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The bar calls to me—rows and rows of bottles taunting me.
Just a taste.
Just a glass.
Just enough to ease my nerves and help me sleep.
Just for tonight.
Fists and teeth clenched, I cut across the room like the hounds of Hell are nipping at my heels, and make my way to the door that leads to the basement.
I tug on the chain attached to a single bulb, lighting the old, decrepit stairwell.
I blink a couple times, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
The uneven boards that make up the steps creak beneath my feet. When I hit solid ground, I reach up, feeling around, flipping the switch.
A low humming fills the open space, and a second later, the fluorescent lights stretched out across the exposed ceiling flicker on, illuminating the basement. It’s the only sound to be heard other than my bare feet thudding softly over the chilly concrete flooring as I make my way toward our makeshift gym.
As usual when I get like this—when I can’t sleep, or need to let off some steam, or feel two seconds away from breaking my sobriety—I head straight for the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling in the corner.
Only when I get halfway there, my steps slow to a stop, and I find myself turning and gazing through the dark threshold separating this room from our attached studio.
My guitar is upstairs, in my room. I keep it up there for nights I can’t sleep and feel a different kind of urge.
Music and fighting—my only vices left.
Not that I fight anyone anymore, not really. Now, it’s just me and whoever I’m pretending the bag is as I lay into it until I can no longer stand straight.
It’s more often than not myself I imagine. The version of me I was the last couple years, before I cleaned up my act. The me I still am sometimes—selfish and panic-driven, clinging to a delusion I refuse to even risk skimming a finger over, lest I fucking pop the seal.
But the alternative…
Swallowing thickly, I find myself abandoning the bag, and stepping into the studio instead.
I flip on the light, and look around, taking in the empty mic stands and cords strewn about.
What we call a studio is really just a small enclosure with blankets hung up along the walls to preserve sound quality for when we do actually play down here. We mostly practice upstairs now, seeing as it’s easier versus lugging everything back and forth.
Now this little space is used mostly for when we feel like holing up and writing.
One day, when we’ve saved up enough, we plan to build an actual sound booth to record. Maybe post them online. I don’t know, we’ll see.
For now, though…
This is where we come to hide and purge our demons.
Chewing my lip ring, I close the door behind me, and slowly make my way across the room to the wooden studio piano Gavin had brought down here when we first moved in.
It used to be in his and Linda’s living room. I used to practice on it, before he bought me my keyboard—the one I shattered.
My chest aches at the reminder, and rather than turn away from it like I normally would, and pretend it’s not there…I pull out the bench and take a seat.
I run my hands over the smooth fallboard, and nod to myself. “You can do this.”
Curling my fingers under the lip, I push it back, revealing the keys beneath.
I wet my lips, and skim my fingers over the smooth plastic.
