Where forever dies

Where the universe ceases

Where time stops

Where the end begins

--From the song Keeping Secrets

Lyrics By: Benjamin Hill/Orion Bauwens

"Sweet mother of Jesus Mary."

"Yeah, it's a little much."

Jake, Ben, and myself just walked into my mansion. Tristan has stopped in the doorway, his jaw slack.

The front door is over-sized, looking like the front of a castle. Hanging above it is a huge crystal chandelier which serves to light the foyer we're standing in currently. Directly in front of the entrance is the grand staircase, two curved stairs going up either side. The foyer is slightly raised, and you have to walk down three steps to enter the house.

"C'mon," I say as Jake and Ben walk off to the left, presumably for the game room, "I'll show you around."

Tristan looks down at his feet. "Uh, should I take off my shoes?"

I high kick, showing him that I'm still wearing my all-black Converse. Then I grab his hand and drag him into my house.

"We'll go from top to bottom."

I start with my obnoxiously huge room. The ceiling is covered with the band posters that wouldn't fit in my room on the bus. I point up, and Tristan's mouth hangs slightly open.

All my favorites. Some I know would be surprising to people, others would be surprising if they weren't up there...Ozzy Osbourn, Queen, Green Day, My Chemical Romance, NF, 21 Pilots, Brand New, Vincent Black Shadow, Kidneytheives, Daft Punk, American Football, Cage the Elephant, Lily Allen...Snow Patrol, 30 Seconds To Mars, Father John Misty, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, David Bowie, A Perfect Circle, VAST...

I love this setup because most nights it's inspiring, looking up at my idols before drifting off to sleep. It reminds me of my passion. It reminds me of what music is to me, what it's done for me. And I'm not talking about fame. These artists speak to my soul. These people are the ones that made me feel not alone.

Tristan stares at everything a moment, clearly a bit overwhelmed by the menagerie of posters. I lead him to my walk-in closet that's so big it has its own padded bench and full length mirror. Afterwards I show him the en suite master bathroom.

Then it's off to the five guest bedrooms. They're all pretty much the same, nothing special. I lead him back downstairs to the expansive kitchen, with it's long, black granite island that has a stainless steel sink in the middle. Beneath it are white and glass cupboards, matching all the white cabinets of the room. I use the island as the dining room table, white chairs situated around the entire thing.

In the kitchen is a pair of French doors, which I slide open. It leads to my back yard. There's a huge garden with topiaries everywhere. I even have a large hedge maze, which I admittedly like to get lost in.

I have a pool, of course, with a built in hot tub. It's enclosed, heated when it's winter. There's also a sauna--I admittedly don't use it that much and kind of regret having it installed. The truth of the matter is I'm too lazy to have it taken down. Also I can't count the amount of times I've banged women (and some men) in it...which is fun, so it stays.

Admittedly my obsessive compulsive disorder caught me completely off guard. Now that I was back home, however, I saw how I lived in a new light. The closest I had shown Tristan was meticulous, everything in order, perfectly aligned. In fact, everything was orderly everywhere.

When you hear OCD, you think of like, obsessively washing your hands or something. For me, it is a series of small things, things that were so subtle no one picked up on. That's how it flew under the radar for my entire life.

Doesn't everyone check to make sure they have wallet-keys-cellphone three times before they go anywhere? I thought everyone would be halfway to a destination, only to turn back around to make extra sure the front door was locked (even when logically I would know it was). It was normal to me that I would peer into my car briefly upon locking it to make sure I hadn't accidentally shut my keys in--even though I was holding them in my hand.

It was explained to me also that OCD presents itself often with intrusive, irrational thoughts. Sometimes I get anxious while driving, convinced that I blacked out and hit someone but don't remember it. By the time I reach my destination I'm sick with worry, and walk around my car to look for signs of damage. Or that I've blown a red light without realizing it, and I'll go home to find cops waiting to arrest me.

It sucks. It sucks and I start to notice little things as I'm showing Tristan around. Things are positioned an exact certain way. All of my belongings have a rhythm and reason to how they're placed.

I hate it. But there's no sense in getting worked up now. I'm getting help for it. So instead I just focus on the present.

When I'm done showing Tristan all that we go back inside, heading left. I lead him to a wrought iron spiral staircase that leads down. Up until this point Tristan has remained silent. But once we reach the bottom he stops and gasps.

"Woah."

"Welcome to my basement," I tell him with a huge grin, out spreading my arms and spinning in circles.

It's the entire length of my house. There are countless pinball machines (one of which Jake is standing at, playing). In the middle of the room is a huge entertainment center with an enormous TV. There's a karaoke machine, every video game system you could think of (Ben is currently playing pong on the Atari), and three entire bookshelves filled with games. To the left side is another three shelves all filled with DVD'S and Blu-rays.

"You have a bowling alley?!" Tristan gasps, noticing the right side of the basement is devoted to that.

"Yeah," I say nonchalantly, "wanna play?"

"This is surreal," Tristan says, looking around himself. "This is utterly insane."

I shrug and turn away from him. "It's just my li--oh fuck."

"Orio?"

Without explanation I race back up the spiral staircase. I hear Tristan running right after me.

"Orion?"

When he reaches me I'm sitting on the grand staircase, holding my head, eyes squeezed shut tightly.

"Hey," Tristan says gently, kneeling before me, gently taking my hands. "What's wrong?"

"I forgot there's enough alcohol down there to be its own stand alone bar," I sigh.

"On it."

"Huh?"

"Stay here Orio. I got this."

He disappears around the corner. I stay on the stairs just like he said. Although after about an hour my doorbell rings. Very confused, I open the door.

"Gloria? What're you doing here?"

She holds up a pair of keys and shakes them. "Someone order a truck?"

"That'd be me!" Tristan says, suddenly pushing past. I watch in confusion as he grabs the keys and rushes out the door. Then I watch with equal confusion as Ben pushes past me, too.

"C'mon," Jake says behind me, gently taking me by the shoulders and turning me around. I crane my head, watching as Tristan opens up the back of the box truck and Ben points inside.

"Uhhhh, what? Why? What is happening, exactly?"

Gloria laughs and walks in, taking a left towards the basement. Jake is still guiding me to the stairs.

"Lets go to your room."

"Jake, you all are freaking me out a bit. Why is Gloria here with a box truck at--" I glance down at my phone, "--ten PM?"

"Tristan told us we needed to clear the alcohol out for you and to keep you distracted while we did it," Jake replies as though that should be obvious. We walk into my room and he shuts the door behind us. "He asked us to call Gloria, she managed to get a rental just before they closed, and here we are."

I sit down on my bed and look around my room. It felt completely foreign to me after being away for so long. Between how often I tour, and most recently my rehab stint, well...I can honestly say I don't know the last time I slept in my own bed was. I have a rough estimate of about a year, but the exact date is fuzzy.

I get up, tracing my finger along the dresser as I walk past. My finger comes away with a thin film of dust. I frown and wipe it against my pants. I open up my closet, walk inside, run my hands along the rows and rows and rows of black clothes. I sit down, take off my shoes, place them neatly in their spot. Then I slip on my favorite pair of combat boots, not bothering to tie them. I never tie them.

I've had the boots for an eon now. They're sadly starting to show their age, so I don't take them on tour with me anymore. I wore these boots at my first professional concert. I toured with these boots. These boots were the first pair of shoes to touch foreign soil on our first international tour.

I was scared on that tour. We were all scared. But it was great, and in the end nothing even mattered. Our fears of not being good enough, of going to a foreign country and falling flat on our faces, were unfounded. It was on that tour and in that pair of boots that Ben, Jake, and myself knew we had found our calling.

I walk out of the closet and continue to meander around my room. I go to my row of guitars (I'm happy to see someone had taken my baby off the bus and put it where it belongs). Idly I run my fingers along them. The strings are all loosened; I always do that on tour to release the tension so the strings don't snap or damage the pegs.

Lovingly I pick up my black acoustic guitar. I strum it, tuning it quickly, and then sit on the bed next to Jake. I don't look at him though, I just look down at my guitar and quietly pluck the strings.

I love this guitar. It's a Martin D. Black, of course, the sound hole surrounded in white mother of pearl. The bridge is white, as are the pegs. I rarely play acoustic--it's not really my thing. But I love the shit out of this guitar. It's my second-favorite.

"You okay?"

I look at Jake, having to shake my fringe out of my eyes. I needed a haircut. "Huh?"

"I asked if you're okay."

"Oh. Yeah." I go back to plucking. "I just...haven't been here in forever. It barely feels like my room."

"I get that."

Sighing, Jake lays down, his hands behind his head. I look over my shoulder at him. He stares at the ceiling for a moment so I go back to plucking.

"What's with Tristan?"

I pause, and then continue my senseless melody. "What do you mean?"

"Are you guys dating or something?"

My melody pauses a moment. "No. I don't think so."

"Would you like to be dating him?"

I stop playing and twist around. Jake props himself up on his elbows and looks at me.

"I d'no," I answer honestly.

Jake cocks his head to the side. "Serious question."

"Shoot."

"Have you ever actually dated anyone?"

I turn back around and go back to plucking. "Nope. Just fucked a bunch of random guys and girls. It never went anywhere. They never meant anything."

"That's sad."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I just shrug.

"Tristan is a really good guy, Orion."

I stop playing and gently put the guitar next to me. I swing around, sitting legs crossed, looking at him. "Do you want me to date him?"

Jake sits up. He swings his legs over the opposite edge of the bed and doesn't look at me. Instead he looks at my white curtains.

"He asked us to call Gloria to get a truck to transport your alcohol out of he house for you before you were tempted to do anything stupid. He's the one who told us about your--issue." Jake turns his head and looks at me then. "He's a really good guy, Ori. That's all I'm saying."

I watch Jake as he gets to his feet. When he walks past he pauses, putting a hand on my shoulder. I look up at him. He smiles faintly, patting my shoulder.

"Keep it up Ori. That melody is really pretty. I think you're onto something."

He looks so sad. I watch Jake leave, quietly closing the door behind himself.