Status: In progress; be calm.
Somewhere in Neverland
One.
He wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright. He shakes his head, contemplating the bizarre dream he has just woken from. Lisa and Audri were both there, and they both wanted him back, telling tales of what had gone on in his absence and why their lives were lacking from his absence. And they were making him choose, making him…wait.
Alex rubs his head blearily, frowning at the spot of dried blood that comes away with his hand. His head feels numb and foggy, almost detached from his senses, so far from the headaches that years of hangovers have taught him to prepare for. There’s blood there, but his head isn’t sore by any definition of the word. No, it feels like the night he had foolishly tried to share some culture with Jack by trying to teach him the little bit of tag rugby that he knew and ended up with five stitches on the back of his head. That’s what it feels like; that numb, anaesthetised feeling; that feeling of absolute nothingness.
His eyes travel the room quietly, trying to keep his calm. This isn’t his room. This isn’t his room at his house, his room at his parents; it isn’t a room in a hotel or on a tour bus. This was someone else’s room, but it wasn’t Audri’s or Lisa’s or anybody’s that he could recall, in fact. It reminded him of England, of home, back in Essex. Reminded him of summers with his grandparents and, later on, summers with his sisters; of flying visits with his parents and brother. It feels like home.
He gets to his feet uneasily, noticing the owl patterned pyjamas that he had most definitely not been wearing when he had fallen asleep. But…when had he fallen asleep? A calendar on the wall reads ‘September 15th 2013’, but Alex’s mind is so foggy that he cannot place where that date is on the timeline that is his life.
With a start, Alex realises that there are photos practically wallpapering the room he is in, and they are not just any photos, they are photos of he and his family. Massive posters of his band interspersed with quietly loving photos of Sarah, Alex and Michelle with their children, husbands, nieces, nephews, grandparents, family. His chest begins to tighten and ache, and he rushes to the window, flinging it open with little thought.
Breathing in the fresh air, Alex takes a moment to look out the window he is leaning from. He is up high, that’s the first thing he notices, possibly more than ten floors up. Focussing, he begins to see features: churches, shops, buildings. He is in Colchester, but it is not Colchester as he knows it. It is quiet, trafficless, eerie. He sees the odd car, the odd pedestrian, but nothing that matches the hustle and bustle that Colchester usually brought to mind. Across the road he sees the primary school that his cousins had attended, and next to it the schoolyard where his brother had taken him to play rugby the few times that he’d visited, where…
…with a gasp, Alex backs away from the window, almost hyperventilating. He struggles to calm his breathing and has to fight to regain composure; to ignore the unfamiliar pain he feels in his chest. He feels his eyes water in pain as he struggles to breathe, the pain dissipating as his breathing steadies. He knows where he is. This is his brother’s apartment.
His eyes focus on the floor length mirror ahead of him: there he is, 25 years old, Alex Gaskarth. A matted streak of red blood is visible in his dirty blonde hair, dried blood caked into the side of his face but besides both of these factors and the owl pyjamas, there is absolutely nothing untoward about his appearance. He is 25, the age Gavin was when he shot himself in that playground just across the road. But he is not Gavin; he is Alex. He is 25 and he has never felt so lost, so alone, so confused in his life.
Alex rubs his head blearily, frowning at the spot of dried blood that comes away with his hand. His head feels numb and foggy, almost detached from his senses, so far from the headaches that years of hangovers have taught him to prepare for. There’s blood there, but his head isn’t sore by any definition of the word. No, it feels like the night he had foolishly tried to share some culture with Jack by trying to teach him the little bit of tag rugby that he knew and ended up with five stitches on the back of his head. That’s what it feels like; that numb, anaesthetised feeling; that feeling of absolute nothingness.
His eyes travel the room quietly, trying to keep his calm. This isn’t his room. This isn’t his room at his house, his room at his parents; it isn’t a room in a hotel or on a tour bus. This was someone else’s room, but it wasn’t Audri’s or Lisa’s or anybody’s that he could recall, in fact. It reminded him of England, of home, back in Essex. Reminded him of summers with his grandparents and, later on, summers with his sisters; of flying visits with his parents and brother. It feels like home.
He gets to his feet uneasily, noticing the owl patterned pyjamas that he had most definitely not been wearing when he had fallen asleep. But…when had he fallen asleep? A calendar on the wall reads ‘September 15th 2013’, but Alex’s mind is so foggy that he cannot place where that date is on the timeline that is his life.
With a start, Alex realises that there are photos practically wallpapering the room he is in, and they are not just any photos, they are photos of he and his family. Massive posters of his band interspersed with quietly loving photos of Sarah, Alex and Michelle with their children, husbands, nieces, nephews, grandparents, family. His chest begins to tighten and ache, and he rushes to the window, flinging it open with little thought.
Breathing in the fresh air, Alex takes a moment to look out the window he is leaning from. He is up high, that’s the first thing he notices, possibly more than ten floors up. Focussing, he begins to see features: churches, shops, buildings. He is in Colchester, but it is not Colchester as he knows it. It is quiet, trafficless, eerie. He sees the odd car, the odd pedestrian, but nothing that matches the hustle and bustle that Colchester usually brought to mind. Across the road he sees the primary school that his cousins had attended, and next to it the schoolyard where his brother had taken him to play rugby the few times that he’d visited, where…
…with a gasp, Alex backs away from the window, almost hyperventilating. He struggles to calm his breathing and has to fight to regain composure; to ignore the unfamiliar pain he feels in his chest. He feels his eyes water in pain as he struggles to breathe, the pain dissipating as his breathing steadies. He knows where he is. This is his brother’s apartment.
His eyes focus on the floor length mirror ahead of him: there he is, 25 years old, Alex Gaskarth. A matted streak of red blood is visible in his dirty blonde hair, dried blood caked into the side of his face but besides both of these factors and the owl pyjamas, there is absolutely nothing untoward about his appearance. He is 25, the age Gavin was when he shot himself in that playground just across the road. But he is not Gavin; he is Alex. He is 25 and he has never felt so lost, so alone, so confused in his life.
♠ ♠ ♠
This chapter's a little different to what I have planned - a bit shorter and an awful lot more descriptive - but I feel like it's important in the context of what's to come. A few years ago my English teacher told me that I wrote a lot of dialogue in my stories and, while it's a good writing tool, sometimes it can be interesting to write without the crutch of speech, so that's something I try to take into account sometimes.Also, yeah - you'll notice that I've changed the names and backgrounds of Alex's family. I just think it's a bit more respectful, and it means I can be a bit more creative with background detail.
Also, a happy end-of-Hannukkah to anybody else celebrating. Hope you're all with your families and not cramming for linguistics exams in your empty apartment like me!
Bisous, besos, beijos.