By Ducky
Author's Note: First and foremost, if you think you know where this story is going, if you honestly think it predictable and already done- you're very wrong. I'm looking forward to gauging reactions for the next few chapters. This story, "Cellophane Sun", and "Detachment" keep me going, so please leave nice feedback. You'll be my bestest friend ((winks)). So, I'm sinking to inevitable Matt-lyric inspired story. Well, it was more of a conglomerate-of-things-inspired story, and I just happened to find a song that fit my idea. Later on in the story there will be certain situations that may both some people, but I'll warn you of those when they're going to happen. No sense in ruining the literary experience. Ciao!
Disclaimer:
Lyrics and title of "Seven Seas" are © Matt
Caplan. The recognizable characters aren't mine- although I might wish
that I could get my hands on Mark or Roger- they're the late, great Jonathan
Larson's. I'm just borrowing for my own entertainment. Taking me to court
would so not be in your best interest. I'm a teenager, I have nothing.
The plot, etc. are all mine, so I don't want to see it under anyone else's
nom deplume. Ciao!
Mark :
I sit, staring at the cheap, hardwood floor of the loft. It's beginning to splinter in every direction, spastic slivers of wood peeking up from what was once a plain of plywood imitating oak. Roger is sprawled in an orange lawn chair that we lifted from St. Mark's, picking at the strings of his Fender. His chin is cocked lazily against the hollow of his throat, and I can hear him humming. It's been a while since he's played; I haven't heard a note since he stopped seeing Mimi.
He looks up from the neck of the guitar, grinning lopsidedly. I nod, picking up my camera.
"November 25'th, 3:00 pm, Eastern Standard Time," I say, shifting my weight onto my knees. Roger waves. "Our stove-pipe is clogged and we're out of matches. There's a year-old box of Raisin Bran in the cupboard, and nothing else."
I pan away from the kitchen, focusing on my roommate. "Roger's playing again. He broke up with Mimi a little over year ago, and he hasn't left the loft since. No one really comes by anymore, except her. She used to drop by every day, even after she and Roger called it quits, but she never admitted he was here. She only stared at me when I talked to him, when I tried to get her to talk to him."
Roger squirms uncomfortably, forcing out an obscure melody from his fingertips. His eyes wander to mine, and I know what he wants to say.
"Mimi and I started dating six months ago," I say quietly. Roger's fingers tear at the strings. I let the camera drop, the lens focused on the decrepit old floor. Slowly, I adjust the shot so that I can't see the pained expression on his face. "It was a hard decision for both of us. She still won't acknowledge Roger, and I know it's hard for him to see us together."
I pause, realizing that Roger's struggling to play Your Eyes. The sound is so far away, so vague, that it's almost surreal. I sigh, watching my best friend's emotions flicker across his face in contorted flashes. His eyes are convulsing beneath their lids, and I want to break my gaze, but I can't. Not just yet. I zoom in carefully, watching his blue eyes tremor in their sockets, before zooming out and watching him battle his feelings. His fingers continue to slide over the strings, but he can't seem to get out the words.
Suddenly, my scene is interrupted by a knock at the door. Instantly, I check my watch. 3:15. Shit, I'm ten minutes late. I was supposed to meet Mimi downstairs ten minutes ago. I shut my camera off.
"Look, Roger, I'll be back around 7:30 at the latest. She has to work tonight, so..."
He nods, waving me out of
the loft.