Darling, We'll be Kings for a day (PTV)

18- Vic

   As we were well into October, the temperature was inevitably dropping and I had finally given in, and worn some gloves (Jamie's garage is freezing). This did, however, making playing guitar a little more difficult. From Jamie's complaining, I'm guessing it wasn't exactly easy to play base with numb fingers either.

   After Becca and Hannah came back from their SWS concert and announced we were taking them to England, we were all working non-stop on a proper, recorded, demo. We never really stopped. We didn't talk it through. No: "So what if we actually get it?". We just worked on the music.

   There were voices inside my head that just would not shut up. Over and over. Always. You're wasting your time. You're wasting your life. The other could probably have reassured me that I was overthinking, but we just didn't talk about it.

   It wasn't as if we weren't close; I obviously was with Mike and Jamie was slowly becoming a great friend, even if he was an idiot most of the time. But Tony and I just didn't really hang out much together. I was wary of him and I don't know why. Maybe it was the spacers? No, that's just judgmental. Or maybe it was that I didn't know much about his past? I mean, he's a nice enough guy...

   Maybe I just don't want him near Becca?

   I have good instincts. If I don't quite trust him yet, then I don't want him to hurt her. She obviously has too much already. Speaking of which, I'm really worried about her. She's been extra careful to hide her arms and keep them out of contact this week, especially around me. That hurts. To know and know she probably knows I know, but won't talk to me about it. 

   The overwhelming need to help her is so strong. I feel the pull of everything inside me as I see her tug on the sleeves of her jumper, or look away sadly at a triggering comment. I know what would trigger, and I see it in her. Her eyes, her face; they just look so downhearted at the mention of her father and family, lines, alcohol or life's continuation.

   Her family seems to be the worst though. She's barely able to forge a fake smile sometimes. I know she has problems with her Dad, and that she has an older sister called Mya or Martha or something. But I don't know where her mum is, and I know what that's like. 

   I didn't think I'd heard her father correctly the other day when he confronted her about her scars, but the look on her face, as she walked back to the car, told me I had. I just ached to talk to her about it, to help her. The others didn't notice, they were talking about something else. But I saw; her determination not to cry and vacant eyes, mixed into one. I saw the way she flinched as he approached...

   What did that man do to her?

   Did my Mama do that? If my 'Papa' came near, did she recoil like Becca did?

   She deserves so much more than her pathetic father. 

   I guess that's something we have in common...

   Another reason I'm nervous about England: the fact my Mama is there. 

    Going would mean I had to finally tell Mike. Going would mean I would finally be able to see the woman my 'Papa' beat until she couldn't move- until she had to move. All the way to England.

   Not that you're even going to win this competition. You'll be just another entry, you stupid boy.

   Everything was swirling again. My thought's not stopping to acknowledge each other, not going down a certain route or in a certain direction. Just constant, disjointed and incoherent thoughts that were so loud and so, so quiet all at once. I just wanted to scream. At everything.

   At him. 

  At myself. At my life. At my helplessness.

  And at nothing.

  For her. For Mike. For the silence. 

  The noise that wasn't there, that I hated passionately and grasped for. Self-loathing filled my vision, not tears. Burning exhilaration stood me up, not energy. And a hiccup forced the nothingness out of my mouth.

I. Couldn't. Even. Scream.

   After all, he was sitting down enjoying a nice drink, not 3 rooms away. 

   The constraints on me felt more real than any chains. 

  You're never getting out of here. He'll never just be gone. How dare you wish him dead, he's your Parent.

"I just want the best for you." He'd say.

"Oh, Hijo, aren't you an ungrateful chico."

   I just can't help anybody. I can't fix anything. Because I can't help myself. I can't fix myself.