Crash
I stand there at the bottom of the stairs, my toes curling into the grass, for a long time, feeling caged. Afraid if I move I'll break into pieces. Up on the deck Tommy's playing, blending one song into the next, always slow, mournful. Prick knows I can hear him. I shake my head, but keep listening. His talent stuns me and, if I'm honest, pisses me off a little. I have to work to do what he does like breathing. I have to practice, push through blocks, bleed myself onto a page. Even then Tommy can walk into a room where I'm playing and know the answer to my problem in seconds.
Asshole.
But an asshole who's got it together a lot more than I do.
The thought is as reassuring as it is uncomfortable.
