Given a ride to the dank hotel room I currently called home by an utter stranger, I lay in bed with only the glitter from tonight's show on my pale skin, wrapped in the crispy white sheets. My eyes were teary, salty trails silently rolling down my cheeks. I wasn't sad. Sometimes it involuntarily happened. Did it mean that I didn't want to recognize that I was one hot mess within? But I don't care. On the opposing end of the bed, there he was tangled among the rest of the blankets thrown all around, he camouflaged between the white, only his black hair prominent against the soft glow of the linen. Salvatore did not look me in the eye, he did not speak, nor did he yell at me as he randomly does at times. Only stared out blankly into the darkness of the room. Depression's such a cruel punishment. There's no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests to send to people scurrying in concern. Just the slow erosion of the self, as insidious as any cancer. And, like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience. A room in hell with only your name on the door. On the bright side, he did finally shift around closer to me sometime during the night. His warmth comforted me in a strange way. He was all messy hair, midnight ashes, and morning sun. I snuggled in closer to him, the glitter particles on his sleeping face making him appear as a heavenly figure. He mumbled something unintelligible under his breath which smelt of hydroponic weed.
"You awake, babe?" I whispered in his ear, the words coming out slurred. He groaned and turned around to face me, he was only inches away. Opening one eye, he focused on me. There was a vague, distant presence in his long, fixed stare. I watched him intently, questioningly. With a raspy, low voice, he closed his eye and managed to speak out loud, "I've become a slave..."
He paused as his to recollect his mixed thoughts. I waited, fingers twirling around his dark hair. "...a slave... to the emotions created from these magical melodies."
I observed him for seconds, in case he had more to say, but then slumped back into a sea of pillows. Salvatore couldn't be any more stoned. Higher than the stars. I was used to this shit and went along with it. "That's cool, babe. Tell me more pretty things."
His face turned to an expression of looking pleased and even a smile lingered at the corner of his lips. Going off about my performance last night and random things, he conveyed his thoughts like a kid talking about his shiny, new bike to some friends. Eventually he drifted off into sleep, holding me against his warm, pale skin.
