.:Cacophony In Blue:. [Cass]

This is the end
Hold your breath and count to ten
Feel the earth move and then
Hear my heart burst again
For this is the end

There are times when I can look up into the night sky and I can imagine the notes to a song forming amongst the dancing sparkling lights that sit atop the world, gazing down upon it like some obedient, diligent guardians of ours. I’ve heard stories about the stars; of course, every child did when they were young. And I fell in love with like any child. There was always a magical twist place upon them, as though they were the beckons of light that kept us all going. Those with their hopes dashed quickly found them recovered when they turned wide, wistful eyes towards the billions of glowing orbs amongst the inky blackness. It was hard not to see what they saw in them. They were unexplainably beautiful. They were bright and always, always there, so there was never any way to doubt them. They were a lot like my wilful, wild family in so many ways. Always daring to be different and forming so many stories and tales, they were points of light, brightness in the darkness just as my family ways. Cerberus was always wearing something outrageously vivid, sometimes in colours that clashed so much that it hurt the eyes to look at. Always different, though, different then everyone else in the district. Then there was my half-brother Nero, metal boy. With the metal heart, the crazy attitude and clueless actions. Crazy and annoying sometimes I wonder if either of us understands that we are siblings.

Tonight, however, was not like the other nights. I was not at my house, with the big wide balcony. I was not in the empty rooms where my piano sat, untouched as always. I was no in the living room, or the very seat that I sat on, not a meter away from the dancing flames of the ever present fire. But there was one comfort I held as always: a pen. A beautiful bright orange pen in my left hand. I needed it, because to write music I needed a pen and those notes that I played before the Capitol did not just come when I asked them to. They came when they wanted to and they left just as quickly. There would be only fleeting moments between their appearance and their disappearance. And if I did not have my ever present pen they would burn, until they were written down and there would only be pain until they would flee finally from my mind. It was a never ending cycle, with panic and pain and beauty. But there was always the times when I could just simply glance into the open hearth of my fire place and drink in the flickering fire that shone before me. Sometimes I saw things there, a new song or a new piece and today I had written something. It had not been my best. I’d known that as soon as pen had touched paper. I had felt it in the swift, agile movements of a practiced hands as I scribbled them down.

I could feel the empty beat of a wordless tune through my mind and I knew that it would be useless and hopeless to perform such staged falseness before the Capitol. No this was never made for them. Sighing I had leaned backwards. I must play it, I had to play everything I wrote, once and only once, but the idea of hearing it with my own absent ears was not something I felt like that moment. Drawing myself upwards and from the comfort of my chair I had decided I would play at the night’s party. One I had been invited to, as being part of the richest people of the district. I was the richest person, or so I believed. I mean I did work for the Capitol, I visited there every single month and I spent time with the people of our world, those I strive to be like. So that night I had donned my brightest dress, one of sunset orange, framed with a cindering coal black, fitted along the edges. The dress clung to every curve I owned, sticking to my perfectly shaped body like the manikin it had clung to before me. It had been a costly one, but the price had not even caused me to hesitate. The dress was followed quickly by shoes of the same shade, a packaged deal. I left my black hair to hang around my face.

A touch of makeup, but not too much. I was like them, my family, that was. I preferred the company of those who wore eccentric clothes, bright, miss-matched shirts and pants and dresses that gleamed with a thousand jewels. But when in front of those less than I was I stemmed it down a little as not to scare them. People did odd things when they were in the presence of those obviously better than them and tonight I was not looking for that kind of attention. No a little less than normal would do. The house that the party was being held in was one of beauty. Not unlike my own, but instead of emptiness there was noise, a lot of it. I glided into the midst of the crowds, nodding politely to those that wished to talk, but kindly refusing to do so. I needed to be by the piano, my domain, where I was safe, where I was me. Heading around them all I spotted the shiny blackness of the brand new piano in the party owner’s house. I didn’t know the person, she was something of an oddity, and those that were odd did not stick well with me. No to be me you had to be more than odd. You had to follow and be like the Capitolites. Smiling faintly I place a soft hand on the polished wood. It felt new underneath my touch, and yet I could sense the power it held to play the most dramatic pieces of music.

I sit down at the piano placing my hands on the cool keys. “Hello?” The distant call forces me to look up from the piano. I glance around the almost empty room, before I notice the gentle tapping. Looking straight I see the dark form of a boy leaning against the window. Frowning slightly, I remove my hands from the piano keys. “Ermm… Hello.” I reply.

I've drowned and dreamt this moment
So overdue I owe them
Swept away, I'm stolen
Let the sky fall
When it crumbles

This is the end
Hold your breath and count to ten
Feel the earth move and then
Hear my heart burst again
For this is the end

A little while ago I had climbed onto the roof. It had been a daring escapade, one that had needed to be seen to. It had been a night before I must travel to the Capitol and perform in front of the large group of people. Every single one of them gathered below me to watch me play. Every single one of them leaning forward on those puffed up ridiculous chairs of theirs (Ripred knows how they find them comfortable, the best kind of chair is always one the one that offers support, those that make you want to sleep are horrible, fickle little things that tempt me far too much. I’d get nowhere), ears straining, expectant and eager as always to hear the noise they entitled magic. Of course I rejected such an idea. There was no magic in what I did, it was just talent and the Capitol to my horror seemed to lack that kind of thing. It was perhaps the only aspect of the Capitol that seemed to beg to disappoint me. I’d have thought that a place as majestic and grand as it would offer its own turn of surprises with singers, dancers and performers, but it seemed that the idea of entertaining was a mundane task to them all. Their loss. They were simply missing out on the things that I loved –well I at least pretended I loved to do it, there was no use persuading myself to fall for something that I could not quiet fully grasp with both hands. And the piano was one of them. I didn’t exactly loved it, it was more there then anything. I just exploited something I had.

They seemed to take it too seriously. It was what stressed me out. I loved them all dearly. The Capitol was my life, but it was rather time consuming and I was more than positive that if I didn’t perform I’d lose something very precious. Like my tongue. They did threaten me once, that one, no two –oh wait was it four?- times I had just broken down. It had been simply awful. I’d just started crying, but the odd thing was I had thought I had been playing, I was sure, in fact that my fingers had been moving along those beautiful keys just as my mind had, but after a few aching moments of silence the audience had had enough. I’d been dragged off more carelessly and rougher each time. The last time they’d told me I’d lose a toe if I kept this up. That was no an altogether too frightening prospect. Anyway, back to me climbing a roof. I’d been doing this because I had not gotten anything. My mind had become a sort of trap, it was not letting anything out and so ten hours before I was to head to the Capitol I had a blank piece of paper for an act I was supposed to master and perform flawlessly. The thought of having nothing and doing nothing did frighten me. I wasn’t sure what they would do to me. I’d heard some tales, little whispers from a bird’s ear, passing onto my own. And most of them were not happy endings. They did live in the Capitol, that had made me switch from the idea of it being astounding horror, but then I’d heard the rest of the tale and my blatantly ignorant smile had turned into a frown. I did not want to walk down that path.

It is an odd thing to look up from the shiny, perfect keys of a piano to find yourself mumbling the words of a greeting to a figure casually perched outside a window. More so in the middle of the night and staring right at you. Now there are little more than a few rare things that scare me, but such a sight did. There are an awful lot of reasons as to why seeing someone outside of a window, staring in at me did scare me. I mean it was not the fact that they had already said some sort of greeting, letting me know they were there and instantly you could shake away the idea that they meant you harm. But I did not. Then with ease the boy enters the room. He moved as if he knew the place and perhaps he did. I sat up straighter, my eyes narrowing as he drew closer towards me. I was naturally suspicious of anyone who was not a Capitolite or part of my family, but then I could say little to the fact that I trusted none of them. “Hello,” He repeats. I’m already tiring of this repetition. I was not into repeating myself, it was why I burned everything I made so it could only be heard once. I never did a thing twice. Fail the first time, well there only is one chance to get it right. It was how I lived. Rolling my eyes I turn my attention back to the piano, my fingers hovering over the keys, but refusing to touch them. “I’m Absalom Ottrel.” And now we moved away from the simply words of a hello. This was getting far.

He stands beside the piano a hand reaching forward to touch the smooth surface of the piano. I watch that hand, ready to yank it away should it even think of damaging the perfection of such a masterpiece. Musical instruments were never meant for unexperienced hands. “Do you play this?” I stare at him. I throw him a crude glance. I really didn’t understand some people. I’m sitting at a piano, hands touching it, would I really be doing that if I didn’t know how to play it? “Show me?” There was an odd edge of a plea to what he said, which made me turn my eyes to him once more, surprise flickering within their careless depths. “Please?” I turn away from him. Normally such simple words from someone of simple taste would not persuade me to just play. It was unreasonable, but there was such a strong not of pegging and a plea that I couldn’t resist it. With a small smile I place a hand on the piano and I press downwards. The sounds echoes throughout the room and before it has ended another one is hit and another and within moments my fingers are moving of their own accord. The sweet sound of a sorrow filled song in the air.

It spoke of lust, of a dreamer and of a world far away. Of hopes and memories and all those good times that were destroyed with a few haunting words. There was murder and chaos within its depths and by the end it was ominously sinister. Closing my eyes I breathed deeply, the last notes ringing in my mind and soul. ”There you go. Did you like it?” I offered him another small smile, my eyes bright.

I've drowned and dreamt this moment
So overdue I owe them
Swept away, I'm stolen
Let the sky fall
When it crumbles

This is the end
Hold your breath and count to ten
Feel the earth move and then
Hear my heart burst again
For this is the end

When I was ten years old I first laid hands on a piano. It was an odd thing, this gigantic, massive thing. It was huge, cold and forbidding. At first glance it did not look like a thing to be cherished and loved, more like something to be feared – something to run away from. But I didn’t run from it, instead I touched it, my hands greedily reaching for those stone cold keys and I pushed each of them, eyes widening at the sounds that seemed to flee from deep within the pianos chest (it was then that I feel in love with it all, wrapped so carefully in that soft blanket of cold, hard music where I would be lost.) I played in front of the Capitol for the first time when I was thirteen. It had been a daunting, horrifying experience and one that had left me feeling more elated and alive then I had ever felt before. The sound of them as I finished would be a sound I would never forget and one I would always long to hear again.

Right now I can hear them, and I love that sound. The breathtaking sound of applause, the beautiful sound of their clapping and laughter and joy, their sobbing and pleasure because of the music I have played for them. I believe it is the only sound that sometimes keeps me going with this whole little show that I put on for them. Sometimes I wonder if it all is real, if these songs, this tune and that music I weave is real and if maybe I pinch myself I’ll just wake up because I’m dreaming. I love the hearing them cry my name. I can feel it seep into me and it drives me onwards, it sets me alight and keeps me going, it makes me want to step out and into that stage to perform. Normally I hate the idea. Normally playing for people and before them us not something I enjoy doing.

It isn’t as satisfying when you aren’t doing what you do best for the best. Playing in little parties or before those of my own district is not as enjoyable. I mean they clap and cheer me on, but the rewards aren’t as good. The people I’m playing before (Basically the Capitol is only worth it) aren’t as sophisticated and remarkable. It just doesn’t give me that same glorious feeling as I gain when I press my fingers against those keys in the Capitol.

Peacekeepers line the walls, I’m not really sure if they are there for my safety, probably not, or there to make sure I don’t go anywhere I’m not supposed to. But I like to pretend that they are to protect me and make sure my crazy fans don’t attack me, because that is what happens to all the famous people. Those that love them want to be like them and they chase them and try to talk and touch them. I want that wild freedom to come to me; I want that small danger (Nero would do it, he’d run, he was always like that. Willing to risk his life and everything for a high. He isn’t afraid like I am) of my life being at risk because some pot head idiot simply loves me. But of course those peacekeeper’s are not therefor that. In their minds I’m so insane Capitolite wannabe and for all they know I’m the one that will go nuts and try and run into the crowd of Capitolites.

Boy I’d love to do that. I’ve always dreamed of coming to the Capitol in some bright dress, hair fuzzed up, eyes lined with makeup, and I’d be there to stay. The privilege of living with the best, forever (What a gift indeed?). Because they believed I deserved it. It would be a lot of fun. I’ve often thought of doing something like that, you know slipping past all the crowds and just making a runner, and hoping to start a new and amazing life in the Capitol. Sometimes I’ve even hoped that eventually the Capitol will let me stay, you know as thanks, or reward for my excellent work. But it has never happened.

Maybe one day it will happen. One day.

“Oh, it was very pretty!” He exclaims. I eye him for a moment, tearing my gaze away from the memories that swam across the keys, that begged to be heard – another time. Pretty was not a word I had normally heard that described the sounds I played. It was in fact an odd one, one that generally did not leap to the lips after I had spilled the remanets of my heart into a piece. I think I expected more (greedy, greedy, just like Nero with his machines, and Leo with her pets, always looking for more). “Magical,” He grins, the next words slipping from curving lips. A smile replaces my forming frown, there! That sounded better, a more deserve word.

“I wish I could play as good as you,” he was a pitifully awkward thing. I could tell, he spoke as though finding a conversation with another person was a difficult task indeed. The ghost of a grin flickered onto my face, amusement sparking my eyes. “You must play all the time.” I laugh, just a small laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

”No. I play once a month, maybe twice if I feel like it.” I shrug my delicate shoulders, before sliding along the tiny little bench. I flick my head up to take in the stocky figure before me. “I have a rule – no not a rule, more of a law, a law that my mind forces me to obey, the only time I play naything good, like what you just heard is when I feel it – when the music becomes a part of me.” I pat the empty part of the bench beside me. “Sit. I’ll show you a few simple things. These kinds of things take no creativity. I’ll teach you.”

I've drowned and dreamt this moment
So overdue I owe them
Swept away, I'm stolen
Let the sky fall
When it crumbles

This is the end
Hold your breath and count to ten
Feel the earth move and then
Hear my heart burst again
For this is the end

Where all minds just so simple? I can’t remember clearly the last conversation I had that was with someone of the same intellectual skill that I had. Most of them were with horny teenagers and children that seemed fixated and glaring, staring and watching, wide-eyed at all the kiddies around them, including myself. Yeah. It was not the most entertaining of situations when you were a part time career and you could either talk to aggressive kids that hope to one day kill you, or well at least twenty three other kids. Or little kids like twelve year olds that are simple trying to follow, holding the same aggressive outlook, mimicking those above them and following obediently in those disgusting footsteps. Nahhh. My normal company was not that grand. But then there were only a small group of people that were capable of giving me the hard, strained, intellectual discussions that I needed. And then that group grows smaller by the second to perhaps two or three that have the courage to argue against me, or even have dreamed of playing the piano as good as I.

The biggest disappointment of the Capitol was their lack of intelligence. I had believed that this great Capitol, this all mighty group of people who held total political control over the twelve districts would at least be able to hold a conversation with me. Something that consisted of knowledge and arguing and talking with that kind of heightened skill that only came to those that had read a hundred different books and could quote words, and phrases and spills of paragraphs off by heart because each word meant something to them. Or at least I could meet a group of people that shared that talent that I held with music (because shouldn’t there be amazing singers? Shouldn’t there be talented people in a place where everyone was just so different, you’d expect it to be alive with skill and those that simply want to show off us much as their skin did). Where they could play as I could play or there would be those who, at least, could play better than I could. And they could talk to me, share some wisdom, tell me how to get better, what to do to sound better and be a better person.

I was, to say the least, sourly disappointed.

The disappointment wore of quickly, as you would have expected. Just as soon as I got to look around this entirely new world I had stepped into everything there was different from what I knew at home. The architecture of the buildings, to the simplistic way that people spoke, walked and acted. They all seemed to merge into the same strange when it came to individualism. They were all that different –ever one of them so unique- that it looked like a normal thing to see. In the Capitol to people that looked the same was an odd sight, just how my family, as different and unique as we were –like the Capitolites- back at home were seen as the ‘different’ ones. It is odd how that works. I can’t admit, however, that I felt totally as comfortable and relaxed as I had believed I would. (To be honest I was so scared. I felt alienated, as though I was stepping into some new world where one wrong move could mean my life or my tongue, anyone would be scared in that situation, right?) It was a whole new world, and one I thought I would never see. One I often wished I could be a part of forever.

“Okay, I’ll do it. I want to learn. I want to play good, too.” I frown at Absalom. “How do I start? Can you show me? Please?” Normally I was patient and tolerant, but right now as horrid as it was, my patience was running thin. It felt, to me, awfully a lot like the boy was just pushing and pushing me. He was being polite, sure, but that persistent ’please’ was just frustrating. I had already said I would show him. He just needed to calm down and wait. “Patience young grass hopper, tsk tsk –“ my face a mask of patience, I raise a finger to silence him “– there is no rush. I said I’d show you.” I finish. I give him a faint re-assuring smile to let him know that I wasn’t upset or annoyed in any way, just reminding him to be patient. This was, after all, all about patience and practice and listening and learning. Not jumping head first without learning the basics first.

I reach forwards and grab one of his hands. Raising an eyebrow in question, as though to ask ‘may I?’ Holding his fingers I touch each key. ”Feel how each key makes a different sound. You have to feel it, it needs to be instinct. I hardly think when I play it just comes out.” I smile. Letting go of his hand I turn my attention to the pale white keys before me. This was what I was good at, this was my gift and this was where I felt most comfortable: before a piano playing the tune of a million, billion songs that I had created. Placing my right hand on the piano -the hand closes to Absalom- I press down on one key, the next another before moving back to the first and tapping it three times. “Anything you play is a song. No matter what you touch, no matter what it sounds like, as long as it holds something, a story or anything that means something to you it is a song.”

I nod at the keys, my eyes focusing on the boy’s face. “Go ahead, touch them, push them and don’t think about what you are doing, just let your fingers do the work for you.” I was; in all honesty, not very good at teaching how to play a piano, it was instinct, something I had never actually learned to do. I laugh softly.

I've drowned and dreamt this moment
So overdue I owe them
Swept away, I'm stolen
Let the sky fall
When it crumbles

This is the end
Hold your breath and count to ten
Feel the earth move and then
Hear my heart burst again
For this is the end

It was an odd thing trying to teach another person how to play the piano. It was difficult and a task I had never thought I’d ever be faced with. I frown, my own thoughts wondering away from what was before me. How did you teach someone how to play the piano? I guess you could learn it, but no one would ever be able to learn it the same way I had done. My way of learning had not been by repeating old songs and learning the way each key sounded, but rather just pressing fingers to key boards and hoping the tune sounded right. I’d learnt by experimenting it had not been something I had taught myself, but rather a process where I had opened my eyes and found that I could play. I hadn’t learnt. It was crazy, yeah, but the few times I’d touched the piano beforehand I’d messily played, splaying hands over keys, dumbly trying to find a tune when there was nothing to find. I’d fallen asleep, still thinking about how to play one, after hearing how it could sound and wanting to make it sound the same way. I loved it. I loved the songs that fell from a computer, the mystical tones and the drawing, elegant words that could be expressed with a simple touch of a key. It was magical and it was musical and it was how I wanted to be. I loved being able to express myself in that way.

The music described me, it was part of me. I was elegant and graceful and each song that sprung into my mind echoed some part of me and some story of who I was. I turned my scattered attention back to Absalom. His hands had moved jerkily to the keys, before he begun randomly patting them, here and there. The tune that followed was a random assortment of high keys and low keys. They ended abruptly and others started. It was here and there and all over the place, it held no rhythm and tune. I smiled. It sounded exactly how I had at the start and I knew by instinct that he hated that, that that tune was not something he could stand. He probably thought it was horrible and nothing like what I had played only moments ago. It reminded me a lot of how I had first played, the same tune slipping from my once clumsy fingers. He thought it was horrid, I thought when I had first played I had been this horrible thing. I’d hated it at first. But now seeing him here and playing it reminded me so much of that and I liked it. The tune was jumpy and pretty much awful, but I liked it, because he might not think it, but there was a story behind it. The same one I had once had.

It told the story of someone who did not know what they were doing; it spoke of innocence, of the beginning of a life that wanted to reach something so beautiful and just as grand. But it also showed that there was no perfection and that there was no beauty in beginning, it was rough. It was hard and it was blunt. You had to learn to become great, you could not just get it by doing nothing. The song he had just played had not been bad, it had been messy, but it had been played just how it should have been played, by hands that wanted, but did not know and I liked that. To me that tune had been good. It had meant something and that was exactly what I had asked for from him. “I’m sorry.” He stopped, I looked at him, his eyes not meeting mine, but rather the hands now folded in his lap. “I don’t think that was a very good story.” I sigh.

”That story was very good. It held meaning and it was a story that spoke of a lot. You might not see it, but I can hear it. That messy tune was a lot like how I first sounded when I began playing, the story behind it is something very beautiful, but you just have to see it, otherwise you won’t feel it and if you don’t feel it, it will always be horrible to you.” I pressed my lips together. I look back at the piano before reaching forwards and pressing down on a key I hold it, letting the sound echo into the still air around us. The piano was my life and I loved it more than anything in the world. It had given me everything I had these days. The worse thing about this situation, which was perhaps also the most amusing part, was that the piano expert did not even know how to teach other’s to play the piano. It just wasn’t that simple. “What helps you to tell a story?” I raise an eyebrow at the question. I hesitate, drawing myself backwards on the small bench thinking. That was a question no one had ever actually asked me before and it was one I did not know how to answer. I never thought about what made me play the way I did. It just happened.

”Well. I don’t really know. To be honest with you, every story I play just comes to me. After a performance I burn the sheets of music that I right, destroying the only copy. And I just watch it all and sometimes in the flames I can see the beginning of a new piece and then from there it just…” I trail off, my cheeks flushing brightly. I’d never before spoken about my odd little habits and the strange ways I acted with the music. It made me sound awfully weird. I look away. Abruptly I stand up. “It was lovely doing this with you Absalom, but I think I should go.” I smile politely at him. I was a fool. I turn, folding a few strands of my hair behind my ear, before heading to the door of the room. I felt ridiculous and stupid. I never did anything that I had done today. So why had I? I get to the door and halt, before letting out a resigned sigh. I couldn’t just leave. “Look, I’m sorry, but yeah, it is complicated. Erm… I’m going to head home, why don’t you come and walk with me?” I ask, a feeble sort of apology.

I've drowned and dreamt this moment
So overdue I owe them
Swept away, I'm stolen
Let the sky fall
When it crumbles

This is the end
Hold your breath and count to ten
Feel the earth move and then
Hear my heart burst again
For this is the end

”Yes of course!”

His reply, thankfully, was a good one. It was not rejection, which I had hoped would not happen, I thought he might have seeing as I had just ditched on our little lesson, talk thingo. I didn’t get rejected and the idea of having thrown out that little lifeline to have it snatched away was a horrid one. I felt bad for leaving him, for ending this tiny little session without a moment’s notice. But I was getting to the stage where the idea of talking about past experiences, and well anything to do with me at all was not a road I wanted t go down. I was not a place of interested, I was not an open book, try more like a sealed book glues together, something that never will ever be opened to reveal its contents to anyone. No matter how much they poked and prodded I remained sealed to all listening ears. I was not easily convinced to give out anything about my life to anyone, about the ways in which I formed music and the ways in which I responded to ideas. Or even how I came up with a song, feeling it in my body, feeling it race through me and to the tips of my fingers were it needed to be released or else.

And if it was not released I could not do a thing, I was like an ever filling cup and when I began to overflow it hurt, losing each idea and notion was like losing a part of me. And like anyone losing a part of you is painful. How could I tell that to anyone? How could anyone possibly understand something so complicated and completely indescribable? You can’t understand something you don’t know. And Absalom was a nice boy, he sure was, but he did not know what I knew. No one did. Not even Nero, or any of them. Mother hardly swings a word my way and in reality I have no one. So that is the way I keep it, the closed book can only get read by those who know her. No one knows me so no one can read it.

I nod my head at Absalom, ignoring his question. Not because I was trying to be rude or anything, but simply because I didn’t feel up to answering it, and we could talk once we got out of this house. And away from the awful music playing with those pathetically chatty people in the other rooms. You know, talk where the air was crisp and cool and the only sound was the continuous rhythm of my heart and the music that beats through me with every blink of an eye. I give him one last look to make sure he follows before tugging my dress down and heading out the door. The house was still loud and filled with people. They stood everywhere listening to the drumming of a stereo. The music was so modern and harsh that I had to resist the urge to scream for them to turn it down. It was an odd thing, when someone like myself, so fully and completely in love with music hates it. I hated this kind of music, with guitars and drums and all that loud banging and smashing and clashing to form some kind of lopsided tune that just made no sense. I hated it because the music told no story.

The entire story behind the song was in the lyrics and to me that was no music, to be music it had to be something more than the beat of a drum, the strum of a guitar or whack of a base. The music had to work with the person playing it, so that the story behind it was told without the words.

It made me feel sick.

I weave through the crowd, my steps quicker than normal. I hated being in there. I nod to a few people, pushing past them, before getting to the door that leads outside. I pause taking a deep breath and then pushing it open and slipping outside. I stand there in the cold night air and I wait for Absalom to catch up. Maybe he’d gotten lost or something, or was talking to his sister, but I could hardly blame him, I had made my exit into something like a mad man’s dash.

I've drowned and dreamt this moment
So overdue I owe them
Swept away, I'm stolen
Let the sky fall
When it crumbles