hiatus.
Last Login: August 26th, 2023
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Gender: Male
Age: 29
Sign:
Leo
Country: United States
Signup Date: August 14, 2018
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05/11/2021 11:56 PM
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favorite color.
a little play off this and this. “I’m not handing out freebies on those ones,” Wanda calls out from the front counter. “Unless you’re thinking of jetting outta here again.” She’s fixing her mascara in her little mirror while there’s no customers, but she’s had her eye on him the entire time he’s been there; no surprise given the toothbrush incident, the memory of which has him red in the face as soon as she brings it up. “It’s not that.” Casey doesn’t look at her. Instead, he keeps his focus on a half-empty rack of roses, eyebrows furrowed, nose scrunched, arms folded over his chest. It’s not how he intends to pay that has him perplexed. Wanda closes her compact with a deliberate smacking sound, as if to garner his attention. “There’s no one in here to distract me, so I guess I can trust you for now,” she teases. “I’m not trying to steal them.” Casey snaps, though the flames behind his eyes are extinguished almost before ignition. He simmers down, slumps his shoulders a little, then plucks one of the roses off the rack - a blue one. “Well, forgive me for being a little nervous, kiddo,” Wanda remarks. She’s smiling, teasing, but Casey pays it little mind other than a slow shake of the head. “Hey, you talk to my mom a lot right?” Wanda raises an eyebrow at him. “Every night when she gets off work, why?” Finally, Casey looks at her. “Do you know her favorite color?”
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05/11/2021 11:55 PM
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LIMBO CHALLENGE.
challenge | creator I can’t explain what pulled me to it. Why, in the midst of whatever breakdown I’m having, I hopped on the ferry with zero questions about where it’s going, who’s running it, anything. I just want to leave. I don’t care where I’m going, I just need to leave. There’s a part of me that doesn’t feel like it’s real, anyway; it could be a dream, a product of relapse. My fourth one, but I don’t have it in me to ask for help. In fact, my undying refusal to admit anything is wrong - ever - just cost me everything. Everyone. They all knew. As much as I try, I can’t hide a thing from the people who know me best, and in the end, I always end up alone - not because they leave, but because I do. Because I can’t stand it when people know too much - feel too much. I don’t know why I ever thought it’d be different. Too proud to admit I’m struggling, but what the hell am I doing now? I hadn’t meant it when I said I didn’t need them or their help, but the burning sensation remains on my tongue. How long ago had I said it? How long have I been on this boat? There’s a heavy fog, blocking a view of anything surrounding me, but it’s oddly smoothing, the nothingness. The not knowing, not caring. If this is a dream, I’ll just sit back and appreciate the break. Not having to do anything or talk to anyone. Not having to say I messed up. Not having to beg for help. How many stupid pills did I take? I next find myself on the side of a dusty road with a splitting headache. The weird boat must have been a dream, I decide, but that doesn’t really answer where I am or how I ended up here. I don’t even know what city this is - I don’t even have a guess. All the touring and traveling I’ve done, and nothing looks at all familiar except the overwhelming amount of dust that vaguely reminds me of Pahrump. The heat is otherworldly, even with the sun setting. Maybe I finally did take it too far. Maybe my relapse finally did me in. Maybe I deserve this? Maybe it’s a dream too. People walk past, seemingly unfazed by me, making me wonder how long I’ve been there that it doesn’t even seem weird to them; long enough to be drenched in sweat is all I know. I find myself looking around for Jacob and Isaiah in a fit of panic, but if I called them right now, I’m sure they wouldn’t come for me. I’m sure they’d just tell me to figure it out, and I can’t blame them - that’s what I always wanted, after all. To figure it out on my own. No help. No one to worry about me. Not my band. Not my family. Not even strangers on the street. I push myself off the curb, rubbing my head. There’s no bruise even though it hurts like hell. I’m not bleeding. I don’t hurt anywhere else. I had to have zoned out. This has to be a dream too, and if it is, I’ll enjoy the nothingness for awhile before I have to go back to the real world and face everyone again. I have to find out where I am still; I don’t see a sign, so I turn into the first building I come across, a restaurant. It’s trying to mimic a 50’s style diner, but the dim lighting ruins the illusion of it. Even though there’s still some daylight outside, as soon as I step in, it feels like a place you stumble into at 3 AM after a night of partying, when you’re too drunk to care much about the aesthetic value. Everyone just ignores the constant flickering overhead, so I do too. No one looks up when the bell chimes, not even the woman at the host stand. There’s a distant sizzling sound coming from the back and no music, just the idle chiming of silverware against plates. “Are you lost, honey?” The host asks me, finally lifting her eyes but not her head. I don’t want to admit I am. Maybe I’m not? I just shake my head. “No, I just -.” “Then have a seat.” “Sure…” I find a seat near the window on the left side of the building. It looks dark, darker than it had been when I was outside. I decide to accept it, let it be what it is - confusing, weird, but not really my problem. Not my concern. The cooks start laughing in the back, the only sign of life in the whole place. Everyone else looks dead or dying. It dawns on me I probably look like that too - no sleep, wandering in off the street hungover. I feel oddly at peace; oddly accepted. “You look new - what brings you?” The host asks me. I hadn’t realized she was at my table and I don’t know how long she has been. I shake my head. “I don’t really know.” “Thought you said you weren’t lost,” she remarks, putting a menu down in front of me. “I’m not.” “Mmm.” She doesn’t seem convinced, but ultimately shrugs me off. “You look new, but you definitely belong.” I’m not sure what she means by that, but for some reason, it’s reassuring. Maybe I do. Maybe I’m not lost. Maybe this isn’t a dream, but a beginning? Or maybe I just desperately need some sleep. Desperately need help but that’s a problem for a later time. “You know what you want?” I don’t register the question at first. I can tell she’s been waiting for a minute by the way she’s staring at me, eyebrow arched. She looks dead in the eyes too… I can’t even think of eating. “Uh - can I just get coffee for now?” Her laugh echoes throughout the entire restaurant as she shakes her head at me like I’ve ordered something totally ridiculous. “You’re out of luck, honey. Fresh out of coffee.”
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05/05/2021 09:55 PM
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repent.
* continuation of this.
“You have people praising you for coming out with your story. What do you think of that? Do you have anything to say to the fans supporting you in this?” Casey and Amanda sit across from each other on a familiar stage - one he’s proudly discussed his musical ventures on almost countless times, but their current conversation is heavy, and it’s by design. Casey knows he has to say something. The undying need to clear the air’s been tugging at him for weeks, ever since that stupid article. That stupid blog post. He can’t keep quiet, so he chooses Amanda Torres because they know each other, so it might be easier to say. “I mean, if you think about it, was it really that brave?” It’s as if the realization hits him right as he says it, a furrow in his eyebrow, a small tilt of the head. There’s a tightness in his chest that won’t let up no matter how much he tries to talk through it, a sense of impending disaster. A looming worry that every word is being closely inspected, closely scrutinized, and it is. He’d be naive to believe otherwise. “I didn’t come out with my story, and I honestly really hate that this happened, so I’m not really sure about the level of braveness here, but I will say I do appreciate everyone who’s reached out to me - I do, it’s just my goal really isn’t to be like… a spokesperson or a leading voice in this. I just can’t be - I can’t - I’m not really… let’s just say I’m not really strong enough mentally to be that yet. For anyone, not even for me. I’m thankful for peoples’ support, but I absolutely don’t want them to praise me. I think… for me, one thing I really want to be clear is that I wouldn’t have ever said a word about it had that post not been leaked.” Amanda nods along, but Casey can’t make sense of her expression. Is it concern or does she think he’s out of his mind? He can’t look to find out. “I think it’s brave of you to address it,” she finally says. “Even if you didn’t get the ball rolling, it’s an important issue. I’d like to take this chance to open the floor to you - if you’re comfortable with it - to say something about Sarah? Your interactions haven’t been the most graceful in the media so far, so I wanted to know, if you could say something about this to her, would you?” Interview questions, for the most part, are pre-selected and approved. An artist can even specify topics they’d like to talk about, or topics that are entirely off-limits under any circumstance. Casey knew this question was coming, had known about it for days, weeks maybe, and had spend days reeling over it, practicing for it. Yet, somehow, hearing it so tangibly causes him to choke at first. How brave was he really? Brave enough to lie to Sarah’s face and say he loved her while running off with Christian. Brave enough to complain about her lack of communication - about her relapse - when all he needed to do was be quiet. Brave enough to talk bad about her in an interview after his own relapse. Yet never brave enough to apologize. His lips purse together, head ducked down, arms folded as he slowly shakes his head. Everything he’s practiced gets thrown out the window, tossed away, forgotten. “That I’m so sorry…” he whispers. He can’t look at Amanda still; he can’t look at her tiny audience either. “For everything - for not being understanding, for just totally checking out like I did, even for talking about it right now, I’m just… I’m sorry.” That’s when it all collapses. The lump in his throat becomes too big to speak through, obstructing the statement, halting it in its tracks before he can make a bigger mess of it. He thought he was ready. He really thought he was ready to say it, but everything comes crashing down on him as soon as the stupid word leaves his mouth. “Can we like - I’m sorry, can we stop for a minute?” A collective gasp from the audience threatens to steal all the air in the room and Casey can already feel the restriction in his lungs - the caving in his chest. The heat that only comes from panic. The racing heart, so disorienting, it makes him feel light-headed. If he doesn’t get somewhere - literally anywhere - else, he’ll pass out right there. By the time his request is uttered, he’s already getting out of his chair, already planning a B-line for the door across the stage - out. Anywhere else. Is he okay? What is he doing? In the back of his mind, he can already see the frenzied response. He’ll never live it down. Sarah will probably just laugh at him, say he’s doing it for attention - so he’ll look like the good guy. He feels sick. Casey doesn’t want to know what life looks like on the other side of his confession, blurted out before he could spare everyone the pleasure or displeasure of hearing it. Before he can spare himself. Before he can spare Sarah. Byron is waiting just past the door leading back stage. Initially, Casey had argued against him tagging along, but he realizes right then why he needed to be there. “Hey, hey…” He comes running over, meets Casey halfway in the all and throws an arm around him - not necessarily for comfort, but to help him keep standing, to help him walk. They end up in little crevice near the bathroom, Casey’s back against the wall while Byron stands in front of him, as if to assure no one can watch. “Are you good, are you gonna be okay?” He must be losing it; the lump blocked the apology, but stands no chance against his final admission, coming full force, sloppy, disoriented, barely coherent with his hand still over his face. “I can’t do this.”
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04/22/2021 01:01 PM
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partial view.
The camera takes some time to focus, waving side-to-side, zooming in and out, two parents in a brief, comedic squabble over the settings, which takes place behind the scenes while Savannah stands still on the playground. She has her lips pursed together tight, eyes squinting underneath strawberry bangs that sweep back and forth across her forehead in the steady wind. The camera catches her trying to huff them away entirely, lips contorted, twisted at an angle. She manages to create only an empty space in the middle of her forehead before seemingly giving up. She has on a pink dress with a skirt that puffs out like a little umbrella, sequin butterflies sewn into the top of it, which she starts picking at idly while watching all the other kids run around her. Yelling, giggling, little feet pattering against the pavement, but she won’t join them. The camera loses focus on her to get the playground, more kids climbing on top of it, fighting for a place at the top of the slide. The kid currently at the top waves his hands when he notices the focus on him, then the camera steers away, back to Savannah. She’s watching, but hasn’t moved. When she notices its view on her, she turns her head, shielding her face with her arm, embarrassment blooming bright red across her cheeks. “You don’t wanna smile?” Sarah speaks behind the camera. “The sun is in my eyes,” Savannah complains, or rather diverts. She has more to think about than most kids, more to think about than a playground or her first day of school. More to think about than even the sun in her eyes. A few kids zoom past her on purpose, trying to sneak into the camera’s view, no real concept of how the 15 Minutes of Fame thing actually works, no idea that the video won’t be seen. No concept of it being the final straw for Savannah, who breaks into tears as they brush by her laughing. There’s a commotion behind the camera, a scrambling, fumbling, bickering that’s a little less comedic than before. In the background, someone unfamiliar asks if she’s okay, earning no response as Casey runs out from behind the camera and scoops Savannah up into his arms without a second’s hesitation. She buries her face into his shoulder. When they’re right next to each other, they look almost identical - bright red cheeks, eternally squinting eyes, wavy hair uncontrollable, especially in the wind. Casey has a little butterfly pin fastened to his shirt for the occasion. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, swaying side-to-side; he tells her all about his first day of school and how he threw up on the teacher’s desk. It gets her laughing, only because she doesn’t believe it’s true. “Yeah right,”she yells, almost as loud as the other kids, patting his chest as if to scold him. Although he laughs, he looks burnt out too, eyes sunken, brows furrowed like he’s in pain - pain that slips through tiny cracks in his smile. Pain that connects the two of them. The three of them. Pain more pressing than a first day of school. Than a playground. Than sun in the eyes. Casey holds Savannah a little tighter, eyebrows raised. “You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart, okay? You’re gonna do great.” “Promise?” Savannah finally lifts her head to look at him, little arm jutting upward, almost hitting him in the face in her sudden spark of urgency, tiny pinky extended. It’s the first time in who knows how long they all laugh together. Casey takes the pinky with his own, holding their bundled hands to his chest. “Promise.”
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04/17/2021 10:54 PM
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frozen in time | pt. 3
They didn’t speak a word to each other the rest of the way to Vegas, her apology thrown out to the wind, probably to serve the head-on quota for the day. Casey was tough to crack; he got it from her, and she wasn’t sure she was so proud of that fact the older she got. Looking at her son as they stood together in her hotel room, she hardly recognized him. “Last time I saw you, you were just barely as tall as me.” He’d barely been as tall as her when he left for Reno and now he towered over her easily. “Ten years changes a lot, right?” Casey set her bag down by the door, running his fingers through his hair. They were both still warm and flushed from the Vegas heat. As if the entire world had conspired against her that day, the air went out in his car, making their drive together even longer. “Your friend is meeting you here?” He asked. “Yeah, in a few hours.” “So, you’re good?” Jennifer rolled her eyes. “I’m good. You can make your escape and I’ll never need your help again.” “I wasn’t asking ‘cause of that,” Casey snapped at her. “Really? You seem like you’re dying to get away from me.” He shook his head. “I was just making sure you really had a plan here is all.” His desperation was clearer to her than he realized. He had his arms folded, eyes staring out the window. He always looked at the window when he wanted to leave, never the door; she caught it at every dinner conversation, or any time he got in trouble for something. He’d look out the window, huff and then turn his head down, which is exactly what he did right then. While she’d learned many things about him from behind a media lens - his failed marriage, his child, his orientation, his addiction struggle - she knew the intricate ones firsthand, even if he didn’t want her to. She knew them because they sometimes mirrored her own. “I’ll be fine.” “So what happened to Richard?” He suddenly asked. When she mentioned it in the car, he’d shrugged it off, but she remembered how he acted when they’d broken up. She wasn’t surprised it was still on his mind. She’d never say it - and maybe it was obvious - but she’d always envied their friendship. The way Richard was able to get him to talk and laugh, to play games and share his music. It was something she’d missed her chance to do. She rolled her eyes, plopping down at the edge of the bed. “Drunken idiot fell off the water tower while painting it. Split his head open.” Casey cringed, shoulders shuddering. “Damn.” “We talked a few times after you left. He always mentioned you. He said he tried to come see you at one of your shows, but missed the chance. He was pretty proud of you.” “I would’a liked to see him,” Casey admitted. She felt a pang in her chest when he said it. He’d have jumped at the chance to see Richard, but never her. What would he have done had she wandered into one of his shows? How would he have treated her if they happened to cross paths there? Maybe he’d walk right by her and pretend not to notice. Maybe he’d have security throw her out. She scoffed at herself, then looked at Casey again. “Never me though, right?” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t, okay?” “I wish I knew what you wanted from me. I don’t know if it’s an apology or a conversation or what - I don’t know how to make amends with you, Casey, and you make it kinda hard.” “It’s because you’re over-complicating it.” Her eyebrows furrowed. Casey finally started stepping toward the door. “I don’t want a single thing from you.” “Then why did you do this?” Opening the door, Casey shook his head. “Because you’re still my mom.”
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04/13/2021 07:01 PM
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frozen in time | pt. 1
Pahrump — a city frozen in time, standing proudly in an endless cloud of dust. Surviving on as few establishments as possible while those who live there use their hour-long treks to Vegas every day for bragging rights. It’s a sickening pride, one he can never forget — one that makes him ashamed he’s ever lived in. In ten years, there isn’t a single new store, but someone apparently got bored and fought for a streetlight in the middle of the 160, just before Calvada, making the drive to the RV park a little more obnoxious. Casey turns at the light, windows down, radio off, car rattling from the uneven roads. They could build an unnecessary street light, but they’d never repave the road; it’s apart of the Pahrumpian charm, after all. How he’d ever lived in this place is beyond him. How he’d ever carried the same pride as everyone else makes him want to bury himself alive. The closer he gets to the park, the tighter his grip gets on the steering wheel, a barely successful attempt to stifle his temptation to turn the car around. That, or into the nearest ditch, wherever instinct leads him first. He passes by the water tower he used to hang out on, repainted from white to red, erasing any trace of where he’d scribbled the F-word in sharpie on it as a teenager. The underground house is still there just behind it, embedded safely in the hill — boarded over, but still intact. How many hints of his old self reside in there? How many beer cans or random articles of clothing and things to sleep on? The park is just a little ways further, down a winding road, the only well-kept one until Vegas probably. It’s as untouched as everything else, always a main attraction, though that’s only because of its attachment to Saddle West. Even then, it still has to compete with Terrible’s, and Terrible’s is always the winner, but Jennifer could never afford to stay there; as it turns out, she couldn’t afford Saddle West anymore either, which is how Casey ended up here. A deep breath through the nose does nothing to sooth the ache in his chest as he steps out of his car, Jennifer outside on the curb smoking a cigarette. There’s a few suitcases huddled around her. She’s been frozen in time too, exactly where he left her ten years ago. She hasn’t even looked at him yet, yet it still feels like a sickly familiar walk of shame — the type of tip-toeing only a teenager who knows he’s in trouble can pull off, but Casey isn’t a teenager and he’s definitely not in trouble. “Kinda hurts not to be invited to your own son’s wedding,” she remarks as soon as he’s in earshot, but still doesn’t look at him. She takes a drag off her cigarette, shaking her head. “Then you screwed it up before I could even meet her.” “Do you want my help or not?” Casey fires back, his eyebrows arched. It’s everything in him not to turn around and pretend the whole trip was just a weird dream. He wants to ask how badly she screwed up with Aunt Barn that she had to reach out to him, but he holds his tongue. “Come sit down.” Her tone changes, softer even with a face like stone. She’s drunk. Casey comes forward, but doesn’t sit. Jennifer doesn’t push it. “The baby’s cute,” she says. “Well, I guess she really isn’t a baby at this point, huh?” “Look, I really didn’t come here to catch up.” “I know you didn’t. I guess I kinda hoped you might want to though. It’s been ten years now, right?” Jennifer comes to her feet, tossing her cigarette out into the parking lot. “I thought we could be friendly at least.” “I’m here to keep you off the street, I’m not here to be your friend.” Casey’s eyes sharpen, a small step away when she steps forward, arms tightly over his chest. “That’s what you said, wasn’t it? That we’d never be friends?”
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04/13/2021 07:01 PM
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frozen in time | pt. 2
It’s almost a straight shot from Pahrump to Las Vegas once you come off the mountain; the roads become hypnotically straight, the flattest, most boring terrain possible endless on either side of you. They call the longest stretch the widow-maker because it’s only two lanes. The head-on collision rate is astronomical, but I think it’s more notorious for being the most obnoxiously boring road you could possibly drive on. It’s only an hour and a half, but it feels like an eternity to me. An hour and a half is a long time for my chest to hurt like this. My mom and I haven’t said a word in twenty minutes, and the last exchange we had was an argument we were ten years overdue for about the radio, which resulted in it being turned off entirely. She breaks the silence first. “Richard died about a year ago. I’m sure Barb told you.” “She actually didn’t.” I shouldn’t be as sad as I am about it. I want to ask how, but I’m standing my ground on not inviting too much conversation. This is an in and out thing, get her to Vegas where whatever connection she has is, lend her some money, then go home. We’re not here for a heart-to-heart. “That’s right, you probably don’t talk about me much, huh?” I shake my head. She’s not wrong. “I don’t talk to Aunt Barb as much as you think.” “Remember when we went to Vegas for the weekend when you were a kid?” “I remember throwing up.” The winding road down the mountain is enough to make anyone sick. Even now, I feel a little woozy from it, but my car sickness isn’t as bad as it used to be, and not as bad when I’m the one driving. Most of it’s coming from my nerves. “Right about there.” My mom points off to the side at a deer warning sign. “All you really cared about was that you might have scared the deer away,” she recalls. I’m surprised she remembers it. Even more surprised she remembers it better than me. The deer part doesn’t ring a single bell, but I do remember her yelling at me for making us late for her friend’s wedding. I ruined the suit she wanted me to wear by kneeling down in the dirt, so in the end, we didn’t end up going at all. “You still get car sick?” “Ch’yeah. You should see me on the tour bus.” We go quiet again for another ten minutes or so. I still can’t believe she’d rather listen to the rocks hitting the car than any music at all. She starts to light up a cigarette from my pack sitting in the center console. I’d say something, but I remember how many years I got away with stealing hers from her purse. Maybe I owe her a few. “You know… when you went to stay with your grandparents, I really thought it was gonna be temporary.” I can’t tell if it’s the start of a guilt trip or some declaration of a change of heart, but I’m not up for either. “Then one day, your grandma told me you up and moved to LA. I didn’t even know about it.” “Well, it wasn’t temporary to me.” “I see that now. I know whatever I say won’t make much of a difference to you now, but I’m proud of you, you know - of how far you’ve come. We didn’t have it easy.” I wish she’d said that ten years ago. Had she said it all along, it might not seem so hollow now. “We made it through, right?” “Somehow.” She laughs. I have no idea why she’s laughing. I can tell she has a Lifetime vision of us suddenly becoming best friends after this - enjoying the car ride so much that we decide to keep in touch after this, but I can’t stomach the thought of it. “I’m sorry, Casey. I know I was a sh*t mother. I know you’re not really expecting anything from me, but I want you to hear it. I’m sorry. Okay?” Not okay. I feel like my therapist back home might say this is good for me, but I feel myself falling apart. “You don’t have to forgive me. You probably don’t, right?” I hold the steering wheel a little tighter, take a breath - steal a pause to think. I feel like throwing up all over again. “I don’t, but I needed to hear you say it.”
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04/09/2021 02:20 PM
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waiting for the thread to snap.
( based on this. )
“I didn’t think you were gonna come.” Sarah mused, sitting beside him on the porch. Neither did he. Casey’s legs ached with temptation to run off down the street, but he hadn’t quite regained his strength yet. He just shook his head, staring down at his hospital bracelet - tangible, plastic shame wrapped too-tightly around his wrist. His mouth hung slightly open, but he had nothing to say. The words were stuck, garbled and incoherent in the back of his throat. If he tried to get the words out, what kind of guttural sound would he make instead? It felt like a dream, sitting outside a home that was no longer home - that looked nothing like home, his whole life hanging in the balance by a fine thread, yet he felt entirely hollow. Sitting on the outskirts, outside himself, he wished that thread would finally snap. Send him back to reality, or send him away all together, he had no preference. Sarah set a cup of coffee down beside him, but he didn’t touch it. “I kinda thought you’d tell me to get lost,” Sarah went on. She always hated an awkward silence, but pity did funny things to people. He apparently looked pathetic enough for her to try and work past it. “I don’t know why I didn’t.” Running his fingers through his hair, he finally cracked a smile, a sluggish tug at the corner of his lip, faint but the most he could muster. “Maybe I really have lost it.” “Why me, Casey?” Sarah asked. His eyebrows furrowed. The sudden urgency only added to the dreamlike feeling he’d already been struggling with. “Why you?” “Why was it me you texted and not Christian?” Casey rolled his eyes. “If it was my choice, I wouldn’t have texted either of you.” “Well, you did,” Sarah snapped. “You can hide behind being f***ed up if you want to, but you did make a choice.” “Look, I don’t wanna talk about it.” “You never do, do you?” “I don’t really have to at this point.” “What would Savannah do without you, Casey?” Another turn in his stomach - the same one the bracelet had caused. When Casey finally brought his focus on Sarah, her eyes were glazed over, but any tears were quickly swiped away once she caught him looking. He turned his head too, tensing his jaw, trying anything to hold his own tears back. Dying didn’t terrify him, but losing all sense of himself did. The wait for the thread to snap was getting to be excruciating. “I know…” "Listen, I’m sorry for what I said...” Sarah let up, but still wouldn’t look at him and he couldn’t look at her either. Casey shook his head. “You weren’t wrong. I deserved it.” “That’s not true... I didn’t think you’d -.” “I’d do it?” “Yeah…” Casey looked down at his hospital bracelet again - tangible shame, tangible disappointment, tangible fear. He scoffed through his nose, finally hauling himself up off the steps. “Trust me, neither did I.” “You’re not gonna see Savannah?” “Not like this. I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell her anything yet, okay?” “Sure.” Sarah came to her feet too. “Look, I meant it when I said I was sorry.” “I know.” Casey started off to his car. It wasn’t that he didn’t accept it, he just still wasn’t sure it was owed to him. “Thanks for everything.”
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04/04/2021 02:25 PM
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revel in it.
[ Byron’s POV. Byron can be found on the NPC page. ]
We always tried to prepare contestants as much as possible, especially those who’d never been on stage before, but it could never be properly done. In the end, we still always had the ones who stood up there after a performance with deer-in-headlight expressions, wondering what to do - if they should do anything at all. While what likely seemed like an ocean of people yelled, screamed and cheered, Casey Caverly stood there almost completely still, shoulders locked up, wringing the cord on his microphone. He focused on the overhead lights instead of the crowd, lips pursed together, swaying side-to-side. I could tell he was out of his element. The kid we met a week ago with the ripped up jeans and hole in his lip was hiding under a white button-down and suit jacket that didn’t quite fit him. When he wasn’t messing with his mic cord, he was tugging at the buttons of it. For someone who’d just been strutting down the stage as if he’d already won the competition, I was surprised to see him look that lost. Apparently he’d only ever practiced in his room or car, never in front of anyone and it showed when it came time to face panelists. All the previous notes mentioned his nerves, his inability to make eye contact. “What a brave song choice,” Felicia was the first to speak beside me. Being a former contestant herself, she always had a natural ability to calm the nervous ones. She and Casey were actually very similar, both coming from dismantled families, both living in their cars while banking on TALENT! to get their start in music. I didn’t remember Felicia being so nervous, but maybe she was and she was just better at hiding it. Casey had a lot of amazing vocal qualities - some obvious downfalls of course, but overall, he was outstanding. He performed at a surprisingly professional level for how young he was, but I knew we’d have to build him up. Felicia went on, still trying to open him up. “I don’t know if you remember, but Man in the Mirror was my first performance too.” Casey hesitated to bring the mic to his mouth, still fumbling around with the cord. “I do, yeah.” “There’s something to be said about people like us, Casey Caverly - people who come on here with nothing, but somehow everything, to lose and still choose the risky songs. I’ll say exactly what was said to me, sometimes it’s better to be the most memorable performer, even if your technique isn’t quite there yet. I couldn’t even tell you were this nervous while you were singing, but right now you look like you’re about to pass out on me.” At that, he finally laughed. He never moved the mic away from his mouth. It was like he thought he might not have the strength to lift it next time. “I feel like I am,” he admitted. The audience cheered for him and his face went entirely red. He turned his head away from us for a second to collect himself, then came back around. Slowly - very slowly - he was getting more comfortable with us. “That’d be a first,” I remarked. “Calling an ambulance because someone passed out on stage.” Felicia laughed. “I don’t think that’s how you wanna make a name for yourself, honey.” “Ch’yeah, no, definitely not.” Casey smiled, but ultimately looked away from us again. I picked up where Felicia left off. “I agree with Felicia, the technique isn’t quite there yet. It’s a BIG song to sing. I said that to Felicia too, but what both of you guys did that really shocked me - was you argued with me, and you know what? Both of you proved me wrong. Because even though there were some technique errors, you really do have an understanding of what it means to perform. Not just sing, but perform. That’s a bigger part of the industry than people realize, that kind of star quality that creates an outstanding performance even if there’s some pitchy moments or you don’t hit all the notes exactly right. What I think you really need to work on here is your confidence in front of us and an audience.” He must have known I was going to say that because he laughed. I caught him roll his eyes, but not at us. More at himself. “When you think about this industry, one way to look at it is that on some level, you’re ALWAYS performing. Not just when you’re on stage, but when you meet with people, when you’re on stage, when you’re sending demos. If someone sees you standing there shaking like that, they won’t even give you a chance, and then it doesn’t really matter how you perform on stage, does it?” “I agree with Byron,” Jack chimed in. Always the last to speak and always the hardest to please. “I have to say this - based on your audition tapes, when I heard what song you were gonna sing, I thought it was a mistake. I was like ‘there’s no way this kid can sing that song’ but you held your own. There were some mistakes like they said - some notes you didn’t hit right, but I liked that you didn’t falter even when you messed up. Where you’re really at risk of screwing up here is how you’re presenting yourself to us.” Casey furrowed his eyebrows. I could tell he took it more to heart when Jack said it than me, maybe because Jack was more stern - almost scolding about it. “This actually really surprises me, because in your tapes, it was mentioned you were nervous, but they also mention this fiery attitude that I’m not really seeing right now. I want to see that. I want you, in front of me, to match the you that was dancing around up there two minutes ago.” “You’re gonna scare him away now,” Felicia teased. Casey couldn’t look at us again, but he seemed to be processing it; he nodded along with everything Jack was saying. “It’s not like that, no - I like you. I liked your performance, but I wanna see that star quality I keep hearing about, that’s all. I know you’ve never performed before, but keep in mind, you’re up against some people who have. You have to kinda fake it, you know what I mean?” Casey didn’t say anything, so Jack kept going. “You hear what I’m saying, right?” “I do,” he finally answered. I saw some kind of fire in his eyes when he looked at Jack again, some determination that somehow found its way to the surface. “Thank you.” ••••••••••••••• [ Casey's POV. ]
By the end of the night, ten people will be going home. Ten people you learn to call friends. Ten people you practice with in all the different waiting rooms in all the different cities. Ten people you take pictures with, exchange numbers with. Ten people who are literally just like you, grasping at the same opportunity, and you know it’s naive, but you can’t help but wish for everyone to win. You can’t help but hope you’re part of the one group who all make it through because they couldn’t decide between you, but they can and have and they have no qualms about it. We’re all gathered on the stage in three rows. All twenty-five, smushed together, everyone staring at us. The fifteen winners are off to New York for the next round, the rest back home. I feel like my heart is about to bust through my chest. To build suspense, they call out only a few people at a time, some safe, some eliminated. Every time it’s excruciating. When we were narrowed down to twenty-five, they called out twenty names before mine. I watch Jacob Brooks and Isaiah Flynn get called before me. I think of all our impromptu acapella sessions in the hotel room and how I took them for granted. I wish I could live them all over again. What if they get picked and not me? Every time someone gets picked, the audience cheers. I get sickening flashbacks of standing there unable to speak. I can only imagine I looked entirely stupid. Entirely out of place. My chest hurts. My knees feel weak. I’m not surprised I’m in the bottom two, but it doesn’t make it hurt less. It doesn’t make the idea of packing up and heading back to Reno less devastating and utterly terrifying. It comes down to me and Adam Thomas. I don’t know him well, but we bonded backstage over our love for Blind Melon during the audition round. He has an astonishing amount of energy. When he walks into a room, you definitely notice him and he knows it, but somehow he avoids being a douchebag about it. There’s no way they won’t pick him. We’re asked to take a few steps forward to the front of the stage, arms linked together. I’m trying not to focus on the audience. I’m trying to look more composed than I did after my performance, but I know they probably see right through me. I know they probably still see my hands shaking. We stand there in silence while Byron, Felicia and Jack deliberate. The audience is so loud you couldn’t possibly listen in, even if we both really want to. I look over at Adam. He’s waving around at the audience, somehow able to smile, even with the possibility of being kicked off right in front of him. He looks at me, bumps my shoulder a little with his own, then goes back to waving. I don’t care what the judges told me, I can’t force myself to smile like that. Byron finally stands up and comes around the table, to the stage, to us. I feel like I’m gonna choke on the air. I wish I would to buy myself some time because I’m so sure it’s me going home and I’d rather pass out from lack of oxygen than cry in front of everyone. I remember auditions, watching people coming out of conference rooms sobbing into their family members’ arms. Who would I cry to if I lost? “What’s so interesting about this is that you guys almost complete each other,” Byron remarks. Neither of us know how to take that. We look at each other, then at him. “You’ve got Adam Thomas with this huge personality, from head to toe, who’s smiling and waving at the audience even right now when it’s down to the wire, but - when he gets up to perform, there’s a little something missing. He doesn’t take risks or go for the big notes, he just coasts. Then you have Casey Caverly. A spitfire performer, who runs the stage like he’s been doing it his whole life, but he can’t even look at us afterward. Has absolutely no idea what to do when the audience is cheering for him. Yeah, he can hold his own in a conversation, but he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. We don’t know that he took our criticism to heart.” “I almost wish we could just combine you two,” Jack calls out from his seat behind the table. Bryon laughs, but we don’t. Then he steps forward. Adam squeezes my arm a little tighter. It’s like he knows I’m going too. Byron is right - I am wishing I was anywhere else. “I’m someone who believes in building people up,” Byron finally says. “Our choice is Casey.” The whole stage lights up so bright I can’t even see. The audience is roaring at the conclusion, probably not for me, but just because something happened. I can barely tell what’s going on so I just stand there with my mouth hanging open, unable to talk. Adam pulls me into a hug. I can’t fathom how he’s so happy for me when I’m taking his place. They let him say a final thank you. Even with tears in his eyes, he’s still smiling. Waving. They let all the other winners infiltrate the stage. I get a weird mental image of the time I swatted a pregnant spider in our kitchen and the babies scattered away in every direction. Everyone is hugging and talking and I have no idea what to do. Byron touches my shoulder. Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s going on a script or not, but this time, it feels like a real conversation. “I picked you for a reason,” he assures me. I hate that he can tell I needed it. “I know you have it in you, kid.” I know I have to say something, but I can’t muster up more than a thank you. He hugs me too. I feel like I’m dreaming. As soon as Byron lets go, someone latches onto me from behind. At first I’m furious, but then I realize who it is and can’t help but laugh. Jacob reels me into a group hug with Isaiah. I needed them. I didn’t realize how much, but I did. “Dudes, can you believe it? We made it!” “We’re in,” Isaiah adds on. He said that when we made it through auditions too. Our pact is safe. Our little trio remains. Confused as I am, I decide not to question it anymore after seeing Jacob and Isaiah. Instead, I revel in it. I hug them as tight as I possibly can because I know any week might be the last we have together. “We’re in!”
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04/04/2021 02:24 PM
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saturdays.
a little spin off from here. CW: domestic abuse mention
It didn’t go unnoticed, the way he spent the entire morning tip-toeing around her, sliding by with zero eye contact, much less a word. Not even a sorry when they’d almost collided in the hallway. It was Saturday - Casey’s favorite day of the week, but the music didn’t blare from the stereo like it usually did. He wasn’t in the kitchen teaching Savannah how to scramble eggs while they sang together. Sarah missed the way their voices sounded in almost-perfect harmonies. She missed how Savannah would inevitably break into some wacky voice right in the middle just when it seemed like she was invested. The after-meal piano lessons. How many Saturdays would they miss because of her? “Dad’s late for making breakfast,” Savannah muttered, toying with one of her dolls while Sarah pulled her hair up into pigtails. Sarah found herself choking on her breath while grasping for an answer Savannah could understand. “I don’t… think your dad is feeling too well, honey,” was all she could come up with. Savannah suddenly whipped her head around, pigtails be damned, her eyes the size of golf balls. She’d seen something about fatal illness on TV a month ago and from then on, she thought all of them were that serious. “He’s sick?” “Just a small sick. I’m sure next Saturday we’ll be back to normal.” It felt like a lie considering how unpredictable everything had become, though Savannah didn’t question it. She turned back to her little vanity, tugging at the ribbons holding her hair in place. “Can we have mac n’ cheese then?” The idea, so absurd, but so simple, put a smile on Sarah’s face at least. She wished she could forget all her uncertainties with mac n’ cheese too. “I don’t think so. You stay here and play, I’ll get something.” In the hallway, she and Casey had another run-in. No apology. No eye contact. He tried to scoot by like she was taking up the whole hall. “So, are we just gonna avoid each other forever now?” The words shot from her mouth before she could catch them. She couldn’t take it. The way he flinched, shuddered even, at the sound of her voice ignited fire in her chest, raging outward through her whole body. If he didn’t want to fix it, then what? How long could they ignore each other? How many Saturday breakfasts would they skip? How many lies would she have to tell Savannah? Casey tried to walk away. It was almost reflex, the way she reached out and latched onto his arm. Enough to stop him, but not enough for her at that point. “You’d really rather just avoid me than talk, are you serious right now? Do I need an alarm or something any time I’m coming down the hall so we don’t accidentally cross paths or what? Savannah’s asking questions too - you think I wanna be the one explaining everything?” Casey still wouldn’t speak, but he didn’t walk away. For the first time since the night before, he looked right at her. Savannah got the golf ball eyes from him. Sarah had seen it many times before - when he accidentally swore in front of his family, when he dropped something or tripped over his own shoe - but she’d almost never seen it like that. She’d never been the cause of it. The last time he saw his eyes well up like that was at the hospital after losing Amelia. He’d have sooner ripped his eyes out entirely than cry in front of someone, but he was frozen there. His mouth was open, but he was stuck on his words. Sarah could see his face was swollen on the side where the ash tray hit him now that he was facing her. Her grip finally loosened on his arm. It was her fault. She had to let him go, take a step back, off to the side even so he could get through, but Casey didn’t take the opportunity at first. He stood there a few more seconds, looking at her, probably with a similar sense of disbelief. Saturday was his favorite day of the week, he wasn’t supposed to be crying. She wasn’t supposed to be crying. “Look, Casey -.” “I’m sorry.” Casey cut her off. The way his voice broke made her sick. “I really don’t wanna talk right now, okay?” He used to tell her everything. “I do love you, Casey,” Sarah whispered, but couldn’t bring herself closer, not while he was still actively backing away. “I really do.” Casey just shook his head, eye contact dropped, head ducked down like he was hiding from her. Then he finally started walking past. “I know.”
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