The Redhead, and The Dreamer.

Then suddenly, I was home and all I was left with was an empty feeling in my chest, and this still burning feeling of pain flowing throughout my entire body from my right cheek. I didn't know what exactly I was supposed to be doing. He'd hit me...He'd...hit me. I hit him. I could only come to one small conclusion over it all. We were both eternally fucked up in the head.

I guess that was why we were both such good musicians when it came down to the center of things.

So there I was, my own guitar in my lap, so conflicted I couldn't write anything. There was no expressing this feeling. It was strange. I hated it. Where was the flow of seemingly meaningless words that naturally came to me at any other time of day? Why would any sort of natural ability I might have had desert me right when I felt like I needed them most?

It was kind of insane.

And so I play old things. His song. A small bit I'd started and never finished about how stupid we both got when we just hung out the two of us. I hated it. There were new words now to describe the constantly changing situation, but no matter how hard I tried, they weren't my words. Maybe this was his song to write, and maybe one day he'd sing it to me.

Until then I suppose I was just always going to be the one in the dark.

I had to be quiet despite everything. Shape up. Tune my guitar. Confused or not we had a gig tomorrow night. Talent scouts. Big record labels. The works.

I just wondered if I'd be able to keep everything that was going on inside of me together long enough to do what I had to do to finally try to become everything I'd ever wanted to be.