Paper Bag.
One of one.
Spine folded in half like a sheet of paper, Dougie clutches at his stomach and waits to be ripped apart. The darkness hugs him from all sides and his teetering back bumps the wall, hair scratching against the suffocating oak of wherever he’s crawled into. He can feel vibrations of voices travelling through his feet and shudders from them, fingernails sculpting crescents into his flesh as he buries sandy curls into his thighs.
Footsteps are outside and its fuckfuckfuckfuck , a scratched vinyl shouts in his mind, because he knows it’s coming. The time where light will extract molten ruby from burns embedded in his skin – artificial rays encasing him and taking him away from his secure cloak of dark corners. His palms dampen cotton and muscles twitch beneath glistening hands, the map of blue veins decorating his tense bones as he listens for the person they always send to find him. He only just becomes aware of his ribs thrusting out into the confined space, stealing the little oxygen for his lungs and making his head spin as the air doesn’t quite kill his panic.
The door opens.
His head raises to see the light folded round a pair of dark legs, swathed in denim and bended over at the knee. Palms hit the floor and a pair of chestnut eyes stares through the shadow at the boy curled in the cupboard, whose lips release a squeak of hysteria. The second boy dips his head to crawl into the dark space, pulling the door shut behind him, and Dougie shivers as warm skin brushes the icy hairs raised from his arms. He hears the crinkle of the familiar material clutched in his band mate’s hand, and tries to reassure himself that he’s in trusted hands.
“C’mon, you’re okay,” Tom whispers as he places a brown paper bag into the younger boy’s trembling hands and wraps his own round his shoulders. Dougie whimpers and whips his head violently from side to side, hair pasted to his brow and cheeks. Tom steadily takes his shaking wrist and calmly guides the breathing aid up to his face. In a practised movement Dougie’s fingers press it to his lips and his eyelids float closed in lethargic delirium, larynx producing additional laboured cries of weary reluctance as he exhales. Tom’s fingers twirl a lock of Dougie’s hair between their rough tips as he watches the distension and deflation of the bag, but the palms clutching it do not become any more sedated.
Ghostly words tell Dougie that it’s going to be alright, but they land on his collarbone and don’t float up to his perceptive mind. All he senses is the tightness of his chest and the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness at the bare idea of even picking up his guitar, causing incoherent burbles to spill like vomit into the bag.
“Can’t…”
“You can,” Tom mumbles, his temple resting against Dougie’s. “You’ve done it before,”
“Nuh uh… bigger – more people…”
“You have us,” he breathes, coating his neck with a concoction of moisture, sympathy and affection. “We’re all going to be on the same stage as you, supporting you, watching over you. You’re getting better at this, Doug, and we believe in you.”
One small kiss to a vein in his neck, and the hyperventilation gradually slows. Both of them know that each night winds up this way, both before and after the show, and Dougie determinedly screws up the dependable bag. His quivering lips meet Tom’s, and with a trusting smile he knows he’s as ready for show time as he’ll ever be.
Footsteps are outside and its fuckfuckfuckfuck , a scratched vinyl shouts in his mind, because he knows it’s coming. The time where light will extract molten ruby from burns embedded in his skin – artificial rays encasing him and taking him away from his secure cloak of dark corners. His palms dampen cotton and muscles twitch beneath glistening hands, the map of blue veins decorating his tense bones as he listens for the person they always send to find him. He only just becomes aware of his ribs thrusting out into the confined space, stealing the little oxygen for his lungs and making his head spin as the air doesn’t quite kill his panic.
The door opens.
His head raises to see the light folded round a pair of dark legs, swathed in denim and bended over at the knee. Palms hit the floor and a pair of chestnut eyes stares through the shadow at the boy curled in the cupboard, whose lips release a squeak of hysteria. The second boy dips his head to crawl into the dark space, pulling the door shut behind him, and Dougie shivers as warm skin brushes the icy hairs raised from his arms. He hears the crinkle of the familiar material clutched in his band mate’s hand, and tries to reassure himself that he’s in trusted hands.
“C’mon, you’re okay,” Tom whispers as he places a brown paper bag into the younger boy’s trembling hands and wraps his own round his shoulders. Dougie whimpers and whips his head violently from side to side, hair pasted to his brow and cheeks. Tom steadily takes his shaking wrist and calmly guides the breathing aid up to his face. In a practised movement Dougie’s fingers press it to his lips and his eyelids float closed in lethargic delirium, larynx producing additional laboured cries of weary reluctance as he exhales. Tom’s fingers twirl a lock of Dougie’s hair between their rough tips as he watches the distension and deflation of the bag, but the palms clutching it do not become any more sedated.
Ghostly words tell Dougie that it’s going to be alright, but they land on his collarbone and don’t float up to his perceptive mind. All he senses is the tightness of his chest and the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness at the bare idea of even picking up his guitar, causing incoherent burbles to spill like vomit into the bag.
“Can’t…”
“You can,” Tom mumbles, his temple resting against Dougie’s. “You’ve done it before,”
“Nuh uh… bigger – more people…”
“You have us,” he breathes, coating his neck with a concoction of moisture, sympathy and affection. “We’re all going to be on the same stage as you, supporting you, watching over you. You’re getting better at this, Doug, and we believe in you.”
One small kiss to a vein in his neck, and the hyperventilation gradually slows. Both of them know that each night winds up this way, both before and after the show, and Dougie determinedly screws up the dependable bag. His quivering lips meet Tom’s, and with a trusting smile he knows he’s as ready for show time as he’ll ever be.