Rescue Me In the Middle of My Darkest Hour

After a physical and mental meltdown on the four hour plane ride here, I was so glad to be home.

And by physical meltdown I mean getting so out of hand that an off duty, Jersey cop coming home from vacation with his wife had to restrain me before I broke the seat in front of me from kicking it so hard, so many times.

And by mental meltdown, I mean screaming to the whole plane about how God doesn't really love anyone and just wants us all to suffer.

When the plane landed, and the cop dared to let go of me, I had to be escorted out of the terminal and to a cab by airport security.

But when I actually walked through the threshold of my house just after midnight, I realized it was empty.

And all the joy I felt to be home was gone.

I'd been so exhausted all day, but the only place I could think about being right then was in the sweet silence and constructive order of my basement.

I had to stay calm.

Stay far away from any temptation.

And keep myself preoccupied.

As I stepped off of the bottom step, I took in my keep-calm options.

After definitively ruling out a workout session, there was only one thing left to do.

And it sat in the back corner of the basement, untouched for years.

I went over, and sat on the old bench, it creaking ever so slightly at the added weight.

The dark mahogany panel in front of me, protecting the 200-plus stings beneath, was smooth.

I lifted the fall, exposing the cool ivory beneath it.

I closed my eyes a took a breath, pressing on the keys ever so slightly.

A whole childhood worth of memories flashing back in that moment.

Instantly, I furrowed my brows.

Almost disgusted with the sound uttered by the instrument.

"Well at least we know no one's touched it.." I muttered to myself, sighing.

Tuning this thing could take all night, I realized.

It was perfect.

It would keep my mind and hands occupied for a good while.

After convincing myself it was a great idea, and not just a headache waiting to happen, I stood and lifted the bench seat.

Inside the hidden compartment of the seat, were several sheets of music.

But all of that hid what was at the bottom.

A black zippered case.

Inside; the standard tools for tuning a piano.

After spending the last three or so hours tuning the damn contraption by ear, I was thoroughly pissed off, and equally exhausted.

Not to mention completely distracted.

I played some easy chords, finally deciding it was tuned enough to play now.

I put the front panel back on, closed the dust covered top, and planted my ass back on the old bench seat.

At first, I was just playing around, pressing the keys in random.

Then I started channeling the seven year-old that used to spend every Sunday, dawn til dusk, in this exact seat.

And somehow, my fingers moved to the one song my mother spent years drilling into my thick skull.

Soon the entire concrete basement was echoing the sonata.

But I didn't get to play it long.

I faintly heard the door creak open, and feet on the stairs.

Quickly I changed the song; Beethoven's fifth.

I heard a chuckle.

"I don't know whether to be shocked or offended." Punk asked, stepping closer towards me as he spoke.

I cracked a smile.

"Since when do you play the piano? I feel like that's something you'd need finesse for. Something you're seriously lacking."

"Thanks, I guess?" I muttered as he stepped closer.

It was like nothing had happened.

Like the last two months were just part of a horrible dream.

But I knew it happened.

The utter fear I felt fluttering in my chest as Punk came to sit next to me, screamed it.

It took all I had not to curl into the fetal position, because of the anxiety.

And whenever anxiety lurked around, depression wasn't too far behind.

But instead of playing right into that hand, I stayed focused on the keys below my fingers.

It was a hard feat, with Punk watching my every move.

And the silence underneath the music was painful in itself.

But I couldn't break it.

I didn't dare to.

A few moments later I all but jumped out of my skin at the feel of Punk's head on my shoulder, as my hands pushed with a sickening ease.

I couldn't see his face, but I had a sinking suspicion that he was falling asleep to the deep lull for the piano.

I was almost happy because of it.

The overwhelming, and completely irrational, terror inside me seemed to calm knowing that he would be sound asleep in a matter of minutes.

I slowed the tempo just by a hair, hoping to soothe him deeper into slumber.

Unfortunately, the tempo, and volume, had to be picked up for the second movement.

Other than a quick muscle tensing, he remained asleep.

I continued with the short movement, only to realize that the third, and final, was twice as loud.

Usually, it was my favorite part, but now I was dreading it.

So as the two minute, middle part, came to a close, I prayed he'd stay asleep a little longer.

There was a quick, millisecond pause, then I slammed my fingers on the keys.

Like lighting, Punk's head snapped up and my fingers sped down the length of the upright.

That irrational fear started to set in again as his eyes followed my seemingly blurred digits.

I could feel his stare burn through my fingers.

It was all I could think about for the next second.

And the lapse in my focus on the music forced back all that I was fighting back.

Jakie; hospitalization.

Randy; his skin against mine.

Punk; next to me.

And now; the burning ache in my throat for the sweet spice of my favorite poison.

The music was lost to me now, my hands numb and stupid.

Finally, I just gave up.

The movement wasn't even half through, and I slammed the keys; forcing a stop.

Punk didn't seem to phased by the suddenness of my rewrite.

Just by the intensity of it.

I tried to keep my ease, but the mental overflow, and the epic fail to keep the sonata alive, had me pissed right off.

With a quick flick of the wrist, the fall slammed down; the sound bouncing off the thick walls.

That seemed to phase Punk.

Seeing as his brows furrowed in concern.

I sighed, rubbing my own brow.

I just couldn't win today, could I?

And even in my fit, my body, and the universe, betrayed me.

Sort of.

There was a thick, and blatantly audible rumble from my stomach.

Then a muttered chuckle from next to me.

"Come on. I'll make us something to eat."

At that, I furrowed my brows in a concern of my own.

"And by food I mean sandwiches. Plus," he paused with a scrunched up noise.

"You need to shower. You smell like musty old basement, and three day old gym socks."

I blinked, worried if I really did stink that bad.

Nervously, I lifted my arm a tiny bit, and took a short sniff.

Oh yeah I smelt like hell.