Band On The Run

When You Were Young

My hand was frozen over the board, half out-stretched. However I wasn’t sure if I could bring it back under my control.

No, I had to be hearing things. That happened all the time, especially when I was recording, producing, writing or performing. Well, it used to at least. I’d swear I could hear their voices in my head telling me their opinions, Seth was always particularly vocal, sometimes I’d even blink and receive an image of them as they whispered in my ear, nothing but a product of my imagination.

They’d tell me when a song wasn’t good enough. I’d hear Seth telling me to reach deeper into the emotional side of it. I’d hear Jake telling me that I needed to break away, give it a little time and when I came back it’d be easier to write. I’d hear William when he thought that the song needed a more driving sound. It had been hard to start ignoring them, to stop listening to the voices in my head, because even during the last album from The Spares all I’d hear was them telling me it wasn’t good enough. Even when the imaginary Seth would challenge me to step up just as the real one had. But I’d managed to get them out of my head.

So this was in my head… wasn’t it?

“Plus the song’s way too busy,” the voice added, “Take away the rhythm section and you might have a shot at a decent song. Losing your touch a little?”

Fucking hell, this wasn’t in my head, was it?

Yanking my hand back, I stood up, ignoring the shell-shocked faces in front of me. “I like it better this way,” I lied smoothly without an issue at all, my voice menacing in a dare as I continued, “I think you’re getting rusty.”

Before the voice could speak again, I gathered all he loose ends of my courage and turned around slowly.

Yeah, definitely not in my head anymore, I even tried blinking but it didn’t help, just as I had this morning. Yet opposed to this morning with Nick, this time I was desperately hoping that he would be just a mirage. I didn’t want him to be in this studio, one of the few untainted places. I didn’t want him in New York. I didn’t want him in America. Fuck, I didn’t even want him on the same continent as me.

He looked just the same as he did in my memories, not having aged a day it seemed. His black hair was falling over his forehead messily, the shyest amount of a wave coming out with a dark stubble crossing his chin leading up to the strong cheekbones into those perceptive hazel eyes that would look gold in some lights, but I didn’t see any gold in the dimly lit basement.

And the attitude was even the same. Nonchalant as ever, as if he didn’t just barge into my life and we’d never had issues, leaning on the doorframe on the bottom step of the staircase. He had that signature half smirk on his mouth, his arms crossed over his chest casually in the dark jeans, a toque tucked into his back pocket, Fear concert shirt and leather jacket.

Everything screamed that anti-symbol, but at the same time he had been the symbol of the alternative rock/punk musical world for practically half of his life.

Nope, it was not in my head.

Yet even though he looked almost exactly like the person I’d known when I was a mere eighteen, I did notice some differences. His hair was longer, though that wasn’t shocking; it had been much longer during a point of The Spares. His eyes were a bit red and there were dark bags beneath his eyes; he was tired. That wasn’t shocking either, he’d never slept much. His clothes were wrinkled; he’d been wearing them for a while. That wouldn’t bother him either, though; we’d all spent more than a few days stuck in the same clothes for multiple reasons over the years.

“You’re still a pathetic liar,” he observed, his eyes locked on me.

“Funny,” I shot back, my voice dripping with venom, “I thought I’d learnt from the best.”