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He’s stuck in that room. It’s too bright and too dark all at the same time.
At least his guitars are nice.
They don’t always make him sing, either. Not like it is with Davy.
But of course, it’s different for Davy. Davy gets to leave the room.
Mike knows he isn’t the only Mike, but he isn’t sure how. Something about the way Davy sings, maybe.
Davy never looks for him. Davy never looks for anyone. Davy performs and Davy is gone. If Davy cares about having an audience, then he must see one very clearly. He never looks.
Mike can never figure how long it will take before Davy is back. To pass the time, sometimes he sings the song. The only song he can remember here.
He often feels like he’s warming the crowd up for Davy.
The crowd he can never see.
The crowd he’s always desperately squinting against the lights for.
Mike doesn’t always have to play, no. That’s nice. He appreciates that. He fucking wishes he could get them to stop with the backing tack, though. Whomever they are.
At least the trumpet. They least they could do is give him a loop without the trumpet.
He does, at length, consider the possibility that there is no one out there in charge; no one causing this. That all of it is simply what happens.
Sometimes he finds comfort in the thought, but for the most part, it’s more interesting to have someone to be mad at.
Failing that, there’s always Davy.
It’s easy to be mad at Davy. He drops in, he stops the show, and he saunters away for some other misery.
At least he gets some fucking variety.
The only spice in Mike’s life is the moment the spotlight switches off and leaves him in the dark.
He can breathe in the dark.
Davy’s version of the song is a bit longer, this is basically the only sense of time Mike has left. Davy’s version has tempo changes, which Mike can never force out of his invisible accompanying instrumentalists. He really hopes they’re there, somewhere. He really hopes they can see him. Sometimes he wonders if they’re all living the same way he is, thinking they’re the only one.
He wonders if they get to watch Davy, too.
He hopes they do.
There’s never any need, but sometimes Mike plays along when Davy’s singing. Sometimes when he does it, he can imagine little changes in Davy’s dancing, or little hints in his expression. Sometimes he fools himself into believing Davy knows.
It usually doesn’t work, but sometimes he can feel it. There’s a shred of hope alive in him.
The spotlight always follows, even as he walks himself face-first into the walls of the room as it changes around him.
He used to dance, too. Like Davy does.
Mike wonders when Davy started looking that old. No, he hasn’t aged a day since this started, nothing like that. But Mike can remember a time before this, sometimes. Not always, but not infrequently, he remembers seeing Davy laugh, hearing him talk. Sometimes he thinks there were other people there, too.
Their faces have surrendered to the blur, just like everyone except Davy.
Like everything except Davy and this fucking room.
Another loop starts and he sings. He sings as loud as he can. He prays that someone hears him.
He prays that Davy hears him.