just screwing around.”
“You still don’t get it, do you? Our dear Julia carried out a fantasy many of us harbored towards you James.”
James scowls at him. “Well, since I no longer hear music in my head, you’ll be pleased that I don’t hang out there anymore. You have my attention, Martin, just above the screaming.”
Martin stares at him. What is he supposed to say to that? “Screaming isn’t good. The dreams probably won’t go away either until you deal with whatever happened to you, find a way to live with it and move on. You won’t get away with trying to bury it.”
“Watch me. I bury it or it buries me. It’s warped and distorted and I just want it to go away. Dissecting the past won’t change it.”
“It may help you come to terms with what happened, and why. Nothing happens in a vacuum, James.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Martin hesitates. The path he’s taking James down might not be the best one right now. James seems on the edge of contained, and Martin doesn’t want to push him over.
James glares at him. “Straight up, Martin. What are you getting at?”
Still Martin hesitates, but with James staring at him, waiting, there seems to be no turning back. “Remember Ian’s funeral? I do. You couldn’t stand still. At the grave site you were actually rocking to some tune in your head. That’s pretty far gone, even for you. It was your brother’s funeral, James. You should have been paying attention.”
His eyes narrow to razor slits. “So you’re saying this is all my own fault?” James holds the blanket to his shoulders like a cloak, and paces a few steps, then stops and glares at Martin again. “Well, screw you, Martin. Nothing I’ve done justifies what they did to me. They may have robbed me my ability to ever play music again.” He glares at Martin across the room. “ Damn you…! You say ‘move on.’ To what ? If I’m not a musician anymore, than what the hell am I ?”
Rain pelts the window pane in a soft, even rhythm. James stares at him waiting for an answer, but Martin feels afraid to say anything.
James stays on him, his black eyes piercing, then he sighs, shakes his head slightly and turns back to the bay windows. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.” He stares outside through the blurry silvery ribbons streaking down the three giant panes. “Relax, Martin. I won’t lose it again.”
Again the Greek statue comes to mind, especially with the blanket around him like a hooded cape. But then Martin sees the tears streaming down his face and the classic image is replaced with the lost man before him. “You can be whatever you want to be, James. Music doesn’t have to be all there is. You just made it that way.”
He wipes his tear-streaked face on his hand then looks back at Martin. “I’ve just spent three hundred and ninety-five days in hell repenting for my sin of omission. Does that satisfy you, Martin?”
“Only if you learned something, James.”
James stares back out but Martin catches the hint of a smile. Hail begins hitting the windows. Little white balls strike the glass with pings, slide down the panes and gather on the weathered frames.
“I learned many things,” James whispers. “Things I never knew, I never wanted to know. They tortured me, raped me, kept me isolated for weeks at a time. I’ve been intimate with Lonely, and a blackness I never knew existed. And now I know fear. It’s pervasive.” He glances around the room, then looks at Martin. “The weird thing is, I see things like before, only now I feel them too, more viscerally than ever before. I get you’re afraid for me, even of me right now. I can feel your anxiety, like it’s inside of me. I feel everything now, except the tips of my fingers.” He holds his hand up in front of him and rubs the tips of his long, slender fingers together. “And I don’t know how to live like this.” His jaw line hardens and hollows his cheeks.
Martin catches his dark resolve and
“You still don’t get it, do you? Our dear Julia carried out a fantasy many of us harbored towards you James.”
James scowls at him. “Well, since I no longer hear music in my head, you’ll be pleased that I don’t hang out there anymore. You have my attention, Martin, just above the screaming.”
Martin stares at him. What is he supposed to say to that? “Screaming isn’t good. The dreams probably won’t go away either until you deal with whatever happened to you, find a way to live with it and move on. You won’t get away with trying to bury it.”
“Watch me. I bury it or it buries me. It’s warped and distorted and I just want it to go away. Dissecting the past won’t change it.”
“It may help you come to terms with what happened, and why. Nothing happens in a vacuum, James.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Martin hesitates. The path he’s taking James down might not be the best one right now. James seems on the edge of contained, and Martin doesn’t want to push him over.
James glares at him. “Straight up, Martin. What are you getting at?”
Still Martin hesitates, but with James staring at him, waiting, there seems to be no turning back. “Remember Ian’s funeral? I do. You couldn’t stand still. At the grave site you were actually rocking to some tune in your head. That’s pretty far gone, even for you. It was your brother’s funeral, James. You should have been paying attention.”
His eyes narrow to razor slits. “So you’re saying this is all my own fault?” James holds the blanket to his shoulders like a cloak, and paces a few steps, then stops and glares at Martin again. “Well, screw you, Martin. Nothing I’ve done justifies what they did to me. They may have robbed me my ability to ever play music again.” He glares at Martin across the room. “ Damn you…! You say ‘move on.’ To what ? If I’m not a musician anymore, than what the hell am I ?”
Rain pelts the window pane in a soft, even rhythm. James stares at him waiting for an answer, but Martin feels afraid to say anything.
James stays on him, his black eyes piercing, then he sighs, shakes his head slightly and turns back to the bay windows. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.” He stares outside through the blurry silvery ribbons streaking down the three giant panes. “Relax, Martin. I won’t lose it again.”
Again the Greek statue comes to mind, especially with the blanket around him like a hooded cape. But then Martin sees the tears streaming down his face and the classic image is replaced with the lost man before him. “You can be whatever you want to be, James. Music doesn’t have to be all there is. You just made it that way.”
He wipes his tear-streaked face on his hand then looks back at Martin. “I’ve just spent three hundred and ninety-five days in hell repenting for my sin of omission. Does that satisfy you, Martin?”
“Only if you learned something, James.”
James stares back out but Martin catches the hint of a smile. Hail begins hitting the windows. Little white balls strike the glass with pings, slide down the panes and gather on the weathered frames.
“I learned many things,” James whispers. “Things I never knew, I never wanted to know. They tortured me, raped me, kept me isolated for weeks at a time. I’ve been intimate with Lonely, and a blackness I never knew existed. And now I know fear. It’s pervasive.” He glances around the room, then looks at Martin. “The weird thing is, I see things like before, only now I feel them too, more viscerally than ever before. I get you’re afraid for me, even of me right now. I can feel your anxiety, like it’s inside of me. I feel everything now, except the tips of my fingers.” He holds his hand up in front of him and rubs the tips of his long, slender fingers together. “And I don’t know how to live like this.” His jaw line hardens and hollows his cheeks.
Martin catches his dark resolve and
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