Ozzy
The air in the sparse hospice room was thick with the sterile scent of disinfectant and the unspoken weight of finality. Ozzy lay small in the vast white bed, his once-muscled frame now skeletal beneath the thin sheet. The vibrant tattoos on his arms, once defiant declarations, were faded smudges on pale skin. His breathing was shallow, a frail rhythm against the oppressive silence. Silas sat by his side, a stoic sentinel. He’d known Ozzy since they were teenagers, two scrawny kids with cheap guitars and a hunger for a sound that would rip through the quiet humdrum of their small town. They’d formed ‘The Vipers,’ played every dive bar and smoky club, then somehow, against all odds, clawed their way to grimy fame. Ozzy’s life had been a screeching guitar solo: loud, chaotic, often off-key, but undeniably electrifying. There had been the roar of the crowds, the blinding flash of cameras, the blur of hotel rooms, a haze of substances, the fleeting warmth of strange women. He’d lived on in...