“ Pushing your ego aside for the better. ”

Anon wrote that down, standing on the doorstep of the house he knows. The house, where a family of four, now two, was living for years. The house, where that family awaits him. The house, where she lived until she decided she had enough. Two old dinosaurs, who have tried to reassure him that there is always something more, would not expect a visitor – more than that, him. But their parcel worked, and now he's standing here, on the doorstep, thinking thoroughly about what he will commit.

And yet he can't just walk inside. Something holds him, pours lead inside his legs, turns his flesh into fragile glass, transforms thoughts into dust, not allowing to properly think. He's standing on the doorstep, drenched in spring's cold, lit by a singular sun ray, unable to enter a place where something will change one important matter inside him. He was standing like this for around five minutes, and the only thing he was able to do – is to write that little note, this little overly philosophical and egotistical note for himself into the future.

What holds him? Anon thinks about it, but can't find a proper reason – all the things appearing in his mind are nothing more than just grains of dust, that fly away into the purest nothingness there is. There's something that holds him, and he doesn't know what it is. Thorough search yields no results. It's just paranoia. – Anon thought. – Just simple paranoia. Something makes me believe that if I step inside, I won't be stepping outside, remaining as a cold dead body torn in half by powerful ptero hands.

Memories. That is the main reason why he's unable to enter this house. That is also the reason for why he's here in the first place. Deceived by blissful nostalgia, he forgot about the disaster, and remembered it only when he spotted the house in the distance. It takes a second for him to realize that, but this realization doesn't make his position any better. His legs are still heavy, his head is still empty, his organs still twitch at the possible outcome.

He thinks about leaving, ditching this idea entirely. He hasn't heard from them in over two years, and this parcel they gave him is nothing more than just a play on his feelings, to try and make him believe in what they've written in those notes. This egoistical thought is so disgusting and sticky, it takes a good couple of seconds of Anon shaking his head violently for it to finally go away. He grew over this egoism. He grew over, because he couldn't grow normally, through his egoism, using it as a humus to boost his growth.

And yet he's still here. His right hand, red/pink from the cold, held onto a small pencil. His left hand, also red/pink from the cold, held his diary in a black cover. Most of the pages were already filled, despite him writing only less than two months. There's just too much to capture. The sun blasts its rays onto the back of his bald head. The sky is clear, convincing to commit an act of unseen kindness, to pay a visit to someone who needs it the most. Anon, coming up with a proper conclusion, cleans his body of any slowing element, hides his diary and the pencil inside his jacket and knocks.

Now there's just no way back. He will stand here, until the door will open and until what will come next. If he will die – at least he knows he deserved it for good. If he will not – the gods (if there are any) are favoring his existence, believing in him like some adoring fans and telling him to overcome the burden of his past. Whatever may take hold in the following few seconds, Anon is ready to withstand it. Because there's just no other way around.

The door opens, and Anon meets gazes with a familiar police commissar. The giant ptero looks at him for a second in tense silence, to then give a warm smile and say:

— I'm glad you've managed to come here. Come on in!

Ripley steps aside and lets Anon in. Anon nods in gratitude and walks inside. As he unties his shoes, Ripley walks away into the kitchen to say:

— We have a visitor.

— Who is it? – a woman says; the voice is familiar to Anon.

Out of the corner, a petite ptero mother appears. She stands in shock, looking at Anon like he is not a human, but a vision of an archangel, here to change the course of the entire world. A tear strikes her eyes. Anon comes up to her, slowly, cautiously pulls her into his nomadic, cold and never reassuring hug. Like a prodigal son returning into the family he never had.

— I'm so happy to see you again, Anon... – Samantha said.

She withdraws out of Anon's hug, looks into his face.

— Oh my, you have changed. – she says.

— Yeah, he matured. – Ripley comments.

Anon made his way with Ripley and Samantha into the kitchen, where they sat down for a cup of tea and some homemade snacks. The atmosphere was definitely welcoming and reassuring, in some wicked way it was therapeutic.

— Now, Anon, tell us. – Samantha said. – What happened to you in those years? What did you achieve?

And Anon began his fairy tale of his life. About the events shortly after the disaster. About his nomadic life he lived for little bit less than a year and what he had learned from it. About how he finally made up his mind about what he needs to do with himself. About his part-time job. About Volcano University and about the present day. He talked and talked, Samantha and Ripley were listening, thoroughly, not saying a word. Soon, after he was done, the silence arose, but only lasted half a minute, before Ripley said:

— Well, at least you're here. And you've become better than who you are.

— Did I? – Anon said. – I don't think so.

— Why's that?

— Because I still believe that I made all this.

Ripley sighed and scowled.

— We're back to square A. Why do you believe so, Anon? Why can't you just understand that there is always something more than just you?

— Because there was just me, Ripley. – Anon said. – There was no outside influence. I made all this happen, because I didn't act. Because I pulled off before the game begun. And I just stood there, watching as people died around me. If I at least once lifted my finger, the outcome would be better.

Ripley sighed again. He didn't like that Anon said it and meant his words. He didn’t like that Anon's version is logical. And he didn't like that Anon still pushed himself into the soil of guilt. If there was one person who could sacrifice his entire being for the better – it was the one who sat at the opposite side of this table.

Samantha, sitting to the left from Anon, placed her hand onto his.

— Anon, dear. – she said, her voice filled with hope. – Please understand. We do not blame you, even if what you say is true. But there is just no need to continuously push yourself into the dirt. It was not your fault, you were just there, confused. There was everything, from odds not stacked into your favor to the result of previous outside influence. Whatever there is, it's always there. Try to think about it from time to time, okay?

Anon didn't give a response. He barely takes their advice, but now, as their eyes locked onto him with all the hope they have inside themselves, Anon doubts his self-righteous torch of blame. What if there is? What if they are right, and all this guilt is just unnecessary? If Anon thought about this before, he would only laugh, but now... Now he grew – with other knowledge, with other people. Now it's time to look into the phantom's eyes.

The talk continued, and now Anon was sitting on the couch, discussing some hobbies with Ripley. Despite his carnivorous look that always frightened Anon, this time around he was completely fine. Ripley did change, he experienced a real parallel shift. Samantha, on the other hand, remained almost the same, except maybe a bit more melancholy present in her gaze. Overall, everything went rather uneventful – they talked and talked about many things that were revolving around their lives.

Up until they slowly got to discuss her . Samantha became even more melancholic, Ripley scowled, not really desiring to remember the events, Anon sat with a stoned face and looked onto the glass coffee table. Her presence in this house still can be clearly felt, but only to receive another dose of spiritual pain of absence. Maybe those guys are really desiring to move out of this place? – Anon thought. – At least if I were them, I would’ve done so.

Suddenly, Anon heard a noise coming in from the second floor. It was something reminiscent of a soft guitar melody that was put into an echo chamber. He looked onto the empty stairs, feeling weird and nervous.

— Something’s on your mind? – Ripley asked.

Anon returned to his position, but remained silent.

— I think he wants to check out the room, dear. – Samantha said.

Ripley stopped scowling, looked at Anon rather sympathetically – something that for someone like Ripley is a really hard thing to do.

— If that’s the thing then… Why not? – Ripley said.

Anon hesitantly stood up, as if he had a burden inside him, slowly growing like an ancient tree. It was hard for him to move, but with all the mental force he held, he made it up the stairs and into the room.

It was completely empty. Empty like it was robbed – not only of the things in here, but of the feelings that were present here before. No posters were hanging from the wall. No lyrics written on the black walls with white pencils, markers and chalk. The bed is also empty. No warmth left inside these walls. Anon never knew that there could be a room so empty, so dreadful. He felt like his mind was screaming into pure static, painfully envisioning all the things absent in this room.

As Anon stood still, Ripley got up to the second floor too and, noticing Anon standing like a statue in the middle of the room, leaned onto the doorframe and said:

— We barely managed to get through this pain. And our strategy was to give out various of her belongings. Reed and Trish received their things. Some things were moved to Naser’s room. And when it came to giving out her guitars, it was my decision to give them to you.

Anon sat down onto the carpet floor. He breezed through the fur with his hand, but didn't feel anything. Even here, in this carpet floor, something was missing. Yes, the carpet was the same as he had seen many times before, but now it feels rather alien to breeze through it, as if he sees and feels it for the first time. As Anon breezed his hand through the carpet, Ripley sat down beside him.

— I get it, Anon, I really do, believe me. – Ripley said. – It's hard to just admit that all of that has happened. And it's harder to admit that it wasn't your fault. But I will say it again, – Ripley put his arm onto Anon’s back, – We do not blame you. There is always something and someone else for it, that could do the reaction. Of course you believe that you had the powers to stop them, but what if you don’t?

— You're telling me all of this could be predestined? – Anon asked, somewhat surprised and furious at this thought.

— That is only one point of view. – Ripley said. – You have a different one, I have a different one, my wife has a different one. There’s a… let’s say, a myriad of points of view on one singular object.

Silence arose again. Ripley stood up and walked off to leave Anon alone with his thoughts.

In this loneliness, he feels her presence right behind him. She tells him something, but her voice is but an echo, distant echo from the world captured as a nightmarish memory. Her angelic presence turned the air stiff, the light shines of illusionary divinity. Her wings cover him from all the evil, desiring to strike him in the back. Anon knows she's not there, knows she's but an image induced by guilt, and yet still wants to turn around, to catch a glimpse of her presence. To know she will always love him.

— Anon, you there? – he heard.

The voice immediately brought Anon back into reality. He looked around and to his right he noticed Ripley, sitting near him again, this time his hand on Anon's shoulder. After a second of pressurizing silence, Ripley removed his hand from the shoulder and sighed.

— Imagined she's here? – he asked.

Anon nodded, hesitantly.

— I will be honest, it happens to me too, from time to time.

Anon didn't respond. Ripley gave him a cardboard box, quite heavy, packed with things.

— These are some things she had for guitars. I wanted to send them your way, but now that you’re here… I would rather give them to you right now.

Anon nodded in gratitude and took the box. Suddenly, Ripley stood up.

— Let's go somewhere while we still have time. – he said.

Anon stood up too, and they left the room. They walked down to the first floor and to the front door. Anon began putting his boots on, when Samantha asked:

— Where are you two headed?

— Just wandering around the town. – Ripley said. – Nothing special really.

— Be safe out there, boys. – Samantha said, worried.

They left the house and silently entered the Nascar. Even here, in this repaired salon, there was something missing, Anon stopped caring about this fact. Ripley started the engine and peeled off out into the city.

 

***

 

Now they were at the Volcaldera Cemetery. A big plane for death to remain. The sky is murky. The sun is absent. The cold wind moves around with immense power. This is where the last goodbye is placed. This is where everything can be decided. Looking at the casket, one either can be happy because he is still living or sad because his beloved one isn't. Death, as cruel as it is, is one of many ways to support the galactic balance.

Anon and Ripley stood upon her gravestone. The words etched onto the metallic plaque hurt Anon more than just in his shin. Why did it have to be like this? Why didn't Anon act? If he did at least something, they wouldn't be here. If he did at least something, he would be different, and so will be Ripley, Samantha and everyone else they know. But he didn't, and now he's here, mourning about the past. I want to die, so she could live again. – Anon thinks.

— This is where everything was divided into before and after. – Ripley said. – This is where we all deviated from our own plans. This little gravestone marks the biggest change in our minds. And I don't even know if being alive is good for me or not... Because I am carrying what made all of this happen.

Ripley looked at Anon. He was deep in his thoughts.

— Anon… – he said.

Anon turned to him, his eyes lifeless and vacant. Ripley pulled out his right clenched hand, opened it for Anon, revealing the object he held onto for so long – a necklace with a thick black string and a little crow’s skull, made out of either silver or stainless steel. Her necklace.

— I'm giving this to you. – Ripley said. – Cherish it like your own eye.

Anon hesitantly grabbed the necklace and hid it in his coat. The wind blasted into his face, unforgivingly.

“ The rope hopelessly calls my name .”

 

 

***

 

“ Now it is all clear. I understand that my self-hatred and drenching in guilt was nothing more than a play for my mind. Exhausted, completely, but glad that I finally admit this. ”

The remaining days of March were spent in pre-production. Day after day, “Tennant” was spending time inside their beloved studio and playing various music, from covers to live improvisation. They were playing until late night, leaving with buzzing and ringing inside their ears. Slowly, in this chaotic process, their new anticipated album, “Apraxia”, from an abstract vision turned into a solid object, not so far out of reach. It is only a matter of time when they will finally get the ball rolling properly.

For the first time in his life Anon got a peak behind the actual process of making music. More than that – it was the first time he properly participated in such a process. It was weird at first, but soon he got into it. Besides, most of the time was spent mostly chatting and less on actual music. They took it with ease, despite the tension always being there. And with all that in mind, Anon witnessed how the crew actually records things.

Trent was the most basic one. When it strikes him, he places anything he holds aside, drops any conversation, begins recording and strums his guitar accordingly. His spur of the moment lasts for around two minutes before he saves the rough demo, settles his guitar and returns to the chat. It happens a lot during the day, and by the time they actually got to recording an album Trent had almost a hundred different demos, separated into those which he made at home and those which he made here, in the studio.

Curtis was mainly active when Anon, Nick or Trent were active too. Behind his enormous drumset, he either played the lines everyone in the band knew or surprised them with accurate and vivid drumming in their live improvisation sessions. With Curtis, they have recorded around fifteen different drafts for the songs. And yet the main thing for Curtis was drinking sodas, laughing and talking with his friends in the mixing room. As if he didn’t even care if the album will be made or not.

Nick, despite having the weight of the third guitar and, mainly, writing lyrics both for her and Anon, was breezing through the days of pre-production, live improv sessions and lonely demo recordings. She was also chatting a lot with the band, but Anon clearly saw that she feels like she’s missing out on something, completely replenishing that missing something by writing three different lyrics drafts – all three completely different from each other from the words to the theme and emotions. Once he saw her sitting on the floor, writing down something on her notepad; her face was so concentrated, Anon abruptly left, forgetting what he wanted to ask to not disturb her creative process.

Anon was only able to do things when he was completely alone. Despite all he had seen, he still feels freaky when he gets motivation and ideas right when the crew gets inside the mixing room for yet another “episode” of their “bootleg podcast” (said by Abby). He got to guitar only six times, while being completely alone in the mixing room, but those six times were long and packed with various ideas and emotions.

The only one who didn’t do anything was Abby, and her absence in all of the improv sessions and demo recordings was reasonable – she’s a bassist. She understands her role as being a supportive character, that doesn’t go out of his way, but the absence of who would turn things completely pale. Besides that, she was always present in discussions, giving out different ideas and always being on the short leg with the band’s passions, which for “Tennant” was more than enough.

And everything went just like this, until the anticipated day of recording the album finally got around.

It was a sunny Saturday, completely free of all the worrying material that could get into the way. Anon got up early, got dressed, ate some hearty breakfast and began waiting. This day, he felt, was promising a lot on many different levels. The warm weather promised no headaches, the clarity of mind promised no unnecessary halts. Overall, he laid huge hopes that everything would be done exactly today.

But aside from this, he felt no pressure from his past. In the past few months there were little to no moments of pain in his shin. As if he finally let go, remembering only the smallest bits. There was nothing to hold him back anymore, his deviation from the past was finally completed. And now, with all the power he had, Anon steps inside the huge door of today and tomorrow, hoping and believing.

Curtis gave him a call, telling that the band awaits him. Anon got his shoes and left the apartment, swiftly making his way to the first floor and outside. The sky was brighter than ever. The distant sea was shining like diamonds. A dream state. Anon got inside the car, sitting at his shotgun seat, and shook hands with the crew.

— Today’s the day. – Nick said to him, excited. – All of our preparations and ideas will now be fulfilled in our new album.

— We got the lyrics, we got the demos, we even got the cover for it! – Trent said.

— Courtesy of me. – Abby said, proud of her achievement.

— Alright! Let’s roll! – Curtis announced.

He pushed the pedal to the metal and immediately drove out of Noah Arc. The road was quick, intense, and soon they arrived at the studio before they knew it. The band made it inside, entered the mixing room. Trent immediately got behind the mixing table, booting the machine for the long day of work. Curtis also left, to prepare his drumset for the recordings. Sheer minutes later, the process officially began.

Hours passed like nothing. From drums, to guitars, to bass, to vocals, – this myriad of actions blended in together, turning into the mass amount of released energy. Anon got to try out his best at vocals, and, judging by the reactions of his bandmates, he absolutely crushed it. There was a lot of everything, but most importantly – a lot of soul put into the album. “Tennant” pushed themselves to the edge, to release what was the most important album of their lives.

And as the clock struck nine PM, they were officially done.

Curtis was lying on the only sofa, presumably sleeping. Trent was sitting behind the mixing desk doing some important stuff for the album, and Abby, Nick and Anon sat on the floor, talking about different things. Presumably, Anon told them how he got the instruments. His lie was perfected on many levels, and his stoned face played perfectly for him.

— …but still I want you to take care about these things, alright? It still cost some cash for me.

— Of course we will, don’t worry. – Abby said.

Nick nodded in agreement.

Before they could continue, suddenly, Anon received a call on his phone. He got up, left the mixing studio and into the dark streets. The night slowly took hold. Anon answered:

— Yeah?

— Jesus fucking Christ… – An old man said on the other side of the line. – I’m literally dying in here, and you picked up only now? Well, what else could I expect for all the bullshit I did.

Anon knew the voice on the other line. And he barely believed it when he listened to it on this day. It struck him like a pendulum – at first he didn’t believe it, but as the pendulum moved to the other side, he felt blissful and happy, hearing his voice that day.

— Anon? You there? – the old man said.

— Yeah, I am. – Anon swiftly replied.

— I’m here to tell you something. Mum’s gone. Was, for almost a month. I tried to contact you, but you were always out of reach. At least you’ve picked up today, so that’s that. I’m also on my deathbed, as you can imagine.

The news barely hurt Anon – he was on the other side of heaven, hearing his dad’s voice.

— Look… All things in the world must make amends when death is near. And so I decided to do mine. Since you’ve matured from that day you’ve left our home, I believe you can withstand what I’ll say next. I’m sorry. For everything. I really am, and I can’t fucking hide it anymore. I’m sorry that I failed to be an actual parent for you. Like, teach you shit, like a proper dad would. Instead I just let you toss yourself around, and now you’re here, at the threshold, soon to be left completely alone in this world. I’m sorry, Anon. I’ve failed you.

The words shook Anon for good. From the heavens into the soil on which he stands. A tear strook his face.

— I really miss you. I really do. And, for some time, I hoped that you will remember about me and come around. But, judging by the fact you’ve picked up the call only now, I guess we don’t deserve it. And we don’t for good. I’m sorry, sonny. I didn’t want to hurt you.

Anon feels like he must answer – but what? What he could say? He could tell his own father, lying on the deathbed awaiting the parting with this world, to flip off for what he had done – or, rather, did not. But Anon can’t – because he and his dad are the apple and the apple tree. He did exactly what his father did in the deciding moments – barebones nothing. Still, the answer is required, and if they are making amends, then Anon should participate.

— No one ever does, dad. – Anon said. – But when the time rolls around, we must find courage and strength to answer for what we did.

— Sonny… – the old man sounded like he was about to cry.

— I love you dad. Even after everything, I still love you. I have matured, yes, and I’ve learnt my lessons. I have new friends, new places to be, new perspectives and hopes. In the end – I have a new life. And I’m forever glad that you’ve decided to call me, to put a dot in our prolonged fight.

Their talk continued for around two more minutes, until his dad finally hung up. Anon hid his phone, and soon began to cry. He won’t see his old man ever again. This is the last time they’ve talked. Anon didn’t hide his face in his hands, but looked into the empty streets with his murky vision as the downpour of tears commenced on his face. Yet another boulder moved aside. Now there’s barely anything left, and Anon cries as he feels the lightness.

Nick, worried for Anon, got outside into the cold and ascended the little staircase. She noticed him right away, and the more she looked at him – the more worried she felt. He was just standing there, absent, vacant. His eyes look into the nothingness, shining with tears. Silver trails continue on his cheeks. He has heard something he never wanted to hear. – Nick thought. She quickly approached him and silently hugged him, as tight as her arms allowed her.

Anon felt her presence, but didn’t move an inch. Despite not knowing his problem, she knew that he was in distress. Soon, Anon slowly got his hands around her, and now they were sharing everything they had with this singular hug. And as they stood, two lovers oblivious to their feelings, the night lightened.

“ To forget and to believe. ”