I really don’t believe it, not now.
I watched the Die Database concert feed from Tokie, and was right there when Satomi was attacked.
I couldn’t really see his face, with the hood and glasses and beard, but I’m sure – it was him. Phone is dead.
It was the Intruder Alert! patch that gave it away. He made the stencil a few years ago, at my flat. It was one of a kind – no one else has ever worn it but him.
He dedicated it to Sasha – he had so many stories about her, and crazy band adventures. Too many things to believe.
But I believed in his touch, his voice. We met by the Isar, near the Friedensengel, behind a building he was tagging. I knew him from his work – he wanted to be the anti-Banksy, no pretense just paint. I had a few t-shirts he designed, from punk bands no one hardly remembered, from his life.
He was infamous, complex. He had tattoos that no one could see, but he showed me. He used to come in the Library and flirt with me, or follow me to a café and then sit outside, asking for change.
We weren’t lovers for that long, but the change he sparked hasn’t ended yet.
When I saw him jumping on stage, attacking the band, I was afraid. Not afraid for Satomi, but for him.
He told me, years ago, secret things that I tried hard to forget – they made my nightmares have nightmares.
In his face, when he yelled and hit and fell, I could see those secret things stirring. There was more than him inside him, more than him dying on the floor. Like Sasha did, ages ago.
Can I even believe that now? I don’t want to believe that it’s real. They couldn’t use him like that, not after a decade of silence.
No matter, my Phone is dead. Brian Thomas is dead. I’m not sure what to do first.