Chapter 5

It’s apparent now after a month that whatever we’re doing for Howie isn’t working.

Howie seems more distant and quiet than ever. Even before he lost his voice, Howie’s never been as loud as me. He’s never had the kind of physical awareness surrounding him that for example I do. Like he never used to enter a room the way Nick or I do. Somehow, though, he had an emotional stirring whenever he entered a room, something that felt different in your state of mind. But now, he’s so silent entering a room it can take up to an hour for us to realize he’s there.

But the part that’s scaring me is the way he seems empty spiritually. Like… Like his soul is gone. He acts like he’s dead. He just kind of drifts around without seeing, know what I mean? As if he’s not in this world, but a world only he can see. And when he looks at you, he doesn’t look into you like he used to. He looks beyond you. That one factor is scaring me to death. He’s never been like this. Not ever. Of course, he’s always had his voice to tell me what’s wrong.

I tried to talk to him. We all did. But he assured us in his own speechless way that he was fine.

Truth is, he doesn’t want anything to do with any of us. He doesn’t want us talking to him because our voices remind him of his own. Whenever he hears one of us talk, he hears himself responding in his own mind, but whatever he wants to say falls on our deaf ears.

He feels I don’t know him anymore. He thinks that just because he’s lost his voice, I don’t know what he’s thinking. He’s forgotten I know him better than anyone else. He’s so consumed with his own self-hatred and depression that he believes he’s the only one that understands him. God knows how wrong he is.

It’s almost like he thinks this happened to him for a reason. Like he thinks he did something wrong to deserve this. If he does, I’m going to go to his room and beat some sense into him.

The infection is still dormant, so maybe I was wrong. Maybe it really is dead. I hope so. Those doctors are killing us with suspense. Last week they were able to take a sample of the infection. They had to go into surgery to do it, but Howie seemed eager to get whatever it is out of him. But now we’re waiting for the results. I think Howie’s still a little drained from the surgery, but if he is, he’s acting no less sapped than he was before.

I want to help him. I honestly do. And it’s not because I’m sick of his depressed attitude. That’s part of it, because it’s depressing to be around him, but there’s more to it than that. See, the five of us have this sort of telepathic link. But it’s stronger with pairs of us. Like Brian and Kevin or Nick and Brian, Howie and I have this sort of link that makes one feel what the other is going through. I know it sounds weird, but hey, it’s not like I said “Hmm, what weird connection can I make with my best friend that would scare the hell out of anyone who reads my journal?” It’s just a part of our friendship. It’s how Howie knows when I’m pissed off. He gets a vibe off me. It’s messed up, yeah, but like I said: I didn’t do it.

It does hurt me to see him like this, though. Despite whatever opinion you have of me, you have to believe that. You may look at the tattoos, piercings, and the attitude and dismiss me as another rebel without a cause, but I’m not. That’s not who I am, and that’s not who my friends know me as. Howie told me to try and be myself more often, and I’d give him a weird look and tell him I was. But he always knew. He always knew. He probably still does. He and the guys along with my mom constantly call me Alex. It’s my other side. It’s the side of me Howie knows best.

I went to him a few days ago and asked him stupidly if he wanted to talk. He gave me an icy glare and wrote out, ‘Yeah, I do, actually” on a piece of paper and stormed away. I didn’t mean it that way! I just… It’s so hard finding the right words now. He gets insulted at the smallest remark to his voice. But then again… So would I.

It’s not really helping either that my temper is so short. By nature his is inhumanely level. I used to think he was somehow immortal because of that good temper of his, but… Well. It had to erupt sometime. I guess now’s that time.

While I’m writing this, Nick and Brian are playing Nintendo 64. Looking up it’s obvious who’s whooping whose ass. The smoke coming out of Nick’s ears is kind of a tip off. Kevin is watching them with a mixture of fascination over the pretty colorful language spewing out of Nick’s mouth and pride because his cousin is currently destroying Nick’s character. I don’t think Nick’s ever lost Super Smash Bros so badly before. I mean he can’t even get close to Brian.

Howie’s silent, as usual. He’s isolating himself more and more from us every day. It’s almost as if he feels he’s either too good or not good enough for us. Just looking at him makes me feel horrible. He’s curled up in the farthest corner of the couch behind Frick and Frack. He’s halfheartedly watching them, but with the sort of look that makes you want to believe he’s not focusing on anything. Like he’s just there physically, but it ends there.

Why is he doing this? I know he can’t talk, but his means of communication doesn’t end there! Some of our deepest conversations have been without spoken words. Why can’t he realize that he doesn’t need his voice to be understood? Kevin just looked at me. He gave me a warning glare. Why? I don’t know. Kevin has been overly protective of Sweet D lately. I feel for some reason that he’s taking my job. I mean the best friend should be the protective one, right? That kind of makes me feel two-faced.

This whole situation is so confusing. I don’t know what to say or do to make this better. But maybe I can’t do anything. No matter what happens, though, I’ll never wholly believe that. That sort of thinking like it’s not my problem is going to make things worse, especially for me, because it is my problem. As much as I don’t want to admit it, this has affected all of us, both emotionally and professionally.

It’s unspoken between us that Backstreet is on hiatus. Like I’ve said, Howie’s staying with me, but Kevin and Brian are staying with Nick. So we see each other every day, just like we would be doing if we were on tour. Without the singing… Kevin thinks it’s better for Howie that we’re with him. I know what he means. If we left him alone, he’d probably fall into depression.

Right now, I can’t tell the difference.

~From the journal of A.J. McLean

<~*~>

By some miracle, Nick won. Some divine intervention had been desperately prayed for, and answered. Nick leapt up, whooping. He did something that, by some distant extent, resembled a victory dance. Brian and Kevin arched eyebrows. Before Nick had time to realize Brian was erasing his game, Brian was popping the cartridge out of the Nintendo 64. Brian replaced it with Wave Race 64, smirking.

Nick’s face fell.

“That wasn’t cool,” he deadpanned, his face dumbstruck.

Brian giggled inanely, his clear blue eyes lighting up in a mixture of amusement and delight. “That’s how the record crumbles,” he said with a snicker, referring to Nick’s previously lost perfect score list. Some…not-quite-divine intervener from Kentucky had destroyed them a few months ago after losing at Mario Party 2.

Nick pouted. “I don’t like you anymore!” he whined, making the pout more childish. He sat down on the couch, glaring at Brian with his face turned to the carpet. “You’re mean,” he added with an accompanying whine.

Brian rolled his eyes. He looked over at Howie. “Hey D, since my younger, less qualified band mate has not yet recovered from his sulking spree, wanna play?”

Nick stuck his tongue out at Brian, not fully understanding the concept of the insult yet, but having grasped the dripping sarcasm bleeding off Brian’s words enough to know that he had, indeed, been insulted.

Howie snapped out of his reverie. His eyes focused on Brian. He looked down and shook his head slowly.

Brian sighed. The other three shared his sentiments. They were so eager to help their friend, but how could they help him if Howie didn’t let them?

<~*~>

A few hours later found A.J. and Howie by themselves again in A.J.’s oversized and mostly unused mansion. Brian, Nick, and Kevin had left after Brian had defeated Nick at six more games, totally destroying what was left of Nick’s good mood. The blondes had left in completely contrasting moods, one moody and the other bright as his smile.

Howie was in his room, looking out the window, writing in his journal. He didn’t understand yet why God was doing this to him, but he trusted Him enough to know when to stay out of divine plans. But he wished he knew why, at least, God had chosen him. Then at least he could stop losing sleep over wondering what he did wrong.

A.J. sat in the kitchen, absentmindedly tracing his fingertips across the kitchen counter. He wanted to at least help Howie, but how on earth could he do that if he couldn’t even get Howie to look at him for more than five seconds? Howie wasn’t pushing him away. He was shoving him away. It was apparent Howie didn’t want help, or else he didn’t realize he needed it. But he must have, right?

<~*~>

Why me? I know it’s wrong to ask, but I want to know. Why me? The only way I can communicate anymore is by writing or telepathy. Since the latter isn’t an option, I’m stuck with writer’s cramp for the rest of my life.

So far, though, it’s been easy to get by. Soon, however, it’s going to get worse.

I feel terrible for cutting my friends off. I know they want to help, but they can’t do anything. My voice box is gone. GONE. I’ll never sing again unless they create replicas of voice boxes, and so far, we haven’t even cloned humans yet, so where’s that heading in no hurry?

All I want is my voice back. Is that such an enormous request? I just want to sing again, to know I can at least do what I love.

But no…

I’m stuck as a mime for the rest of my life.

~From the journal of Howie Dorough

<~*~>

The next morning, Brian dropped by early without Kevin and Nick. He asked jokingly if he could join them for some of A.J.’s half-eatable half-indigestible dead pigs and unborn chickens. A.J. had given him a look that resembled a sane person who had been assaulted by a nutcase shouting in his face. He opened the door, left eyebrow arched.

“You know you scare me, right?” A.J. questioned, shutting the door.

Brian grinned. “It’s my religious calling.”

A.J. looked at him over the brim of his sunglasses. “Wanna know what mine is?”

Brian smirked. “You mean relentlessly torturing me for the rest of my life or buying every hat known to mankind?”

A.J. considered. He paused. “Can a guy have two religious callings?”

Brian laughed and made his way to the kitchen, a grinning A.J. on his heels.

Howie was already in the kitchen, eating cereal. He didn’t have to look up to know who had arrived. He had heard their conversation from the kitchen. He wished he had left while A.J. was gone. Earlier A.J. had been trying to prod him into confiding to him. It was like trying to make dust out of cement by hitting it with a feather.

“Where’s Kev and Kaos?” A.J. asked.

“Sleeping,” Brian answered with a smirk.

A.J. rolled his eyes. “The almighty Mr. Must Be On Time is on hiatus, eh?”

Brian grinned. “Yep.” He turned to Howie. “Hey D!” he greeted cheerfully, sitting on the other side of the counter.

Howie nodded, not even so much as removing his eyes from the counter top.

A.J. frowned slightly. He shrugged. At least he was somewhat responsive.

Brian wasn’t so easily pushed away. “How’d ja sleep?”

Howie didn’t even respond at all. He stood up and left the kitchen, pushing past A.J. with his head down.

Brian blinked. “Was it something I said?”

A.J. sighed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” he said, sounding defeated as he took Howie’s vacated seat. He was dismayed, also, to see that Howie hadn’t so much as touched the cereal. The loss of his voice was hitting harder than the rest would have imagined. It was like his heart had been torn away. Maybe it had been, in a way.

“Maybe he’s–”

The phone rang, breaking off the beginning of Brian’s theory.

A.J. got up and took the phone off the cradle, silencing it mid-ring. He nestled it between his shoulder and his ear, leaning against the cabinets, his palms on either side of the counter behind him.

“’Lo?” he said, locking eyes with Brian, not really looking at him so much as looking past him.

“Mr. McLean?”

Brian frowned curiously, as if to say, “Who is it?”

A.J. shook his head briefly, signaling he didn’t know. “Yeah, who is this?” he asked.

“This is Dr. Raymond from Mercy Hospital. We have the results for Mr. Dorough’s surgery from last week…”

A.J. listened for the next few minutes, expressionless. Finally, he managed to choke out a “thank you” and a “yeah, I will” before hanging up. He was shaking.

Brian stood up immediately. “A.J.? Alex, what’s wrong? What’d they say?”

A.J. set his eyes on Brian’s, still trembling. “Get Howie.”