wednesday 2nd september
at home
He found himself staring at her as she played and sang. There was something about her that eased the constant anxiety. She didn't make it go away entirely- the only thing that could do that was sleep. But she did ease it, and she distracted him a little. Like right now, he felt like maybe things were going to be okay, like the bad things weren't going to happen and he'd be fine.
He still didn't recognise the song, but he did remember her story. It seemed like a happier time, like a different life. Probably because it had been. Before he'd accumulated the alcohol stash under his bed and the scars on his arms and legs and his nail biting habit. He missed those simpler days, the days when things were less scary and easier to handle.
To stop himself from biting his nails, he pulled his sleeves over his hands and rubbed them together awkwardly. She'd never asked why he kept his sleeves over his hands, and he hoped she never would. He didn't want to keep telling her lies, but sometimes, it was better than telling her the truth.
He liked to listen to her sing- even if it wasn't perfect, it was honest and raw. Everyone called his vocals raw, due to their nature and the actual emotion that so often fuelled them. But this was raw in another sense of the word- raw in that they weren't polished. She didn't sing to get it right, she just sang along because she wanted to. He'd been singing and screaming for so long that he had an inbuilt reflex to get it right, and he didn't even realise he was doing it half the time.
He still didn't recognise the song, but he did remember her story. It seemed like a happier time, like a different life. Probably because it had been. Before he'd accumulated the alcohol stash under his bed and the scars on his arms and legs and his nail biting habit. He missed those simpler days, the days when things were less scary and easier to handle.
To stop himself from biting his nails, he pulled his sleeves over his hands and rubbed them together awkwardly. She'd never asked why he kept his sleeves over his hands, and he hoped she never would. He didn't want to keep telling her lies, but sometimes, it was better than telling her the truth.
He liked to listen to her sing- even if it wasn't perfect, it was honest and raw. Everyone called his vocals raw, due to their nature and the actual emotion that so often fuelled them. But this was raw in another sense of the word- raw in that they weren't polished. She didn't sing to get it right, she just sang along because she wanted to. He'd been singing and screaming for so long that he had an inbuilt reflex to get it right, and he didn't even realise he was doing it half the time.