It was Thursday morning and Marie had called off of work to get more practice time in. She stumbled on every single note, played all of the chords in the wrong rhythm. She was a nervous wreck, and Jones did very little to help. Jones does very little in this chapter, actually, as they have gone out for a pack of smokes. In between each song, Marie hit her vaporizer, desperate for something to ease the tension she felt in her spine ever since agreeing to play. Regina the calico was her only comfort, giving her slight little mews of encouragement that did, in fact, help Marie to keep going. It was around lunchtime when she got two phone calls, both she let go to voice message. The first phone call was from Mrs. Kyle, asking Marie what exactly she planned on playing tomorrow night, so that a showbill may be written up. The second call was from her father, Carl Joyce. Carl was asking about Marie’s performance, how he could arrange travel, lodging, tickets, and what have you.
Marie told Mrs. Kyle exactly what she planned on playing, after a careful consideration of all the sheet music she had available to her. She then told Carl that tickets were sold at the door, and as far as hotels go, he was welcome to sleep on the futon with Jones, but she would not be able to provide much else. Carl told her that he should be able to see her next time, then. After this, Marie fell asleep on the futon, stale tobacco wafting slowly into her olfactories.
She had another nightmare about the blackout. Her brain, in an attempt to make sense of the whole ordeal, had implanted the memory that there was a physical form she could see. This form was her own, though indistinguishable to the naked eye from the grey noise, she knew it was her body. She would take her hand up to her head and run it through her hair, more feelings of pins and needles on the hands.
Marie woke up screaming.
Jones was standing over her when she awoke, immediately offering a comforting hand.
“Are you alright?” They asked.
“I’m—” Marie started, then looked at the clock on the wall. She had only been asleep for a half an hour. “I-I didn’t expect you to be back so late.”
“Sorry, I ran into a friend. Mr. Ellison to be more specific.”
“What are you getting at?”
“He has a surprise for you, we just have to go downstairs.”
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“Mr. Ellison lives downstairs?” Marie stood up, humoring Jones by puting some boots and a coat on.
“Where else would he live?” Jones started down the hallway. “Come on, let’s go.” And so they did go down four flights of stairs leading to one of the larger apartments in the complex. There were two bedrooms in the place. When Jones and Marie crossed the threshold into it, they noticed a dusty old room to their right, this would be Mr. Ellison’s bedroom, which they dared not look into, even for a moment. They got past a hallway with a bathroom and saw an attached kitchen and living room. The living room had a gigantic window leading out into the apartment’s courtyard. The building shook, though nobody could see any of the trucks bearing the logo of the much more successful company on their side. They were only visible from the back of the building. Mr. Ellison’s living room was like a museum out of some textbook, filled with little trinkets and knick-knacks spanning from all over Pan-America. His bookshelf had some novels still leaning on their side, with large chunks of his collection laying about the apartment.
Mr. Ellison poured himself a scotch, making smalltalk with the pair before getting to the point:
“So, Marie,” he started. “I’m sure Jones has told you I have a surprise waiting for you. Have they said what the nature of the surprise is?” Marie shook her head. “Well, all praise to the tight-lipped Jones!” Mr. Ellison said, opening the door to the second bedroom, set diagonally against the living room. The walls were covered in posters and at the end of the room was an upright piano, of the same Japanese brand that Marie played within the system.
“Jones told me that you needed something else to practice on.” Mr Ellison said. “Consider this your studio until tomorrow night.”
“Mr. Ellison, I don’t know how I could possibly thank you.” Marie said.
“No thanks necessary. We all rely on the kindness of strangers, after all.” So, Marie practiced on this off-brand Japanese upright for a few hours. Jones told her that it was the best they had ever heard her play. Mr. Ellison gave similar sentiments from across the living room. That being said, Marie still felt something off about the physical act of playing the piano. Her songs eventually lost enthusiasm to the point where Jones stepped in.
“Hey, you wanna get back upstairs?” They asked. Marie nodded and followed Jones out, promising Mr. Ellison that they would both be back tomorrow. They made the trek slowly up the four flights of stairs and sat on Marie’s futon. Marie was twitching ever so slightly.
“I’m sorry.” Jones eventually said. “I didn’t realize this would shake your nerves so much. If it helps, I think you’ll do great.”
“Thanks, Jones.” Marie said.
That night, as they both slept, Marie was woken by the screams of Jones in the middle of their own nightmare. They ran to the bathroom and lost dinner before coming out to give some explanation and apology to Marie. They said that the dream wouldn’t make any sense, even if they tried to explain it, but that it was about all the things they’ve seen, mostly the bodies.