Fireworks 1 and 2

Jungle: Chapter Ninety-Four

    No club appearances were scheduled for Indianapolis, which was a relief. After their performance, they stayed behind to meet with some fans, and then they returned to their hotel room. Mia felt like going to bed, but instead she grabbed her notebook and her pen, and set to polishing the song she'd written.

    "You're a machine," Drake said, pulling his t-shirt over his head.

    "I want nothing more than being able to pass out, trust me," she told him, frowning down at the words in her notebook. "God, some of these lines are so sloppy. There are like...three lines that have too many syllables in them."

    He arched an eyebrow at her. "You are remembering that you wrote that while you were lying in a hospital bed, right?"

    "Still," she muttered, setting the notebook on the bed and hopping up. She paced in front of the bed with her hands raised to her hair in frustration. The words scrolled through her mind like a marquee sign. "I should've had the power to defend myself, who's to blame for the fear that doesn't end? Myself? What was I thinking. The flow on the last line is so fucked, and I don't know how to solve it."

    Drake changed into a pair of pajama pants and scratched his head. "Do you want me to tell you how to solve that?"

    "You already know?" she asked him.

    He nodded. "Yeah."

    "Don't tell me," she said. "I want to solve it."

    He pulled back the covers on the bed. "All right."

    "Who's to blame for the fear that never ends?"

    "Same amount of syllables," he said with a yawn as he lowered himself onto the bed.

    "Ugh," she mumbled. "My brain is dead."

    "Because you've been through a ton of shit," he told her. "Just let me tell you how to solve it."

    "You already think I can't rap," she tossed at him. "I want to fix the line myself."

    "I never said I didn't think you could rap," he corrected her.

    She continued pacing while balancing the pen between her fingers.

    He sighed in defeat and fluffed up the pillows behind him.

    "This fear I feel, it never ends? Who do I have to blame? Myself."

    "Too long." 

    She groaned in frustrating. "Ugh, fine. Tell me."

    He linked his fingers together behind his head. "Should've-had-the-power-to-defend-myself," he said, sounding out each syllable. "Who's blamed for the fear that never ends? Myself. Remove the 'I,' since the 'myself' already implies you're speaking about yourself. Saves you a syllable. Using 'Who's blamed' instead of 'Who's to blame' also saves you a syllable. 'Never ends' sounds better and flows better than 'doesn't end.'"

    She shook her head and walked over to the bed. "How did you work that out so fast? It would have taken me forever to get there."

    "I've had a lot of practice, and you've been through a lot, Mia. You really should get some rest."

    "I want to make sure I'm ready to record when we get to Chicago," she said firmly.

    "We can write tomorrow," he said, stifling another yawn. "The notebook and pen aren't going to run off in the middle of the night. They'll still be there."

    What he doesn't know, and what I don't really want to tell him, is that I won't be able to sleep anyway. The past few nights, I've pretended...but I keep having nightmares. So I just stay awake instead and stay as still as I can so I'm not waking him up. She tucked dark strands of hair behind one ear. One thing she had to admit: he looked about as tired as she felt. After several minutes of hesitation, she climbed into bed and set her notebook and pen on the nightstand.