CLOUDY \\\ B.E. imagines

pirate

You open the door to your large home, sighing as you hear the sound of drums in the basement.

Your wife, Billie, is one of the best drummers in the world, and goes by the name Pirate for her stage name. She's played ever since she was little, and at this point can play songs just by hearing them once.

She's a prodigy— this is her career and she's made billions by the age of 25. She's a worldwide superstar, and goes on tour regularly.

Dropping your groceries on the counter, you head down to the basement where her equipment is, the room made with noise reduction padding on the walls.

Billie has been struggling with a Panic Disorder since she was little, and she's recently had to up her medication due to the amount of attacks she is experiencing increasing suddenly.

She had been stress-playing when you left, and said she'd be done by the time you got home.

That was two hours ago.

Opening the basement door, the loud sound of Led Zeppelin's "Moby Dick" end riff fills your ears, and your heart breaks as you look over Billie, who hasn't even noticed you've entered the small space.

"Billie!" You yell to no avail. There's no way she'll hear you, so you go to the corner of the room, pick up a mutilated stick that was lying around, and throw it in her lap.

She stops playing immediately, eyes looking up as she breathes heavily.

You realize now when she stands up that the dark color of the blue hoodie she's wearing isn't actually a dark color— it's the one you bought for her that is a light, pastel blue.

Sweat is soaked through it, along with the matching shorts she is wearing. Her hair looks as if she just hopped out of the shower, and as she stands behind the drum set, unable to catch her breath, you finally notice her hands.

"Billie," you gasp.

"Come here sweetheart."

She stands still, staring into your eyes blankly as her body shakes, sweat dripping onto the floor.

You walk around the drum set, pulling her towards you by her arm, until she's out from behind the instrument.

She seems to be a bit dissociated, as she doesn't react to your presence, so you silently lead her to the bathroom upstairs.

•••

Guiding her to sit on the counter, you take her hands in yours, prepping the cleaning supplies and bandages.

"This is about to be a rude awakening, Billie. On 3, okay? 1, 2, 3."

You frown as Billie yells out, life coming back to her as her hands go into fists, pulling away from you harshly.

"FUCK."

You back up, letting her adjust.

"When did you get here? You- What happened to my hands?"

She looks down at herself.

"Why am I sweating so much?"

She looks around herself, confusion on her face as she looks back at you for answers.

"You stress-played yourself into a dissociation episode, baby. Your hands are like that cause you've been playing for like, 2 and a half hours straight. Relax. I gotchu."

She frowns, face red as she looks down in embarrassment.

"I've just been so stressed lately."

"I know."

You take her bloody hands in your manicured ones, and realize this is the proof you needed.

"Baby."

"Hm?"

"You're full of shit."

Her head snaps up.

"W-what?"

"'Don't need therapy' my ass."

She scoffs, slapping you on the arm.

————

581 words