A Second Verse | ONC 2024

Chapter 8: Axel

"Transformation," I hum to myself, managing a halfhearted strum on the acoustic guitar sitting in my lap. "Word that rhymes with transformation..." I pat on the instrument's hollow wooden body with a groan. "Shit. Maybe that isn't the best word to use."

I turn to the spiral notebook sitting on the bed beside me, scribbling over the word transformation on the line of lyrics I just wrote. 

"Just like a butterfly gone through transformation." I murmur as I read. I tap the ballpoint pen—compliments of the hotel, with the name Regal Peaks Resort printed on its side—against the palm of my hand. "Chrysalis, maybe? Actually, I should probably just drop the butterfly metaphor. I don't know where I'm going with this."

Sighing, I scratch a line through the lyrics I've already written. This is useless. How am I ever going to get a song finished for the band? I was hoping to have something done by the end of the week, but I won't get anywhere at this rate.

I run my fingers across the strings of my guitar, alternating the bass notes as I switch between a few simple chords. I let my mind drift, hoping I'll magically find a melody in the progressions. I don't.

"Let's see... So... Not butterflies, but... What else flies? Birds? Moths? Moths go to... Lights? Maybe there's a metaphor there." I set my guitar aside to pick up my notebook again, jotting down the words moth, light, and fire. "Alright, so... What do I do with that?"

This feels like I'm fighting my own brain, I can't help but think to myself as I stare down at the mostly-empty page. It wasn't always this hard. I find myself envying my old self, longing more than anything to go back to a time where I still had basic skills like forming sentences, for goodness' sake.

I flop down onto my back, staring up at the ceiling with a groan. I'll just have to try tomorrow. Maybe I'll see something that gives me some motivation in the meantime.

I glance toward my phone on the bedside table. Breathing out a sigh, I sit up and scoot over to the edge of the bed to pick up the device. No notifications decorate its lock screen. I tentatively open the messages app, pulling up the band's group chat. The last message in it was from Cliff, sent yesterday morning.

Cliff: Any updates?

I stare at the text for a long moment before hesitantly typing out a reply.

Me: it's really hard, i'm sorry guys

Me: i promise i'm trying, i'm just not getting anywhere with it

I'm about to set my phone aside again, but a message pops up.

Cliff: When's your best guess as to when you'll get something finished?

Gavin: Don't worry, Theo and I are working on something in the meantime

Cliff: Yeah no pressure, of course

I snort. When I type out a response, my fingers tap more furiously at the keyboard on the screen.

Me: says the person who can't even pull his own weight in this stupid group

Cliff: We don't need to have this conversation again, just get something written dude

Cliff, you're an asshole, I think to myself, barely holding back the urge to type and send the words. You're the one that should be kicked out of the band.

I stand and grab my guitar, setting the wooden instrument gently back in its case, which I prop against the wall in the corner of the room. I stare at it for a long moment before shaking my head and taking a step back. I grab my phone and headphones and sling my leather jacket over my shoulders. It probably wouldn't hurt to spend some time outside. Listen to some music. Clear my head. Letting out a breath, I exit my hotel room and wander to the elevator.