The Broken

By C.M. North

In November of 1997, two young men make a suicide pact. That night, one of them dies. On the stereo - the song “Where I Go” by infamous rock band, The Broken.

From the streets of Paterson, NJ, to the heights of fame, The Broken follows the members of this band - Malcolm, Heather, Hayley, Eddie and Johnny - as they struggle to overcome their backgrounds, their identities - and ultimately the cost of fame. From the origins of the band in the early 90s to present day, The Broken asks the question: can you ever truly be free from your past - and from yourself?

Who is responsible when art begets tragedy? Who should suffer, when suffering is in the nature of the music?

Who is ultimately to blame for suicide?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher North
• Release date: Apr 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463114063

C.M. North

C.M. North was born in the suburbs of Boston, MA, although he left there when he was two. He spent most of his childhood split between the soaring peaks of the Swiss Alps an the dark industrialism of northern England, and their scenery has left an indelible mark on his psyche and creativity.He went to school in Sheffield, England, and earned a B.A. in Music Composition from the University of Sheffield. From there he somehow ended up returning to the stories he used to write as a child, and has spent most of the time since 2005 honing the craft of writing (though he says he’s a long way from a master yet).He became severely depressed in his late teens, and this forms the basis for his first novel, 22 Scars. The story of a teenage girl suffering through catatonic depression in the wake of a tragic upbringing, it reflects many of the feelings and traumas that he lived through himself in those early, dark days.He currently lives in northern New Jersey with his wife and son, and he firmly believes that without their support he would not be here today.

Book preview

Side A

Track 1

The Incident

Recorded November, 1997

Kyle’s eyes stare through the hair hanging in front of his face. It’s like, really heavy. His voice is dull, monotone.

Justin reaches out, touches it, takes it. I know, right? I didn’t think they weighed so much.

Kyle looks around the room; the piles of CDs, dirty clothes, the black window, and closed door. The light’s dim—just a bedside lamp and the faint moon through the window. Heavy music plays quietly.

This is where I go / When there’s nothing else to know / When there’s nothing else to feel / What you told me was a lie / And I know that I’m not real / In your eyes

He pushes the glasses up on his nose. I’m scared, man. I … I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.

The fuck, dude? Justin hisses through clenched teeth. We swore. You promised!

I know, but like … I never really thought it was real!

Justin puts it down, reaches out for the other’s hands. He grips them, tight. "How do you feel, man? I mean, like, think about yesterday. The day before. Before that. How many times have you said you wanted to?"

Kyle closes his eyes, swallows. His hands are trembling, despite the grip. A tear wells, trails down his cheek. I can’t stand it. I can’t do this anymore!

Justin nods. That’s what this is for, man. I promise you—it’s the fastest way. We won’t feel a thing.

What if we just … what if we just run away, right? I mean, we can just get our stuff and go, leave …

Go where? There’s nowhere to go, man. This shit … it just follows you. How many times have we tried to escape it? How many times do we stay up all night playing Quake because going to sleep means waking up the next day? You want to keep waking up?

Kyle leans forward, head down, tears coming faster. I want to sleep. I just want to sleep, never ever wake up.

Justin leans in, holds him. That’s what it’s like. That’s just what it’s like.

I just can’t go back, you know? I can’t. I can’t.

We’re never going back. We’re never leaving this room.

There’s a long pause, punctuated by the quieting sobs. Only once all is still, the cold wind outside the only disturbance, does Justin lean back again. He reaches down, grasps the cold metal. Drags it from the floor, heavy in his hand. Hefts it up, looks it over closely.

Kyle’s eyes are fixated. Is it even … is even like, loaded?

I don’t know. How do you tell?

Does it feel like there’s bullets in it?

Maybe?

What about the safety?

Safety?

Don’t they have things called a safety? So you can’t like, shoot it by mistake?

Justin turns it left and right, finds a small switch, flicks it. Maybe that’s it?

Should we test it?

Justin shakes his head. My parents’ll hear. We only get one shot. Each.

Dude, your parents … they’re going to have to clean up …

Fuck ’em. They couldn’t care less about me. They deserve whatever they get.

They don’t deserve that …

I hate them. I hate them so much. They act like they’re so great, and I’m the one that’s all fucked up. They’re fucked up. They deserve to see me dead.

You sure?

I want this, man. I fucking want it. Justin lifts it higher, rests a finger on the trigger. Slowly turns it around, digs the barrel into his Nine Inch Nails t-shirt. The muzzle presses the fabric around it, digging into the skin beneath. He drags it up, resting over his chest.

For an eternal moment, there’s only heavy breathing over the still-playing music.

This is what I need / When there’s nothing left to bleed / And I’ve given up a life / To be right there by your side / But you wouldn’t even try / In my eyes

Hands tremble around the grip, start to shake. Finger lifts on and off the trigger several times. Breath is stuck. Finally, he lowers the gun into his lap, breathes out heavily. Fuck. Fuck!

Kyle’s face is pale, frightened. What’s wrong?

I can’t. I can’t do it. I thought I could, but I can’t.

Then what now?

Justin looks up suddenly, directly into the other’s eyes. There’s a sudden madness there. I need you to do it.

What? No way—no way!

Look, man, you said it yourself—we can’t go back. There’s no turning back. But … I can’t fucking do it myself.

I can’t! Are you crazy? What do I do after?

Look, you have to do it. It’ll take a half a second and it’s over. Then you can do yourself.

If you can’t even do it, how the hell am I supposed to?

Justin thrusts it at him, presses it into his hands. "Do it."

The first boy’s face glistens, eyes red and dull. I can’t … he whimpers.

Justin takes the barrel, drags it toward his chest again. Kyle’s hands follow numbly, still holding the grip. The barrel keeps moving, up, coming to rest against his forehead. The metal presses into skin, a delicate red mark in its wake.

Do it.

No!

"Please. You have to. You have to."

I can’t!

Please.

Oh my God … I can’t.

Fucking shoot me!

Kyle blinks at the spray. Little bright droplets covering face, glasses, shirt. Ringing is deafening in the shadow of a much greater noise. In less than a heartbeat Justin is tossed back, thrown down, the carpet soaking the blood away from his ruined skull. The wall behind is a fiendish splatter, trails beginning to run down to the floor, little pieces of flesh in tow.

What the hell was that? Voice muffled, from downstairs.

Limbs are twitching, fingers opening and closing, digging into claws. Mouth moves silently, throat gurgling. Eyes are open, staring, dead.

Feet stomping, rushing up the stairs.

And then Kyle seems to notice, a reverie broken. Oh, Jesus … oh fuck, oh fuck … Justin? Justin? The gun slowly lowers, then falls, hand still clenching the grip, finger curled around the trigger. The muzzle digs into the carpet. Justin … ? Are you okay?

A fierce knock at the bedroom door. Justin! Justin? What happened? Are you okay?

The boy’s breath is too fast, too shallow, skin too pallid. Don’t … don’t come in.

The door bursts open, Justin’s father looming in the doorway. The hall is dark outside. What on earth was that noise? It sounded like … A few seconds is all it takes for the scene to sink in: the blood on the wall, the blood on the floor, on the strewn clothes and books and CDs. The gun in the boy’s hand, aimed at him.

The boy is outright shaking, arms trembling, muscles twitching uncontrollably. Don’t come in—don’t come in.

Oh, Jesus … Jesus Christ … what did you do? The father doesn’t seem to notice the gun. His gaze is fixated on Justin’s corpse, the violence of his death beginning to fade, the twitching diminishing. What did you do?

Get out!

The father’s eyes snap to to Kyle, look past the gun, stare into the wild, insensate face, nearly unrecognizable. Kyle—

Justin’s father twitches backward, stumbles, falls against the doorframe. Utter incomprehension as his legs give out, collapsing to the ground. Only a few seconds later the blood soaks through the shirt, warmth flooding down his chest, his stomach, his groin. The second gunshot is somehow louder than the first.

Justin’s father tries to breathe, tries to feel the gaping wound, tries to speak. No sound comes out. The gun finally slips from Kyle’s grip, thuds softly to the floor.

A moment later, Kyle is prone beside both Justin and his father—unconscious breath soft and shallow, but just as dead to the world. The song continues in the background.

I’ll take that gun and find release / From you / And me

Screams echo later, as the mother discovers the bodies.

Track 2

The Practice Session

Recorded May, 1991

Written by Heather Reese

I turned eighteen in the spring of ’91. It was a weird time, then; pop wasn’t ready to let go of the eighties, and even though everyone associates the nineties with grunge, Nirvana wouldn’t change the face of music for another five or six months. No one knew who the Smashing Pumpkins were, and the saddest song I knew was ‘The Show Must Go On’ by Queen.

It didn’t mean music wasn’t everything to us—it was—but the new decade hadn’t really begun and the last one was past its prime. Probably the only artist doing something different was Trent Reznor; ‘Pretty Hate Machine’ is still one of my favorite albums.

And we were still two years away from making it big.

Back then, I didn’t ever think we’d end up a Billboard-charting, country-touring phenomenon; in fact, most of us didn’t even take music all that seriously. I mean, my parents made me take cello lessons when I was a kid, but I ended up trading four strings for six by the time I was thirteen. My little sister wasn’t far behind—if anything, she was a far better musician, even though she never thought she was all that hot. She could play piano, guitar, and violin, but her favorite, oddly enough, was bass. She said it was because it was easy.

But despite that—or maybe because of it—we didn’t really think of music as a way out, or even a way forward. We were supposed to graduate high school, apply to colleges, get real jobs … the same shitty rat race that the rest of the world goes through every day. I didn’t think twice about it; I really didn’t even care.

In fact, I didn’t really care about an awful lot; depression hit me hard when I was fifteen, and most days were a struggle just to get out of bed. Hayley and I were close, but she was moody, bitter, and cynical, and our attitudes had a way of amplifying each other until she was raging and I was in utter despair.

No—music was an outlet, but it wasn’t a way out. Not for us. Malcolm, on the other hand …

I knew Malcolm from grade school. We’d gone to the same middle school, and both ended up at JFK High. Ever since I’d known him, he’d talk about getting out, leaving Paterson behind, and making it on his own. He had a younger brother, though, and I think Mikey was the only thing that kept him around at all. He never really cared about school, never wanted to go to college … it wasn’t that he wasn’t smart; he just didn’t fit in with that kind of life. None of us did, really. It’s probably why we all hung out.

Yep; we were the misfits. We were the weirdos, the freaks, the social outcasts, and we didn’t care a bit because we had each other. We’d always hang out after school; sometimes at a park, sometimes at the mall, but usually we’d just get together at my house and chill. Mostly it was because our parents worked late and were never home, and because we had a Sega Genesis with Sonic the Hedgehog, but it was also because Mom and Dad’s cars were too big for the garage, making it the perfect place for us to practice.

We set up our amps and cables in the front of the garage, and Scott would set up his drums in the back. Back then we weren’t necessarily very good, but it was a way to pass the time that wasn’t sex or dealing drugs, like most of the kids at school. (We’d buy their drugs, but that was different.)

It was freezing in the winter, but come spring we’d head out and split our time between jamming and smoking behind the shed. Our music was a bizarre mix of covers; anything from Bon Jovi to Blondie, from Motörhead to Metallica—really anything that was easy to play and we thought wouldn’t be too off-putting to anyone else who wanted to listen. (No one did.) We thought that if we played popular music, someone would want to book us for a gig. We didn’t care if it was a basement or a dive bar; we just wanted to play and have someone listen. Up through spring and graduation, though, we didn’t get anything. Malcolm said we weren’t good enough.

He wasn’t wrong; even though individually we were reasonably proficient at our respective instruments, we didn’t really have the feel of playing together as a band. As it was, we would get together at our house most weekends, and toward the end of our senior year, most weekdays, too. In fact, with Malcolm cutting class, he’d usually be there before Hayley and I even got home. Eddie usually walked home with us, guitar slung over his shoulder, and Scott would show up a little later in his dad’s van with his drum kit.

Not that we all started practicing right away. The first couple hours after school we’d spend in the room I shared with Hayley, playing video games and taking turns slipping through the window onto the garage roof, where we could chill and smoke (we smoked a lot back then).

Malcolm wasn’t too into any of that, though, and eventually would start getting antsy, pacing, and finally say, Come on, guys, let’s get some music done.

It was a day just like that, sometime in late May, when I first learned just how much playing meant to Malcolm. Maybe four or five o’clock, we found ourselves out in the garage, sunlight filtering through the smudged and dirty window, tuning and starting to argue about what we should try that day.

Let’s do ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls,’ Scott suggested.

That’s too easy, Hayley muttered.

Yeah, I know. That’s why I want to play it.

Yeah, ’cause you’re useless and you know it.

Scott scowled and flipped her off.

Hey! I always felt a little defensive of her. Scott just glared at me.

What do you think, Eddie? Hayley asked.

Eddie, as usual, just shrugged. I’m good with it.

You’re supposed to say no, retard.

Hey! I was defensive of Eddie, too. I turned to Malcolm, who was bent over his amp, testing the gain. What are we doing?

Malcolm tapped a couple of times on the mic, a dull thud echoing from the cabinet. We should do ‘Bells.’ Hayley’s right—it’s easy. And so far, we keep fucking it up.

Dude, I told you I got that riff down—

It’s not you. Scott can’t keep rhythm. Malcolm’s face was stone; I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.

Fuck you, too! Scott called from behind his kit.

Just count us in, man.

I wondered if Scott even would; I could tell he was pissed. After a silent pause, though, he clicked out the beat on his sticks, and we were away. If you haven’t played ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls,’ it really is easy—just the same couple of riffs over and over again for almost two minutes before even the vocals come in. I think I know why Malcolm liked starting with this song; besides being easy, he could listen to us mess up throughout the entire opening.

For once, though, he didn’t stop us, and we kept chugging along, into the high triplet riff that I played while Eddie kept rhythm behind me; Hayley matching on bass and Scott (mostly) keeping time.

But when we dropped back, the moment Malcolm should have come in, he shook his head, dreads waving back and forth. Stop, he said through the mic. Stop.

It was a couple of beats more before everyone came to a halt, and after the pummeling of distortion the silence was deafening. What’s wrong? Hayley asked. Did Scott skip a beat again?

God damn it, I’m not skipping beats!

I’m gonna open the door, Malcolm said, moving to the front of the garage.

Why? I asked. It was warm, but not sweltering; I wasn’t sure what he was going for.

I want to try something, he replied.

I didn’t get it. What?

Hayley flicked a string on her bass for a moment, then muted it. Between gum chews she said, He wants it louder.

I looked at her for a moment, then to Malcolm. You want it louder? I can barely hear as it is.

Malcolm took a step toward his own amp, turned the dial. I want it louder, he muttered into the mic; feedback ensued until he muted the microphone. We need to be further away from the speakers.

I sighed. I guess. But why do you want it louder?

Malcolm ran a hand over his dreads. You’re playing fucking Metallica, and you’re asking why it needs to be louder?

Hayley snickered.

Come on, man, Eddie chimed in gently. The neighbors’ll get pissed off.

Don’t be a pussy. Malcolm took a step toward Hayley’s bass amp and turned the master knob. I could hear the hum. Try it.

I tried to tell her not to, but before I could open my mouth she thumbed the low E—hard. Over the deafening boom, I could hear the speaker crackle, and the windows rattled. She muted it quickly with a grin.

Malcolm smiled at me. See?

I closed my eyes. We’re gonna get in so much trouble.

Who fucking cares? Malcolm moved toward my own amp next.

Don’t you fucking touch that! I snapped. I covered the dial with my own hand. I’ll do it. Slowly I raised the master volume until I could feel the hum through my feet.

Malcolm nodded. You too, Eddie.

Eddie just looked at me. I shrugged and shook my head. Whatever.

Malcolm heaved at the garage door, raising it over our heads. The sunlight swept in, and I squinted. It was a calm, pleasant day. Our neighbors didn’t have a clue what they were in for.

We spent the next few minutes hauling our equipment out into the driveway, tugging on power cords as far as they would stretch. By the time we were done, only Scott was left inside the garage.

Malcolm turned to Scott. Don’t fucking hold back, man—I wanna hear the drums over everything!

This sucks! Scott called back.

Malcolm either didn’t hear or ignored him—probably ignored. Instead, he turned to the rest of us. On four.

What if people get angry? Hayley asked.

Let ’em. One, two, three, four!

With two massive crashes from Scott, then the toms, we were in, me playing the descending chromatic riff as Eddie sustained power chords, Hayley matching on the bass. It felt off at first, like I couldn’t hear what the others were playing, but after a few measures I realized if I focused on the drums, I could keep slightly better time. Slightly. I could barely hear Scott, either.

Malcolm, on the other hand, seemed more than pleased as we coursed through the song’s opening, waiting his turn to belt out his lines. Again, though, before we got there, he started shaking his head and calling out over the mic for us to stop. No. No, no!

I played out a few more notes, then paused, palm covering the strings, waiting for Hayley, Eddie, and Scott to realize we’d stopped.

It’s off! God damn it, Scott—can’t you fucking count?

Scott raised his sticks. What?

You played the third part too many times. It fucked everyone else up!

No, I didn’t!

I leaned toward Hayley. Did you even notice?

I mean … she started.

Malcolm was storming back into the garage. How many times do we have to play this fucking song before you get it right? Every single time, you lose track!

Dude, it’s the same fucking beat the whole way through.

"Did you