Collaborated Damage

Chapter Three

Can I ask you something?

Anything.

Why is it every-time we say goodnight, it feels like goodbye?

Lang Leav

"Look at the monsters we've become. Tearing each other apart when the sun goes down. Look at how everyone runs away, frightened of our blood lust." -Monsters, Deceitful Time: Track 7

When I was a kid, I learned a few things. How to make a quick meal. How to survive on the streets, how to lie. But I think the most important thing in my child was knowing my mother's mood. And it all depended on what she was listening to, what music she was listening to.

I learned to recognize my mother's mood by the style of music she listened to. If I came home from school and pop was blaring on the stereos, then I knew to beware of her anger and other flaws. If it was country, she was happy and loving, and fed me dinner, (It was most likely wine that day.) If it was classic rock, then she'd be sober and depressed and most likely give me some back story and lesson. If it was classical music, then she was back painting and we might have a good time for a while until she fell back down.

This took a while to perfect.

Maybe I should have been a better son, helped her on her better days. All I really did was avoid her and stay quiet. She probably would have gotten better if she had some encouragments. From her only son. If only I did that. If only. Ifs. Ifs. I was a kid for fucks sake.

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"Ant, what the hell are you doing?" I was sitting on the floor, my favorite spot, in the living room.

Annette was sitting down in an awkward position, her left leg stretched out in front of her. The other was trying to stretch out behind her head, it wasn't working. 

"I'm working out."

"Go lift some weights then," 

"Go do something, Blue." She rolled her eyes.

I don't blame her. I am a very frustrating person to be around. Sometimes I even annoy myself. Got that right, you bloody bastard. I think that it's just a defense mechanism, to keep people at distance. I admit that I do push people away. I do. I do. I do. I do. 

I grabbed my jacket off the back of the chair, put the meds in my pocket, and left the apartment. 

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My first band was called Eight-forty-three. There wasn't a point to the name other than the way it sounded. It had no meaning, it had no inside joke. It was an indie band and we played some mellow and pretty terrible songs. 

At that age I was fourteen and my voice was cracking. It was that stage in life, where I was losing my soft angel voice and trading it in for the raspy voice I have today. My guitar skills were horrible still, well not horrible, just not the best. 

The other members were Jimmy Johnson and his younger brother Greg. Greg played the drums like they were some kind of hammer and nails. Jimmy played the keyboard. He was okay at it, except that he was only in the band for girls. He was girl crazy. Greg was only in the band because he was able to hang out with the 'cooler' older kids and because his older brother was in it. And I, I was in it for the music.

Our first gig was in the woods. That sounds like we were preforming to the trees, but we weren't. There was a high school party out there, one with a keg and all that jazz. They couldn't find anyone better, and as long as we promised to do it for free, we could play.

We didn't kill the show. We didn't get a standing ovation. Hell, most people weren't even listening to our music. But all that energy, all that electrifying rush, it had me going. It had me addicted. I wanted more. More and more. But Eight-Forty-Three didn't plan to go any further than school gigs and stuff.

So after a few more gigs I dropped them, leaving them as soon to be stoners. I played by myself for a few years. Then when I met Helen, I also met June, who I soon befriended. Turns out June was looking for a singer and guitarist. She was a drummer, she stated proudly. And with that,  we somehow started Deceitful Time. 

We later found Donald, who became our other guitarist. Our band sounded fairly good. It really did, it could've gone places, you know? And it started to go places too, until I happened.

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 Sooner or later something was bound to happen, right? Like something so big that no one can stop it? Like something like Hitler again, or someone dropping a bomb. Then it wouldn't matter, it wouldn't matter what something was like. Nothing would matter, nothing at all. 

 The probability of that happening is zero to none. 

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 I walked down a random street. Car horns could be heard in the background and a gentle scent of pizza could be smelled. Helen hated pizza. Refused to even be in the same room as one. She would get sick even by the smell. Pizza wasn't my favorite food, but still, it was food. I liked food. Helen actually hated a lot of food, anything with salt, anything with cheese, any kind of canned food, anything with grease.

So as you can imagine, it was hard to find a place to go out to dinner, or lunch, or breakfast with. But one day when I was walking her back home from school, it began to rain. So we ran into the nearest building which happened to be an all natural sushi restaurant, which became our place.

 I still walked by Sagi's once in a while. More than once in a while. Almost everyday. I don't stop, or even look into the window. I just walk by and bask in its familiarity. Even though I don't look at it, I can hear the familiar sounds and smell the raw fish. 

 I kept my head down as I walked the busy streets of Manhattan. Occasionally I would brush up against someone, and my lungs would become constricted. The air was chilled and the sky grey. This time of year represented an end to me.  I pushed my thoughts to the back of my mind and kept walking, whispering a sad melody.