The East River stretched dark and restless under a slate-gray sky on March 10, 2025, its surface rippling with the wind that swept off Manhattan's eastern edge.
The pier at Corlears Hook Park in the Lower East Side jutted out like a broken finger, its wooden planks weathered and splintered, slick with the damp of a late winter that refused to relent.
Britney stood at its far end, alone, her leather jacket hanging loose on her frame, her dark hair tangled and unwashed, whipping across her face in the gusts.
Her green eyes, bloodshot and hollow, stared at the water, unblinking, as if she could will it to swallow her whole.
In her hands, she clutched Alton's guitar—battered, its strings dulled, its body scratched from months of subway platforms and dive bar stages—and the USB drive, small and black, its weight a shard of him pressed into her palm.
It had been two days since he'd died—two days since that hospice room in Washington Heights had gone silent, since the monitor's flatline had carved a hole through her chest, since she'd screamed his name until her voice gave out.
Two days since she'd watched them wheel him away under a sheet, his hand slipping from hers, cold and final.
She hadn't slept, hadn't eaten beyond a stale bagel forced on her by a nurse, her body a hollow shell moving through a world that didn't make sense anymore.
The hospital had sent her home—wherever that was now—with a plastic bag of his things: the hoodie he'd worn on the High Line, a pack of cigarettes he'd never smoke, the sketch she'd slipped under his pillow.
She'd gone back to his Bronx apartment instead, the sanctuary they'd built, and sat on the mattress, staring at the muraled walls—the bird, the skyline, their reckless vow—until the landlord pounded on the door, demanding rent she couldn't pay.
Now she was here, on this pier, the city humming behind her—cars on the FDR Drive, a ferry horn in the distance, the faint chatter of joggers on the path—but it was noise, meaningless, a backdrop to the void inside her.
The guitar hung heavy in her arms, its neck worn smooth by his hands, and she traced the strings, her fingers trembling, remembering how they'd danced over them, pulling songs from nothing.
The USB drive burned in her other hand, his voice trapped inside—"We're shadows on the wire, sparks in the flame…"—a lifeline she couldn't let go, even as it cut her deeper with every note.
She'd come here to think, to breathe, to figure out what the hell she was supposed to do now, but the river offered no answers—just its cold, indifferent churn, lapping at the pilings below.
Her boots scuffed the planks, leaving faint smears of dirt, and she sank to her knees, the guitar across her lap, the wind biting her cheeks.
Her sketchbook was gone—left in the hospice, pages scattered, a loss she couldn't face retrieving—and without it, her hands felt useless, empty, itching for a pencil she didn't have.
She'd drawn him so much, etched him into paper until he was more lines than flesh, but now he was gone, and the art couldn't bring him back.
The pier was empty, the late afternoon light fading into dusk, the skyline across the water—Brooklyn, Williamsburg—blurring into a smear of lights.
She pulled her earbuds from her pocket, cheap ones she'd scavenged from Alton's things, and plugged them into her cracked phone, the USB drive slotted into an adapter.
She hit play, and his song flooded her ears—his voice, rough and alive, tearing through the quiet: "Burning through the dark, calling your name…"
It hit her like a fist, a sob ripping from her throat, and she clutched the guitar tighter, her nails digging into the wood, tears streaming hot down her face.
She saw him—everywhere, in everything. The subway platform where they'd met, his guitar case open for coins, his grin catching her off guard.
The dive bar in Brooklyn, his voice cutting through the noise, their first kiss under that flickering neon sign.
The Bronx apartment, paint on their hands, songs in the air, nights tangled on that mattress like the world couldn't touch them.
The Harlem rooftop, their vow under a bruised sky, his arms around her, promising to burn bright.
The hospital, his hand in hers, his breath fading, his I love you the last thing she'd hold. It played in her head, a reel she couldn't stop, and the song wove through it, his goodbye she hadn't wanted to hear.
The wind picked up, tugging at her hair, and she stood, shaky, the guitar swinging in her grip.
She'd taken it from the apartment this morning, the landlord's threats ringing in her ears—"Get your shit out or it's trash"—and carried it here, a piece of him she couldn't leave behind.
But it was heavy, too heavy, a weight she couldn't bear anymore—not without him to play it.
She stepped to the pier's edge, the water dark and deep below, and held it out, her arms trembling, the strings glinting faintly in the dusk.
"I can't do this," she whispered, her voice lost to the wind, tears blurring the river into a smear. "I can't keep you like this."
The song looped in her ears—"We'll burn until there's nothing left…"—and she saw his grin, his hand reaching for hers, his promise to live, to fight. But he'd lost, and she was here, alone, drowning in the aftermath.
She screamed—a raw, guttural sound that tore from her gut, echoing over the water—and swung the guitar, smashing it against the railing.
The wood cracked, strings snapping with a discordant twang, and she swung again, harder, the body splintering, pieces flying into the river.
She hit it again and again, sobs choking her, until it was wreckage—shards of spruce and steel sinking into the dark, swallowed by the current.
The neck snapped last, dangling from her hand, and she threw it, watching it spin and vanish, a final note silenced.
She sank to the planks, her knees hitting hard, the earbuds dangling, his voice still singing—"You're the fire in my veins…"—and clutched the USB drive, pressing it to her chest.
The guitar was gone, a release she'd needed, but this—this was him, his soul in sound, and she couldn't let it go.
She curled around it, rocking, the wind howling, her cries blending with the river's rush, a mourner's wail for a love too brief, too bright.
Time blurred—minutes, hours, the sky darkening, the city's lights sharpening against the night.
She stayed there, hollowed out, the pier her altar, the river her witness. Her phone died, the song cutting off mid-line—"We'll burn to the edge…"—and the silence was worse, a void she couldn't fill.
She stood, slow, her legs numb, and leaned on the railing, staring at the water where the guitar had sunk.
It was gone, like him, but she was still here—alive, breathing, a survivor she didn't want to be.
She thought of her mother—Linda, drunk and cruel, a ghost she'd buried in Staten Island—and felt nothing, no pull, no guilt.
She thought of Tara, Jamal, friends who'd texted condolences she hadn't answered, and knew she couldn't face them yet, their pity a weight she'd break under.
She thought of the apartment, the murals, the life they'd built, now just a memory the landlord would paint over.
And she thought of Alton—his laugh, his scars, his song—etched into her, a tattoo she'd carry forever.
The wind died, the river calming, and she straightened, wiping her face with her sleeve, the USB drive a hard lump in her fist.
She slipped it into her pocket, a piece of him she'd keep, and turned from the pier, her boots thudding on the planks.
The city loomed ahead—tall, indifferent, alive—and she walked into it, her shadow stretching long behind her, a girl remade by loss.
She didn't know where she was going—back to the Bronx, maybe, or nowhere, just moving to outrun the quiet.
Her hands twitched, empty without her sketchbook, but she'd find another, draw him again, keep him alive in lines and sound.
The grief was a beast, clawing her insides, but she'd carry it, wear it, let it scar her into something new.
The pier faded behind her, the river swallowed the guitar's last echo, and Britney Germanotta walked on—lost, alive, irreversibly changed, Alton's song a heartbeat in her pocket, a vow burned into her soul.
END