Thirty (Danny); It's useless...
It's been almost three weeks since everyone fucked off for England, and I'm hating every second of it. I haven't bothered even looking at my studio, let alone actually trying to do some work. Don't know why I can't get this mess out of my head! I glare at the empty glass in front of me, considering pouring some more alcohol into it, but I suppose it's not a good idea to have any more on an empty stomach. I'm sure I've had far too much already. Perhaps I could go down to the studio and do some work. Maybe that'll block this out. Block out the pain, the small amount of nervous apprehension pulling at me. What're they doing? Are they having fun? Enjoying themselves without the snarky old composer getting in their way?
Oh for God's sake shut up Elfman! This isn't about you! They're at work, for Christ's sake! It's not like they've deliberately gone off to the UK without you, just to spite you! It's not like Amy's avoiding you to such a degree that she's run back to the other side of the fucking world!
But she did, didn't she? She left you in America whilst she went back to her waitressing job. Shows how much you mean to her, Elfman, that she'd rather go back to England to keep a waitressing job than stay in America with you. And you didn't try very hard to keep her, did you? You didn't try hard enough to persuade her to stay. Saying, "Fine, go on then, see you whenever you feel like coming back." wasn't the best plan, was it? No, it was fucking stupid of you, because now she's run off with Tim Roth who's a lovely friendly bloke but no! Then again... He's only taken her out on a date... I sigh and push back my hair. It's not like she's actually falling for him............is it?
Fuck. I get up and stalk downstairs to my studio, relishing the chill in the air, the silence, the solitude. Something to shut my mind off. Work, don't think. Play, don't feel. Become as numb as you usally are, don't let this affect you. I sigh and flop down on my chair, almost overbalancing. Smooth move. Must be getting old. I rearrange myself, finally settling back to regard 'my domain'. My studio, I guess it's the only place I manage to feel 'safe' in, feel 'real', feel 'alive'. This place, and with Amy. And for God's sake I'm going to shoot myself if I think about her again! Senile dementia or something.
Snorting derisivly at myself I rest my chin on my steepled fingers, regarding my instruments with a strangely detatched air. Mine. They're my instruments. Mine. And I haven't destroyed them. They're still here, in all their wood and plastic glory. I haven't emptied them, made them useless, destroyed them.
Yet...
Chapter 29 ; Contents ; Chapter 31
