The Next Morning

Roger was already up when Magenta went to get him in the morning. He was sitting in his window, a cigarette in his mouth, guitar in his hands. Magenta cleared her throat. "Good morning. Where'd the guitar come from?"

Roger looked up, taking the cigarette from his mouth. "Oh, this? It was in my car. I had Riff get it for me about four am. I couldn't sleep anymore. That's three more hours of insomnia to add to my name."

Magenta sat on the bed, and Roger took a drag on the cigarette. Magenta smiled. "So, you play?"

Roger nodded. "I've been into music since middle school. My friends all bought me my first guitar in ninth grade."

"And you've had it ever since?"

"No." Roger smiled. "That one met an untimely end. I cried over that baby, but I moved on. This baby, however, I've had since my senior year. It's a classic."

"How can a guitar be a classic?"

Roger grinned. "This baby cost me a hell of a lot of money. I actually had to put a down payment on it. It used to belong to Jimi Hendrix. It's one of the few that survived. He was notorious for destroying his equipment onstage. He actually played this guitar at Woodstock."

"So you're proud of it? Do you have any songs?"

Roger shrugged. "Some. None recorded. My band broke up ages ago. After April died, I didn't want to play. Mimi inspired me. I wrote my last song for her. She…died while I was playing it to her." He looked away, taking another drag on the cigarette. "It's ironic, that she died while I was singing to her. Her last memory was at least a good one." He crushed the end of the cigarette on the windowsill, and began to play. "So scared to love/so scared to take a fall/afraid of God and sex/why do I wake up at all?"

Magenta smiled. "Is that Mimi's song?"

Roger laughed. "No. I can't bring myself to play that one for anyone else yet. I wrote that right before April died. I didn't know it would be the last I'd ever play for her, or I'd never have written it."

Magenta smiled. "I see. Well, your car is fixed. You can leave anytime you want to. Do you want to say goodbye to Columbia first?"

"No." Roger shook his head. "No. Just…give this to her." He handed Magenta a folded piece of paper. "That's my goodbye. And if she should ever need me, my address and apartment number are in there. I've done a lot of thinking, and I'm going home. I need my friends with me. So I'd rather not waste time on long goodbyes."

He stood up. Magenta stood with him. "I'll walk you to the car."

Roger laid the guitar softly in the backseat, and then settled himself into the front. Magenta waved, and he poked his head out of the window. "It was great meeting all of you. Thanks for all of your help." He reversed the car, heading down the driveway, and the turned it back towards New York. He was confident he'd never see anyone from the castle again.

Author's note: I don't own the lyrics to the song Roger was playing. The song is called The Ringing in My Ear, and it's by Adam Pascal, off of his album Civilian.