I Won't Call This Hell

When I woke up, at first all I heard was light chatter from the other room. After a few seconds, though, I focused on the chords being played on a guitar. Light laughter, more chatter, more than one guitar being strummed.

I stretched my toes slightly, arching my back, and I was instantly thankful to Max, once again, for allowing me to sleep in. I wasn't sure how he had found his way out of the bunk, but honestly, I didn't care. Stretching and twisting still, I stuck my head out my curtain to see the time.

It was late; earlier than what I know most of the boys usually sleep to, but late for tour, at least to my standards. I slip from the bunk, placing my bare feet on the ground, before looking around me. The floor is littered with shoes and other articles of clothing, but it's not too much of a mess. I see now that the bunk with the picture of me, the one I had recognized from when I had stumbled back here for the first time, was John's.

The guitars start up again, and someone is tapping on something with something else, knees, the counter, the seats, I'm not sure. Then, everything is quiet and the singing starts.

It's not John. That's what I think first. The song isn't really put together, it seems just like a creative stimulus of sorts, as the singer pauses some and just goes with the flow of the guitars, which don't seem to be going anywhere either. Silently, I slip toward the door leading to the front of the bus. The music is growing louder the closer I am, not because of my proximity, but because the singer has stopped and the guitars are building up and nothing is making sense, but hey. That's music.

That's music. Just as I push the door open slightly, the singer opens their mouth to sing. I was wrong. It is John, I see, as he turns his head to me. So to the other guys. The guitars stop, the note dies in John's throat. Then, at once. They all smile.

Damn.