Mamés has just one year. One year to get his life together. One year to finally make a decision. To stay or to leave. Rochford can't contain his dreams of music but the problem is it contains just about everything else-his child-like mother, the lov...
I SAW THE MOON TONIGHT I LOVE HER SCARS BOY, DO I LOVE HER CRATERS// ♪
01: moongirl
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I NEED A BREAK.
The skylight directly above his bed tells Mamés the world is barely awake. It feels warm and slow in his bedroom. While the air is heavy and sticky with yesterday's memories and today's regret.
I need a break.
When did he start waking up to thoughts like these? When did 'today is going to be a good day' turn into 'I need a break'? It feels like it has always been there, hanging in the crevices of his skull like an invisible spider web. Fragile but yet durable. Today, it has finally shaken loose. The realisation that he is tired. It's not physical: it was more than an exertion of muscle fibres. It was more than pulling the forty-three muscles in his face to form a smile. It was more than that.
Looking back maybe it was when he picked up his guitar, but he ached too much to play. It was a deep ache, down in the sheath of his tendons. His fingers are peppered with cuts and scrapes from countless hours in the kitchen. It hurt like a bitch when he picked a string.
Maybe it was when he got called by Lulu's workplace to take her home because she got into another alteration. Like he was the parent and she was the kid and not vice versa.
Maybe it is right this second as Lulu, his mother, pounds on his door.
"Mamés?" she's shouting like the walls weren't paper thin. "Are you still asleep? Wake up. I need your help."
I need a break, he thinks. I need a fucking break.
The Beatles wallpaper on his ceiling is peeling, much like the walls of his stomach and the wall of his patience. He blinks lethargically, gathering up the strength to roll out of bed.
But he's still so tired. Last night's events trickle slowly in his head. Not only was he up late last night sewing the last pieces on Lulu's dress for her audition today. He was also plagued with worry over his fight with Mel.
Blood soars to his head at the thought of his best friend. His gut is burning. He needs to make things right, anything to stop her from being angry with him. His brain tries to reassure him: the fight— it was small and trivial, nothing to get so worked up about. But he's so desperate he can taste it, the swelling nebula of regret, on his tongue. It tastes like sour pennies and pain.
His brain speaks again: it's your tongue, you idiot. You're biting your tongue! But Mamés doesn't trust his thoughts this early in the morning.
Lulu hits the door once more, startling him and his journal slips from the bed. Loose leaves of paper spill out to the ground. And that's what finally makes him get up. It isn't just paper, they were pages and pages of lyrics. Pieces and pieces of his cells, his insides, strewn on the floor. He could hardly leave them lying on the ground a second longer. So he picks them up delicately. One after the other arranging it back where it was meant to be. Inside the thick leather journal, Jun got for him on his twelfth birthday. And it's only after he is done that, that he opens the door.
