LJ Idol Season 9, Week 21: The Music Made Me Do It
Ravi sat at his desk and tapped his fingers over the keys, wishing that time would tick by a little faster. He had a meeting to attend in less than an hour -- a meeting he knew wouldn’t go well.
He had failed to do his job, after all. The one the call center was a mere cover for. The Resistance hadn’t contacted him in weeks. Hadn’t given him any further orders than the same ones everyone had -- find Callahan and get rid of him, as quickly as possible.
Considering he was the best the Resistance had -- that he was the one who had gotten closest to succeeding in offing Callahan when he was constantly under the
***
You shake your head and try to ignore the tears stinging at you eyes. No, “Are you okay?” No, “Is Bob okay?”
No, instead you receive a single text message. “What the fuck happened?”
“I got into a car accident,” you type back quickly. As if that weren’t obvious enough by the picture of the damage you sent her. And then you explain, your stomach twisting in your throat, that you didn’t stay at the scene of the accident. Everything was still working. Just superficial damage done to the front bumper and headlight, but the metal was still ugly and twisted looking, all the same.
“So now I have to pay for this, too?” came her response, and you can almost feel the anger radiating off her in waves, even though she’s nearly on the other side of the country. “You’re always so irresponsible. How could you just fucking leave like that, Alicia? They would have been at fault and would have had to pay for the damage.”
You try to explain that your son was in the car; that the car was overheating, that you needed to get Bob out of the heat. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because you know she’s never going to ask if either one of you is okay. She never once considers that maybe your son’s safety and health would have been at risk, sitting in the 90 degree weather in a black car while waiting for police to arrive on a backed up and busy road.
She doesn’t recall that you were suicidal, just a week or so ago, either.
And that’s what hurts the most. This woman is supposed to be your wife. Supposed to love and care about you.
And she doesn’t.
***
“Jazz...” Savin sighed and shook his head. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and frowned. “I’m sorry,” he managed eventually, his voice quiet.
Jazz shook his head and leaned against the cherry tree in the Palace Gardens, looking anywhere but at Savin as he turned Savin’s words over in his mind. As he remembered, fuzzily, the feel of Savin’s fingers digging into his arms -- the sharp edge of the table digging into his back. It had been six months since then -- probably longer. “Why are you even bothering?” Jazz whispered, wishing his voice wouldn’t tremble the way that it did.
“Because I shouldn’t have gotten so mad at you,” Savin said, crossing his arms over his chest, as if he were trying to hug himself. He, too, avoided Jazz’s eyes and licked his lips. “I shouldn’t -- I should have turned myself in to the Guard, immediately after I --” He cut himself off and shook his head again, a pained expression overtaking his features. “I’m sorry. I just -- I wanted to apologize, ever since it happened, and -- I’ll just... see myself out, okay?”
***
“Savin...”
Savin blinked and stopped, turning on his heel to face the direction of the voice. The cigarette he had held between his lips dangled, threatening to fall as his mouth almost dropped open. “I -- Jazz, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice coming out as nothing more than a squeak.
“I -- I thought about what you said,” Jazz whispered, his arms folded in front of him.
***
You close your eyes, and you ignore the way your heart is in your throat and the way your stomach twists. “You... I thought you said we could get through anything, as long as we were together?”
She gives a half-smile, her eyes distant as they look out over your living room. “I can’t do it anymore, Alicia,” she says. “Kicking my family out of my life -- it’s shown me that I don’t have to put up with the abuse anymore. That I can end the cycle myself.”
“But --” The words die on your lips as her eyes meet yours, and you can see the conviction in them, the way they no longer light up when they see you. “We can go to counseling. You don’t -- you don’t have to leave me, in order to -- to --”
But you know she’s going to, with the way she shakes her head. That she’s just going to quit, right now.
THE EXPLANATION
I glanced at the topic. Turned the words over in my head. Panicked about my contempt hearing scheduled on Monday morning at 9am before gathering all of the relevant documentation I need to bring with me to court. Within moments of marking all of the emails I need to print -- it hit me -- there’s this writing exercise I love doing. It’s rather simple -- put your iPod or music playlist on random, and write for the duration of the first song. When the song ends, so does the piece, and when a new song starts, a new piece begins.
The five pieces above were inspired by these five songs, respectively: Clubbed to Death (Kurayamino Variation) by Rob Dougan, In My Time of Need by Opeth, Redeemer by Paul Cardall, Love Hurts by Incubus, and Believe by Staind. For the purpose of this exercise, I used my Ridiculous Pandora Station of Ridiculousness, which ranges from soft instrumental pieces to Death Metal. The only tracks I skipped were comedy tracks (and oh, I had to skip like 10 of them...). I wrote each piece in rapid succession, with only enough time to note the song title and artist. They are all unedited -- and yes, I cut myself off when the music cut off. Some songs I could anticipate it better in than others.
Silly me thought I could do this while my son ran around like a little crazy person. Not so -- and as I result, I had three false starts, hidden under the spoiler below. If you’re curious as to where I was going with each piece, simply ask -- some of them I had an idea far too big for the time given to me for each song. :)
[My False Starts]Wish You Were Here (Live) -- David Gilmour
Savin put the cigarette to his lips and took a long, slow drag off it. He then folded his arms over the railing to the balcony of his apartment, glancing out over the city below him. Jazz was out there, somewhere. He just knew it.
He just wished he knew where Jazz was. Then maybe, just maybe, he could get everything off his chest. Maybe then he could apologize for everything he had done.
Maybe.
Maybe, in the end, all Savin wanted to know was whether Jazz was okay. That Jazz was safe.
And maybe he was, now that he was longer running the Empire.
Pet -- A Perfect Circle
James drew in a shuddering breath through his teeth before turning the doorknob. Mark sat on the couch, intently focused on the television screen in front of him. No words passed between them, not as James slipped past Mark and headed towards the kitchen.
He needed something to drink. Something to soothe his nerves, to help calm the pounding of his heart. Soft footsteps soon sounded in his ears, and James refused to look up from his glass as he poured water inside it.
“How was therapy?” Mark asked, clearing his throat.
James blinked and looked up from the counter. Mark had his head tilted to the side, an expression of concern flitting over his features. “Therapy?” James answered, giving Mark a nervous glance. “It was -- it was alright.”
War Pigs/Luke’s Wall -- Black Sabbath
Jazz frowned and turned the paperwork over in his hands. “Mitchel, this is -- this is bad,” he whispered, his brow furrowing as he scanned the pages once again.
“Did you expect any less, Callahan?” Mitchel asked, pursing his lips together. He then leaned back in his seat and folded his hands in his lap. “The Resistance never had any intention of cooperating with you. They want a war, or for you to step down from your throne. Nothing less will satisfy them.”
Jazz shook his head. “We can’t go to war. That last push to expand our territory --”
“I’m well aware, Callahan,” Mitchel said darkly, frowning. “So is the rest of your Council -- but you know as well as I do that they will still push for war, should the Resistance continue to threaten the lives of their families.”
“There hasn’t -- I haven’t heard of these threats,” Jazz said, finally putting the paperwork down on the table in front of him. He chewed his bottom lip and looked away from Mitchel, running his fingers through his hair. “What do you -- what do you think I should do? If we end up having a civil war --”
“Our neighbors will take advantage, yes,” Mitchel finished for him with a sigh.
He had failed to do his job, after all. The one the call center was a mere cover for. The Resistance hadn’t contacted him in weeks. Hadn’t given him any further orders than the same ones everyone had -- find Callahan and get rid of him, as quickly as possible.
Considering he was the best the Resistance had -- that he was the one who had gotten closest to succeeding in offing Callahan when he was constantly under the
***
You shake your head and try to ignore the tears stinging at you eyes. No, “Are you okay?” No, “Is Bob okay?”
No, instead you receive a single text message. “What the fuck happened?”
“I got into a car accident,” you type back quickly. As if that weren’t obvious enough by the picture of the damage you sent her. And then you explain, your stomach twisting in your throat, that you didn’t stay at the scene of the accident. Everything was still working. Just superficial damage done to the front bumper and headlight, but the metal was still ugly and twisted looking, all the same.
“So now I have to pay for this, too?” came her response, and you can almost feel the anger radiating off her in waves, even though she’s nearly on the other side of the country. “You’re always so irresponsible. How could you just fucking leave like that, Alicia? They would have been at fault and would have had to pay for the damage.”
You try to explain that your son was in the car; that the car was overheating, that you needed to get Bob out of the heat. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because you know she’s never going to ask if either one of you is okay. She never once considers that maybe your son’s safety and health would have been at risk, sitting in the 90 degree weather in a black car while waiting for police to arrive on a backed up and busy road.
She doesn’t recall that you were suicidal, just a week or so ago, either.
And that’s what hurts the most. This woman is supposed to be your wife. Supposed to love and care about you.
And she doesn’t.
***
“Jazz...” Savin sighed and shook his head. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and frowned. “I’m sorry,” he managed eventually, his voice quiet.
Jazz shook his head and leaned against the cherry tree in the Palace Gardens, looking anywhere but at Savin as he turned Savin’s words over in his mind. As he remembered, fuzzily, the feel of Savin’s fingers digging into his arms -- the sharp edge of the table digging into his back. It had been six months since then -- probably longer. “Why are you even bothering?” Jazz whispered, wishing his voice wouldn’t tremble the way that it did.
“Because I shouldn’t have gotten so mad at you,” Savin said, crossing his arms over his chest, as if he were trying to hug himself. He, too, avoided Jazz’s eyes and licked his lips. “I shouldn’t -- I should have turned myself in to the Guard, immediately after I --” He cut himself off and shook his head again, a pained expression overtaking his features. “I’m sorry. I just -- I wanted to apologize, ever since it happened, and -- I’ll just... see myself out, okay?”
***
“Savin...”
Savin blinked and stopped, turning on his heel to face the direction of the voice. The cigarette he had held between his lips dangled, threatening to fall as his mouth almost dropped open. “I -- Jazz, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice coming out as nothing more than a squeak.
“I -- I thought about what you said,” Jazz whispered, his arms folded in front of him.
***
You close your eyes, and you ignore the way your heart is in your throat and the way your stomach twists. “You... I thought you said we could get through anything, as long as we were together?”
She gives a half-smile, her eyes distant as they look out over your living room. “I can’t do it anymore, Alicia,” she says. “Kicking my family out of my life -- it’s shown me that I don’t have to put up with the abuse anymore. That I can end the cycle myself.”
“But --” The words die on your lips as her eyes meet yours, and you can see the conviction in them, the way they no longer light up when they see you. “We can go to counseling. You don’t -- you don’t have to leave me, in order to -- to --”
But you know she’s going to, with the way she shakes her head. That she’s just going to quit, right now.
THE EXPLANATION
I glanced at the topic. Turned the words over in my head. Panicked about my contempt hearing scheduled on Monday morning at 9am before gathering all of the relevant documentation I need to bring with me to court. Within moments of marking all of the emails I need to print -- it hit me -- there’s this writing exercise I love doing. It’s rather simple -- put your iPod or music playlist on random, and write for the duration of the first song. When the song ends, so does the piece, and when a new song starts, a new piece begins.
The five pieces above were inspired by these five songs, respectively: Clubbed to Death (Kurayamino Variation) by Rob Dougan, In My Time of Need by Opeth, Redeemer by Paul Cardall, Love Hurts by Incubus, and Believe by Staind. For the purpose of this exercise, I used my Ridiculous Pandora Station of Ridiculousness, which ranges from soft instrumental pieces to Death Metal. The only tracks I skipped were comedy tracks (and oh, I had to skip like 10 of them...). I wrote each piece in rapid succession, with only enough time to note the song title and artist. They are all unedited -- and yes, I cut myself off when the music cut off. Some songs I could anticipate it better in than others.
Silly me thought I could do this while my son ran around like a little crazy person. Not so -- and as I result, I had three false starts, hidden under the spoiler below. If you’re curious as to where I was going with each piece, simply ask -- some of them I had an idea far too big for the time given to me for each song. :)
[My False Starts]Wish You Were Here (Live) -- David Gilmour
Savin put the cigarette to his lips and took a long, slow drag off it. He then folded his arms over the railing to the balcony of his apartment, glancing out over the city below him. Jazz was out there, somewhere. He just knew it.
He just wished he knew where Jazz was. Then maybe, just maybe, he could get everything off his chest. Maybe then he could apologize for everything he had done.
Maybe.
Maybe, in the end, all Savin wanted to know was whether Jazz was okay. That Jazz was safe.
And maybe he was, now that he was longer running the Empire.
Pet -- A Perfect Circle
James drew in a shuddering breath through his teeth before turning the doorknob. Mark sat on the couch, intently focused on the television screen in front of him. No words passed between them, not as James slipped past Mark and headed towards the kitchen.
He needed something to drink. Something to soothe his nerves, to help calm the pounding of his heart. Soft footsteps soon sounded in his ears, and James refused to look up from his glass as he poured water inside it.
“How was therapy?” Mark asked, clearing his throat.
James blinked and looked up from the counter. Mark had his head tilted to the side, an expression of concern flitting over his features. “Therapy?” James answered, giving Mark a nervous glance. “It was -- it was alright.”
War Pigs/Luke’s Wall -- Black Sabbath
Jazz frowned and turned the paperwork over in his hands. “Mitchel, this is -- this is bad,” he whispered, his brow furrowing as he scanned the pages once again.
“Did you expect any less, Callahan?” Mitchel asked, pursing his lips together. He then leaned back in his seat and folded his hands in his lap. “The Resistance never had any intention of cooperating with you. They want a war, or for you to step down from your throne. Nothing less will satisfy them.”
Jazz shook his head. “We can’t go to war. That last push to expand our territory --”
“I’m well aware, Callahan,” Mitchel said darkly, frowning. “So is the rest of your Council -- but you know as well as I do that they will still push for war, should the Resistance continue to threaten the lives of their families.”
“There hasn’t -- I haven’t heard of these threats,” Jazz said, finally putting the paperwork down on the table in front of him. He chewed his bottom lip and looked away from Mitchel, running his fingers through his hair. “What do you -- what do you think I should do? If we end up having a civil war --”
“Our neighbors will take advantage, yes,” Mitchel finished for him with a sigh.