A/N: This is my first fully realized fanfiction. While I am making every attempt possible to have complete accuracy with the facts of Mr. Skold et. al.'s lives, I cannot claim to know everything about him. Much of the state of his mind and such is either extrapolated from interpretations of his music he wrote years ago (SKOLD was released twelve years ago, for example), or completely fabricated. The layout of his home, the studio, etc. is completely of my own design. I have taken certain artistic liberties with the facts surrounding his life and his feelings about himself and those around him. If someone can provide me reliable information I will definately take the time to include it in this piece. Thanks!

Chapter One: Rememberance, or Lest We Forget

Tim was tired. He sighed loudly reached onto the coffee table in front of him, tapping another cigarette out of the pack. Two left. Soon he'd have to get up and do something. But what? Anything. His mind reminded him. There was a time when that word meant more than it did now. He pulled a zippo out of his pocket and flicked it open, the flame rising immediately from the wick. A goddamn modern day Prometheus, he thought, a bitter smile curled his lips upward. He lit the cigarette with the precision only a smoker of years could perfect, the cigarette held in his lips tenderly. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent he had always found comforting. Erin was out tonight, and wouldn't be home until much later. He had the house all to himself.

Outside, it was dark. The cool night air had taken the place of the sweltering California air as soon as the sun had gone down. Tim had put on a long-sleeved cotton shirt, tight across his chest, earlier in the evening. For some reason he still felt cold. Lost, it slowly went away, was gone without a trace... I'm tired and I can't remember... His own lyrics ran through his head. Fuck, he thought, I must be going crazy. He ran his heavily ringed fingers through his light blonde hair, he hadn't gone anywhere so he didn't bother to gel his mowhawk up. He stood up, suddenly, and ground out the cigarette in the ash tray in front of him. Too many ghosts here... He walked towards the sliding plate-glass door which led from his house to the patio outside. He pressed his head against the cool glass and closed his eyes, trying to shake the thoughts from his head. He opened his eyes again, the cool blue of his eyes matching the sky outside. He slid the door open and stepped out onto the concrete, barefoot, the roughness of the concrete scratching at the bottom of his feet. A barefoot walk on broken glass... His mind was his enemy at the moment, and as he sat down at the edge of his pool, he found himself wanting more than ever to destroy it. He had his head in his hands, and he listened to the sounds around him, the honks of the freeway miles away. It would rain tonight, he could feel it. The air was thick and felt coagulated. The quiet hum of the pool filter and the rustle of the wind through the leaves brought him back to reality.

Tonight he felt truly alone. He stood up, brushing the cracked leaves off of his pants, and walked back inside. He could call someone, but almost everyone was out of town. It was so hard to keep in touch with anyone anymore. He almost longed for the days when he was in a shitty little apartment in L.A., armed with a can of bug spay, frantically spraying everything that moved. Sure the apartment sucked and it was cramped, but there was always someone there for him. This pervasive loneliness was too much, it was depressing. He thought about calling Erin, but shook his head. It was all he could do to get her out of the house, she was dutiful to him to an extent he had never thought he could ask for. He smiled for a moment as he looked down at his wedding band-- it seemed so long ago that they were wed-- but he still loved her just as much as the day he had married her. She deserved this night out.

He walked into the kitchen, and opened the cupboard, examining the contents with a stern look on his face. He grabbed a bottle of absinthe, and walked over into his makeshift studio, a fairly large room with a few different guitars in them. Just for fun and practice-- he hadn't tried to record anything serious in there-- it was too loud. He eased himself back into the sleek black leather of a chair, and picked up the guitar closest to him-- a Gibson Les Paul. Sleek in design, Gibsons were far curvier than some of the other brands he had used, the body finely shaped like that of a woman's. He pulled the pick out from its resting place in between the strings and began to strum. Nothing in particular, just something to keep his mind off of the moment. He thought of all of the music he had written in the past, with every single musician that he had written for, and shook his head. It made him feel older than he actually was. Fourty-one wasn't old. Hell, there were musicians that rocked until their sixties, and that took far worse care of their bodies. He had a long way to go. I hope,he thought, that same sense of impending doom coming over him again. He suddenly remembered that he had brought the bottle of absinthe with him. He realized that he hadn't brought a glass, or sugar, so he brought the bottle back to the kitchen. It was darker outside now, and through the sliding glass doors, he could see the twinkling lights of the city below. He left the bottle on the counter, his hand shaking slightly, and collapsed into a chair, his face in his hands. I can't do this anymore.