-1Lin is waiting for me in my dressing room. He stands straight as a pencil, arms folded across his chest, his eyes glaring out at me from his glasses.

“What’s with you?” I ask him. I begin unbuttoning my shirt.

“I should be asking you that question, Kyorei,” Lin says in his usual flat voice. “You agreed with Bucho-san that you would write three songs this month, and you’ve written nothing! You’ve had twenty days, and you have wasted them. You know you must compete with Raxmorphia! They are looking to outsell you, and they’re giving you a run for your money. I have the charts - do you want to see the charts? The charts -”

“Screw the charts, Lin. Screw Raxmorphia. I will write those three songs.”

Lin let out an exasperated sigh. “Will you really? Or are you just saying that? Or will you write three really crappy songs just to say you did it?”

“I’ll write three amazing songs by the end of the month. You have my word.”

“All right. I will tell Takahashi-san that you’re on top of things. His blind faith in you is never-ending. Now, excuse me, I must go call him.”

Despite his anxieties, Lin is the best manager that Demon Dragon could have attained. He has been employed by VAGABOND Records for fifteen years, since it was founded by Shusuke Takahashi. I do not know exactly what the relationship between the two men is, but they seem to be very close. In fact, the only one who can put Lin at ease is Takahashi-san.

Three days later. I am laying in bed (yes, we sleep in beds), just gazing at the ceiling. Crumpled pieces of paper litter the floor surrounding the bed. My hands are covered in black ink marks that contrast brilliantly against my pallid skin.

When I first sat down to write, my head was swimming with ideas. Now there is nothing. Nothing. A worthless void in my mind and soul. I have one week left to get these songs written, and nothing is happening. Reject. Reject. Reject. That is crap. This is crap. Everything I write is pure and utter crap. I have no inspiration, no muse to give me creative guidance. What can I say that has not been said before? I’ve written about everything from bloodsucking to spousal abuse. Unrequited love to friendship gone to shambles. Abortion. Hope. Murder. Past. Present. Future.

It’s all cliché. It’s overdone. It’s exhausting. No fresh ideas pop into my mind, no matter how hard I try to invoke them.

Mentally taxed. The only emotion is frustration. Frustrated with myself, my surroundings, my inability to create. With a deadline looming overhead, all the pressures are weighing down on me at once.

Does it matter? In the long run, will any of this make a difference? What if I vanished? I’ve done it before. I could do it again. Go back to a peaceful, uninterrupted, deep slumber, not paying mind to the world outside. Listening but not really listening. Not caring.

But…

I couldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t let me if I tried. His puppy dog eyes, far too large for being Japanese, would look up at me. Precious. Don’t leave me, they would plea. Eyelashes bat. Oh god, don’t torment me like this, I would think to myself. No. No no no no no no.

THUD.

My heart jumps just thinking about him. Tsukumi. I want you here. I need you here. Wash away my loneliness with your smile. Ease my frustration. Tell me everything will be okay. Tell me something, anything. Your voice… I need to hear your voice…

You are not awake at this hour. You are lying peacefully in your bed, in your tiny apartment. Whatever dreams are in that pretty head of yours, I want them to be happy ones.

That’s it.

I have my song.

I leap from the bed, stomp across the cluttered floor to the table where my laptop is, and open my word program.

The lyrics. The words. They flow from my fingers in perfect streams.

One song.

Two songs.

Three songs.

I finish just as the sun begins to rise. Though my windows are boarded, I can sense the sunrise. Fatigued from a night of heavy writing, I retreat to the comfort of my twin-sized bed, where I dream of seeing his face.

Now I have to face him with these three songs. It’s been two nights since my great burst of creative output, and we (as in the band, Lin, and Takahashi-sama) are having a meeting. We are at an Italian restaurant, all seated around a large wooden table with a red and white checkered tablecloth. The waiter asks us what we would like to eat.

Takahashi-sama orders lasagna and a Coke. Lin opts for a dish of manicotti. Yuu-chan and Tsukumi both order spaghetti with meatballs. Q makes me order for him. (The guy barely speaks, so I’ve become accustomed to acting as his voice.) He gets Sicilian style swordfish.

“And for you, sir?” the waiter inquires.

I reply, “Nothing, thank you.”

The guy gives me a funny look before he leaves. I’ll have my dinner later.

“You have your three songs? May I see the lyrics and composition?” Takahashi asks. I fork over the folder containing the music. He opens and browses through it with a never-changing, expressionless face. He closes the folder and whispers something to Lin. Lin shrugs. They both turn their attentions to me.

“What inspired you to write these songs?” Takahashi inquires.

Gulp. Dare I speak the truth in front of Tsukumi? He has read through the lyrics and helped me with composing, yet he does not know that those three songs are about him.

“Nothing in particular,” is my vague reply. “I just felt like writing something different.”

“‘Different’ is an understatement,” Takahashi says gravely. “This strays far from your normal style. Do you honestly think these songs will appeal to your Japanese audience? They are all in English and are rock ballads.”

Shit. He hates it! I poured everything I had into those three songs. Tsukumi and I worked hard trying to piece the music together.

“If you want to hear the demos-” Tsukumi starts, but he is cut off by Lin.

“We don’t need demos. Get in the recording studio and make these songs work,” Lin instructs. “Takahashi-san and I concur that these songs are excellently written, and we are anxious to hear the real deal.”

Tsukumi breathes a sigh of relief, but I cannot do the same.

Takahashi starts inhaling his lasagna, talking in between mouthfuls. “So, Kyorei, why is it all in English? I am curious. You’ve written so few songs in English before. I almost didn’t believe you were fluent.”

“I speak many languages, Takahashi-san. Vampire, remember?”

A smile graces Takahashi’s boyish face. “I forgot. You vampires are worldly creatures. It must be nice to have that kind of freedom.”

Freedom… At the mention of the word, an ephemeral feeling overcomes me. There is little freedom in being a vampire. I am eternally bound to this body, a container for a sinister soul. A cage without escape, except through a prolonged venture in the sunlight.

I am not ready for that. Not yet.

“Takahashi-san, what kind of free will do you think someone like myself has?” I impulsively and loudly ask him.

Q and Yuu-chan both choke on their food. Lin’s eyes bulge out of their sockets as his fork falls, clinking against the hard tiled floor. Tsukumi’s gaze drops to the hideous checkered tablecloth.

“I cannot step foot outside during the day! My source of energy comes from blood! I have outlived everyone I’ve ever cared about, and I still don’t know how to deal with that!”

I have said too much. Rash words from a wounded soul will only hurt others. Everyone is speechless. Except for Tsukumi.

“I think what Kyorei means is that, while there are certain things his kind are more free to do than humans, they are still bound by restrictions. Maybe more so than we can imagine,” reasons Tsukumi.

There only break in silence succeeding Tsukumi’s statement is Yuu-chan growling as two young men make cat calls toward her. The rest of the evening is taciturn.

Exiting the restaurant, I pull Tsukumi aside.

“Tsukumi-kun… Thank you,” is all I can say.

He flashes me his perfect smile and replies, “No problem.” He takes my icy hand, and we walk to the car together.