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But who else would have access to this?
My gaze flits around the hands, and my brows furrow taking in the boyish juts of thumbs—the masculine shape to both sets of knuckles
I wet my lips, as words flood my mind. So fast and sudden, I have to quickly lower the page so I can write them down before I lose them. And just under the words—really, just fractured pieces of sentences; a piss-poor attempt at describing what feels so abstract still, like I’m translating some new, never-before-heard language…
There’s that melody.
The one that sung me awake.
The one that’s haunted me for years.
From behind me, it’s almost as if there’s a beating heart thumping against the wall, the one that separates this room from Izzy’s. Perhaps that’s why my muse has suddenly decided to make her presence known so acutely, there’s no fucking drowning it out.
Sure, I’ve been in here a million times since she’s gone missing.
But I haven’t been sober until now. Not this sober.
It’s like a wool blanket has been lifted, and suddenly it’s just gushing out of me.
And while it hurts…it hurts a little less when it’s all being funneled down into the pencil scribbling across the page. I’m not so much as writing a song as this point, but just…dumping my thoughts and feelings and giving life to images in my head of joined hands and starry skies and eyes beseeching me from the dark.
There’s something…something there. Something just on the edges of my awareness.
A dream.
A bedroom. There was a bedroom.
There were…shadows, slithering like snakes.
Eyes…her eyes, but not… Why? What was wrong with them?
And then it’s just…panic. Desperation. Bone-cold terror. The images are engulfed in these emotions as if they were corporeal things themselves.
I could never draw, not like Jeremy. He told me once that I make art with melodies. Words. And I suppose that’s what I’m doing now, as inspiration yawns inside me—triggered by a pain so deep, so senseless in its infiniteness, that there’s no other way to process it but…but feed it into something else.
So rather than try to snuff it out with drugs like I used to, or wield control over it like how I’d try to control a piano, I just…surrender to it, and jot down whatever comes to me. Words. Fractured sentences. Music notes. Arrows connecting whatever the hell, for me to try and make sense of later.
In my head, I’m humming that melody from so long ago, the one that’s haunted me since I was fourteen. The one I’ve kept to myself since the last time I tried to figure it out, when Izzy and I took it, ran with it, and made something altogether new from it.
Spinning, spinning…
Spinning the wrong way.
I frown, teeth gritting together until I fear they might snap right along with the chewed up pencil in my grip.
Shawn, Waylon, and I have been writing our own music for months now. We’ve yet to do anything with them… But they’re there, collecting slowly but surely, so that they’re ready when the time comes to share them with whoever feels like listening.
This song though…
I don’t know what the fuck it is about this song. It just feels like I’m…like I’m waiting for something. A stroke of genius perhaps. An epiphany…a revelation…something.
Regardless, when I consider sharing it with the guys…asking for their help, because fuck if we’re not better together than apart, for an array of reasons…
Something holds me back. Stops me in my tracks.
All I can think is—mine.
A soft snore sounds from next to me, pulling me from my thoughts, and I find myself turning my gaze to the other side of the bed once more.
