Children of the Night

Part 2- Lay it down Slow

Dan's P.O.V

My chest is hurting, the flames of need flowing through my arms with a needy persistence. It's pulling me towards my inevitable fate, the usual Friday Night Adventure. My fingers twitch at the thought of the bliss that would satiate the burning need as I conducted my favourite pastime.

My hearing is broken, my eyesight focused only on the path ahead of me. My feet splash through the shallows pools of the sky's tears as I run down the main road. My gangly legs are aching, but I can't stop, not this time. It's late, so no one spares me a glance as they head to their own personal destination. I'm just the desperate-looking boy sprinting down the road because his life depends on it.

My hands clasp at my soaking sleeves. It's stereotypical, the scene. The rain, the fat, ruined boy running through puddles because his life depends on it, the scene waiting for him at home. It sickens me, that anyone else would think I have a problem, when all I'm doing is fixing myself, because no one else bothers.

The warm rain patters down onto my heavy head, making it hang lower as it gets pushed down by the smallest force. It does that now; whenever there's the slightest force against me, I go lower.

I'm at my road now, the turn in my life has arrived. Each house looks identical to the next, like usual. Of course, there's the little differences: like the red front door on number 17, and the pansey's in number 23. But they're the same, no matter how much they try to separate themselves. Then there's my house. It looks the same as any of the others. I've discovered firsthand that the outside can be the opposite to the inside, and whether that's good or bad, I don't know.

I slink through the unlocked door of number 9, and tense as the lock clicks shut behind me. I wait for the usual, 'Dan?' but then I remember. My family aren't home. I'm home alone, while they're away visiting some family member. I'm alone.

I float slowly up the stairs, no longer feeling the need to rush. I reach my room, and decide to use my usual routine: cut, then vomit. When I vomit my hands shake, and usually I'm precise with my cuts. Anyway, I always want to get the best/important things done quickly, because what if I lose them?

I push my heavy wooden door open, and the first thing I see is my old piano. My old prized possession. My old friend. I see myself getting it for my fourteenth birthday, and learning how to play Sunburn. Then two years later, my last practice. I didn't want to do it; my teacher was a bitch, and my interest had waned.

Instead of going for my blade like I think I need to, I'm drawn to the cracked leather of my piano stool. Perched on the seat, I jam my long fingers under the ledge and lift up the cover. Underneath, the creamy white ivory of the keys hasn't changed. That C# is still chipped and- yes. The B still doesn't work. It's still mine.

I lay my hands on the keys, and just run them along the shapes, feeling the dips and ridges that make up the instrument. I know what song I'll play.

I can only remember the one song fully, my first song. I think I remember the words too...

I position my fingers and glide them through the broken chords. Perfect. It comes back easily, and the aching in my heart is replaced with the music. I don't need to cut.

I get to the pre-chorus, and hum the words I can't remember. I haven't listened to the song for a long time, so it's not wonder my memory of it is almost nothing.

But at the chorus, I remember them. I grasp onto the hope in those words, and sing them. I know I'm not the best of singers; but singing's wonderful.

Then the chorus is gone. I'm breathless, and stop singing. My fingers are still flying across the keys. And there's still a voice in the room, singing.

It's a baritone voice, not mine. Too deep to be mine. It's a beautiful voice, pure and wonderful, but my fingers lock up and the piano echos slightly. Then all sound is gone. The voice didn't echo.

I turn around in my seat, trying to find the source of the beauty. But I find nothing, so I turn back round.

The magic's gone. I don't feel like playing anymore, so I rest my hands on my thighs and look down. My thighs are huge. They practically take up the whole seat, splaying out.

I rush to the bathroom and ram my fingers down my throat.