Day 345 – Folie a Deux – Part 27

Word count: 639

Miranda was not speaking to him. It was Christmas Day. The presents had been done; given out, unwrapped messily by the children and then cleaned up mid-argument between himself and his selfish wife. James was sick of all this. For the past month they had been fighting every single day – and over stupid little things. The washing up, going out, what he wore, what he ate, what he said to the children, when he slept, how he spent his own money; today it was a resurgence of her anger as to why he had denied her the chance to have Christmas with her parents in Dublin. After the hectic mini tour of Europe and the heavy schedules of gigs and interviews, James just wanted to have a few quiet days in his own home. He did not want to go shooting off to her parents and pretend that everything between them was fine.

James was pottering around in his studio recording a little thing he had come up with a few night’s ago during an all nighter session Jonny. It was an acoustic piece. Miranda meanwhile was downstairs trying to make her anger well known to James by slamming doors and ensuring that pots and pans clanged together when she was setting up the turkey. James had had enough of it though. He had enough stress to deal with in his life than to have to deal with this unnecessary bullshit. So far he had not told anyone about his dreams. He knew the answer would be to get therapy or to throw him in a psych ward. It would almost certainly go to the papers too. James could not risk that. What he was feeling and experiencing might be implausible or difficult to imagine, but no doubt was present in his thoughts that it was actually happening.

The song he was recording, in essence, was about his dreams. Though at the same time he felt stupid for all this. Since writing “Hello. Write Back” in that dream he was having, there had been no response. Indeed, he had not even visited that place again. He didn’t feel that he was stressed when he woke up; he just felt at peace. But he missed it; he missed the familiarity of visiting this place, this person, when he slept.

He heard Miranda’s phone ring and she answered it. James imagined all the abuse he was getting at the moment. He the lead singer and guitarist in some bohemian band: he had no clue as to manners, reality or common sense. That was what he was getting thrown at him every day. No matter how the argument started, it would all boil down to the fact that James was not always there. James had met Miranda when he was already big, so he did not understand why she would want him to stop what he loved to do.
James continued to record. It was over three minutes long by the time he was done. It was nice, pleasant. When he was happy with it, he saved a copy of it to his external hard drive. Or at least, he wanted to: he couldn’t find the USB connector cable. His desk was a mess of music notes, instruments, bits of instruments and random pieces of paper. He was not surprised by the struggle to find the cable connector, but at the same time he did not remember taking the external hard drive out of the laptop.
James lifted up a book on Birds – seemingly left there by his son – and saw something that made his mind melt. There, on a piece of paper was the cable connector. However, written on the piece of paper was the answer to his question: was he mad?
You told me to write back. So I did.

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~ by S.G. Mark on September 15, 2012.

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