Petty Little Beatles

Act IV: Scene vi

Tom's tears were like ice. They were somewhat of a nuisance, but he welcomed them as if they were rain. They were proof he could still feel emotions, that his own nasty words he had said had affected him, too.

He had regretted the words quickly, but he had said them, all the same. He had accused her, as she had done him. If she was so quick to believe he had cheated, why should he believe her when she said she didn't? He had found the thought to be thoughtless after he had let it slip past his lips, after he had seen her face crumble and shake. And the tears. Her tears had fallen easily. All due to his own words. But he hadn't stopped there, though the tears brimmed still in her eyes. She spoke words back, and on it went. It had been ugly, it had been brutal. He had started it, but he had walked out without another word. And, now, he was alone in a hotel room.

The silence was nice, he supposed. It had not been unexpected, but it developed into a burden broken only by the occasional guitar. He played and sang a bit, but the words all sounded so stupid. He could hear the notes, but the melody was outstretched before him, free from his grasps. He wrote and wrote until he felt he could not, and his hand cramped rapidly. He set down the guitar. Sinking into the chair in which he sat, he placed his head in his hands and thought.

The tears had ceased, and he was momentarily thankful. He had little to nothing, and what he had brought, he hardly had had the strength to. A simple acoustic guitar and a random assortment of clothes. It reminded him of the early days, before fame, and he was hit at once at how much his life had changed since. He was famous...The boys, he had four wonderful boys he loved more than he could say, describe and fathom...

Kay...she had changed...That was an understatement. Somehow, he had broken her trust and he had sought out to earn it again. Even as the telephone rang, he never got an answer. He thought sending letters were useless but an option. He highly doubted - and knew of it - he would get a response. He was alone, with his thoughts, to his thoughts and to himself.

He had hoped at the very least that the boys would pick up the phone.

He could feel himself tremble, and he did nothing to stop it. He smoked and would have some lunch; smoke and write a bit, though there was really no point. Play the guitar with no purpose, no write. Soon enough, he stopped altogether. No phone calls, no letters...

He closed his eyes and slept, his only small peace. She was not going to answer him. She did not trust him. He could still not fathom it, and he feared it was a thing he could never accomplish. Sleep was a blessing in times.

He awoke with a tightness in his chest. He felt guilt almost at once. He had been faithful, but he had left the boys. He cursed and smoked and wept. There was nothing he could do. It had already happened. No phone calls, no letters. She didn't care.

He was somewhere in a land between his haze of reality and dreams that reflected it in a parallel haze that brought tears to his eyes, when the phone rang.

At once, he jumped up to answer it. Maybe, just maybe -

"Hello?" His voice was soft and quiet; coarse but nearly dry of emotion. His throat was dry, and he greatly longed for a glass of water and a cigarette.

"Hello, Tom?"

He almost hung up. It wasn't Kay. He blinked, and his composure changed at once. His arm twitches and he was bringing the phone down.

"Please don't hang up!" Mike Campbell practically screamed into his ear.

Tom did as he said. He could feel and hear his breathing quicken. Mike, quiet Mike, was yelling at him?

"I didn't."

"Tommy...you sound awful."

"I know," Tom snapped. He could feel his face redden at once, but he didn't apologize. "But I'm fine, really..." His voice almost carried off into nothing.