling. This was so unlike them. My parents were always so strong and in command. My mother is a prominent doctor of psychiatry and my father, a Grammy award-winning songwriter and musician. I tried to move, but my left shoulder was immobile and the pounding in my heavily bandaged head was horrendous.

The intrusion of sounds and antiseptic smells was overwhelming my senses. Beeps and bings were loud to my ears and poles holding bags of fluid dripped through tubes into my veins. Why were the lights so bright? It was making my headache worse. My head felt twice its normal size. There was a lot of shouting. Strangers approached me, pestering me with nonsensical questions. Didn’t they know who the president was?

It was rough, but I finally found my voice and asked my questions. “Did I have an accident? What happened?”

My mother took my right hand in hers and brought it to her lips, gently kissing my fingers.

“Darling, there was a shooting. You have been in surgery for your injuries. You had wounds to your head and shoulder. There is some head trauma; the bullet didn’t enter the skull, but there was a minor skull fracture. The bullet traveled through your scalp damaging the frontalis and occipitalis muscles, then exited. Doctors will watch for cranial bleeding. Another bullet went through your body. While there are no fractures, there is evidence of damage to both muscles and ligaments. I’ve looked at your x-rays and talked with the surgeons, and everyone is cautiously optimistic. With time and physical therapy, you’re going to be okay, my darling.”

My mother was morphing into doctor mode. I didn’t understand half of the medical jargon she was spouting, but I understood the unrelenting pain. Flashes of memories emerged from the drug induced fog.

“Where are Adam and Trey and Jonas? Are they here? How badly were they hurt? I have to see them,” I cried with rising hysteria crushing my chest. I made an effort to get out of bed, attempting to free myself from the intravenous lines holding me hostage. As I struggled to sit up, the surrounding machines sounded with alarms. My father gently held me in place as my mother squeezed my hand.

“I am so very, very sorry darling, they didn’t make it,” sobbed my mother.

What little color I had, drained from my face and the air rushed from my lungs.

“NOOOOO. NO. NO. THAT’S NOT TRUE. YOU’RE LYING TO ME. IT’S NOT TRUE.” But I knew it was. The images of blood and gore flooded my brain. The sound of gunshots echoed through my skull. I saw it all, reliving the terror as fresh in my mind as the moment it had been real, seeing the carnage all around me. Watching my friends die before my eyes as the air filled with a fine mist of red.

My room was suddenly filled with nurses, carrying hypodermic needles. Screaming with pain and rage, I slipped back into unconsciousness, unable to face the unthinkable.

* * *

While I was in the hospital recovering from my injuries, my parents attended the funerals for my friends. The services received extensive coverage on television news programs, newspapers, and tabloid magazines. The events of that day turned into a media circus, with speculations regarding my condition as the sole surviving member of the band. It further saddened me I was unable to bid farewell to my beloved friends. I wrote their parents letters of condolence, but it wasn’t the same. What is closure? There’s no such thing, only acquiescence.

Acceptance was something I couldn’t wrap my head around. Losing my friends in such a horrific manner deprived the world of three individuals with great potential. Their loss crushed my soul and questioned my faith. Why? Why? Why? These are questions I desperately needed answers to. Resting was not an option for me. It was imperative I find the answers to the whys.

My mother brought my iPad to the hospital and during my intermittent moments of solitude, I looked up the news reports flooding the internet. Twenty-six men, women and children were killed, including my bandmates. Either gunfire injured an additional fifty-six people or the stampede resulting from the attack. Police killed the single gunman, still holding the AR-15 assault rifle that brought so much death and heartache to what was supposed to be a peaceful expression of environmental concern. Authorities were conducting an investigation to determine the motive behind the violent act committed by a fifty-five-year-old married grandfather against a peaceful group of individuals. Evidently, madness doesn’t have a motive. It’s a contagion invading society for reasons known only to a deranged few.

My nurses said several police agencies had been to the hospital waiting to interview me and would probably return now that I was conscious. What could I tell them? I didn’t know anyone who wished us harm. We were four kids, barely out of college. We weren’t radical gangbangers or junkies, nor were we controversial, but four musicians trying to make it on our own.

Many law enforcement agencies were coming into my room. The F.B.I., Homeland Security and the N.Y.P.D. They showed me pictures of the gunman and his family. These people were strangers from Orange, New Jersey. The agents asked me about my bandmates backgrounds.

Trey was from Texas and Jonas from Michigan. I didn’t know of any ties Adam had from New Jersey other than his parents. I had no information furthering their investigation. The police agencies would interview their family members and other persons of interest. Eventually, I was granted respite, or as much respite as I could manage, amidst this harrowing experience.

* * *

Before being discharged, my mother arranged for me to receive counseling and physical therapy. My grandparents, sister and brother joined my parents in supporting me as best they could, but I slipped into a bottomless black hole of despair. Why did I survive when my friends didn’t? Throughout our time in college, Trey, Jonas, Adam, and I formed a tight-knit group driven by our collective passion for pursuing a music career.

We met at the Berklee College of Music; a private school in Boston five years ago. The four of us became instant friends with our love of the New Wave music genre, which combined 70s rock with funk and electronics.

Trey was a slim, tall drink of water from Dallas, Texas. With his raven hair and blue eyes, he was magic with long fingers made for lead guitar, and he made it sing. He charmed everyone he came in contact with his gentlemanly manners and deep Texas drawl. Girls fell at his feet hoping for a smile. He had a heart as big as the country that bore him.

Jonas was the joker, pulling endless fun-loving pranks, coming from a large family in Owosso, Michigan. With his blond good looks and dark eyes, drumming was his vocation. His fingers never stopped tapping on anything resembling a flat surface. His phone was constantly ringing from either his family or his many, many girlfriends. I don’t know how he kept them all straight.

On bass guitar Adam hails from Trenton, New Jersey. He was the driving force for our band. Adam was a perfectionist, never letting up on any of us until we performed our parts perfectly. He was a hard-nosed business manager for our bookings. Occasionally, emotions ran high and individuals experienced hurt feelings, yet we remained united in pursuit of the overarching objective—the domination of the universe! Our dreams had no limits, and we were prepared to sacrifice our time, money, and privacy for success.

Adam and I drifted into a personal relationship. We spent most of our time together writing music, rehearsing and performing. He pushed me to go beyond my vocal limits to heights I thought I could never reach. If I was down, Adam brought me up. I grew to depend on him to make the decisions for our band and for me.

To make myself standout, I developed an onstage persona. I wore a long, neon blue punk wig, cat eye yellow contacts, henna tattoos on my arms and a fake nose piercing. My mother would have killed me if I had really dyed my hair, had permanent tattoos or a nose with more holes than necessary. I wanted to distance myself from the music I grew up with. For me, the love of music was genetic.

My maternal grandparents, Charlotte and Ray Fields, were a well-established country music duo known as Carolina Sunrise. Both of them were born and grew up around Charleston, South Carolina. Grandma and Grandpa married in their teens and had my mother, Rachel, their only child, shortly after the wedding.

My mother grew up on the road. Getting her education through correspondence courses long before home schooling was a thing. She fell in love with my handsome father, a member of my grandparents’ band. They married while my mother was in college and they managed to have three...