(no subject)
Here lieth a random intro to a fic I've been tinkering with. The text here is meant only to set the tone for the fic, not to begin the narrative.
John Linnell loved life. He loved music, his instruments, his band, his books, his past, his present, and his future.
John Linnell hated life. He hated himself, his playing, his lack of talent, his inability to match the genius of his music companion, his past, his present, and his future.
Most days were fine. Practice, gigs, travel, days at home. He had a family and a career that sometimes filled him with the sort of satisfaction he knew that others dreamed about. Solid, complete - that was how he felt most days.
Then there were other days. Days spent in the bathroom, huddled against the cool tile with a bottle in one hand and a pen in the other. Words, words, endless words, some of goodbye and some of regret and all full of negative intent. Hatred for himself and his miserable excuse for a brain. Bitter, biting jealousy of the other one, the better one, the happy one.
Tortured genius. Deluded fool. What did it matter? In the end, things kept going and the days kept mounting, with many more normal days than black. He even managed to forget the dark times for a while, when possible. They were rare enough. In fact, it seemed that no one else had noticed them. That helped the guilt a little.
Of course, part of the darkness was the inability to see beyond himself. Someone had noticed. How could he not have, after more than twenty years of living in each others pockets?
John Linnell loved life. He loved music, his instruments, his band, his books, his past, his present, and his future.
John Linnell hated life. He hated himself, his playing, his lack of talent, his inability to match the genius of his music companion, his past, his present, and his future.
Most days were fine. Practice, gigs, travel, days at home. He had a family and a career that sometimes filled him with the sort of satisfaction he knew that others dreamed about. Solid, complete - that was how he felt most days.
Then there were other days. Days spent in the bathroom, huddled against the cool tile with a bottle in one hand and a pen in the other. Words, words, endless words, some of goodbye and some of regret and all full of negative intent. Hatred for himself and his miserable excuse for a brain. Bitter, biting jealousy of the other one, the better one, the happy one.
Tortured genius. Deluded fool. What did it matter? In the end, things kept going and the days kept mounting, with many more normal days than black. He even managed to forget the dark times for a while, when possible. They were rare enough. In fact, it seemed that no one else had noticed them. That helped the guilt a little.
Of course, part of the darkness was the inability to see beyond himself. Someone had noticed. How could he not have, after more than twenty years of living in each others pockets?