Kitten

Brendon was curled up in his and Ryan’s bed, quivering with confusion and fear.

Oh god, I hurt him. I hurt Kitten. I hurt him. And he loves me? How could he love me after that? And that girl, she said I was in danger? Oh god, I hurt him. How could I have done that to him?

Hauling himself out of bed, Brendon went to fix himself a drink, then stopped. No, he told himself firmly. Drinking got you into this mess. It’s not gonna get you out of it. He pushed the glass away with a frustrated sigh.

Waiting for the show to finish is gonna be agony. Oh wait, it already is agony! Distraction. Oh god, I need a distraction.

Brendon got to his feet and slowly made his way over to find his acoustic guitar. “It’s been a long time, old friend,” he said with a small smile, wiping the dust from the nylon strings. It was a Martin and belonged to his father before him—a delicate work of art. Humming to himself as he tuned the guitar, Brendon’s focus gradually moved from Ryan’s dilemma to the instrument at hand.

“This town just wasn’t made for two,” he sang with just a hint of uncertainty, strumming once the guitar was tuned. “But when the streets, they call my name, what can I do?”

Getting back into the groove, Brendon began bobbing his head as he played. “There’s a place—I’d like to go there someday. And if you decline my invitation what can I say? What can I say? What can I say?” It was a little song, which Brendon had written about a year ago during one of his fits of depression; Ryan had kicked him out of the apartment while he “entertained” a male friend. “When the corner light is dimmed upon the street, and all the faces looked confused on those you meet, tell your friends that I’ll be dead when you read this. Tell them I couldn’t take the pain of loneliness. Of loneliness. Of loneliness,” his voice cracked and trembled a little bit as he remembered the overwhelming feeling that had crushed him while he wrote the song.

“I am feeling low and I’m singing in my sleep when you’re around. Will you comfort me? I’ll dream of you and the smile you give to me. You give to me. You give to me.”

Brendon was a thousand miles away, in that special place he always went when he played music. “It’s the same thing everyday, because we run out of things to say. If you’re gone and me not here, it kinda sheds a different light on the whole year. On the whole year. On the whole year,” he sang, eyes fluttering closed. “I am feeling low and I’m singing in my sleep when you’re around. Will you comfort me? I’ll dream of you and the smile you give to me. You give to me. You give to me.”

The final chord still ringing in his eyes, Brendon set the guitar done and lay down on the living room floor. “I love you, Kitten,” he whispered, staring at the ceiling light fixture. “I love you, Ryan. I love you.”