“Dammit, there‘s gotta be one around.”

He had rolled through the hallway, hoping the wheels of his chair hadn’t made too much noise on the wooden floors. He had checked all of the rooms that were around his, no phone. He couldn’t help but notice that each room was a clone of his own. And there were at least seven rooms down there. He wondered what this place had been like before Karen dwindled her client count to one. He pictured a noisy house, with people in wheelchairs bumping into each other constantly. They were put to work, as he had been. They fed the horses, they took the garbage out. They didn‘t get cut any slack because it was raining, or because they toppled over in their wheelchairs. They were forced to do those damn exercises day in and day out, nearly killing themselves in the process. He wondered if any of them hated Karen as much as he did. He knew it was likely. The woman was the Adolf Hitler of therapists. But then again, maybe they didn’t. They never had her undivided attention. She hadn’t been able to see every little flaw they possessed. They got off easy.

But he didn't deserve to get off easy

Justin hadn’t realized just how big this house was. He hadn’t taken the time. He was always depressed. He spent every free moment the doctor allowed him in his room. Now, he was almost sorry he had. The rest of the house reminded him a little of his own home. With its hardwood floors and fixtures, and its simple but classy looking furniture. The den had comfortable looking couches, that he could tell offered the best naps in the house, and there was a huge fireplace, a real one. Not the kind you turned on with a remote, like he had in his house. It was a beautiful home. Justin only wished he were here for a vacation, instead of being here for therapy.

Now here he sat, after all of his hard work. Here he sat, in the middle of the kitchen, gazing at the telephone that sat on a part of the countertop that was impossible for him reach. There it fucking sat. Karen had planned this out. That was it. She had deliberately set that phone there so he would see it, and not be able to reach it. Maybe there was a way he could slide it forward. A broom maybe? He glanced around. No. No broom. No long pointed objects of any kind. It had been done purposely. He sighed. He couldn’t deny it anymore.

He wasn’t getting out of here anytime soon. Not until that bitch let him talk to his mother anyway.

His head shot up when he heard it. Somebody was playing a piano. But they were playing Chopsticks. Of all things, why Chopsticks? Especially at this hour. He chuckled. Trace. He hadn’t been able to play anything but Chopsticks. The music seemed to be calling out to him despite the song. Then he was gliding, floating…around corners, down hallways. The music grew louder. Then he stopped moving as suddenly as he had started. The door was half closed, but it was apparent by the shadow on the floor that there was indeed somebody seated at the piano. He gently pushed the door open. His jaw hung open.

Trace was playing the piano.

“What’re you doin?” Justin laughed.

Trace stopped playing long enough to look over at him. “Well, I see you‘ve made it into your Hotwheels okay. Find a phone?”

“Its too high,” Justin grumbled.

“Hmmph,” he shrugged. “Tough shit, man.”

Now he was playing Row, Row, Row Your Boat. It was getting on his nerves. The fact Trace was sitting there, using that beautiful instrument as some mediocre toy was just wrong. Didn’t he know how much magic, and beauty could be created with it? He sucked in a breath. He wasn’t going to let Trace continue on that way. He wheeled himself closer to the piano. “Get outta here,” he told him.

Trace smiled, and continued playing. “Can’t appreciate real talent when you see it can yah?”

“Come on!” he yelled, reaching out to push him off the bench.

Trace reared back before his hand could come in contact with him. “Whoa! Don’t touch the merchandise!” he said, and with a small smile, promptly disappeared.

Justin stared at the empty bench. Had that just happened? Had Trace really been playing the piano? He couldn’t have been. It would have woken the whole house up. He shook his head vigorously. It was his mind playing tricks on him again. But the piano was still there. That wasn’t an illusion. He ran his hand across the smooth ivory keys, taking in a thousand forgotten memories as he did so. He closed his eyes.

His eyes snapped open. He played the notes. “Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, Ti, Do,” he sang softly. He tried to pull his hand away. He couldn’t. Before he realized it, he had pushed the bench out of the way and had wheeled himself in front of the piano. He set his hands on the keys. Something clicked on in his brain. Like a fuse that had just been replaced. It had been so long. Too long. He hadn’t had the motivation to play anything since Trace had passed. It was too painful for him then. But now…now he needed it. He knew playing would be able to take him away from all of his pain, all of his demons. Even if only for tonight.

The music was soft, and mellow. He knew this song well. “Oh no, I see…” he began. His hand slipped. The sound was sour and off key. He flinched. It had been too long. His hands shot back, as if they had been placed on a hot burner. He couldn’t do it. He felt the tears form, and trickle down his face. “I hate you,” he told the piano. “I fucking hate you.” He closed his eyes again. A soft sob escaped him. He bit down on his bottom lip.

His eyes were open again. He let his gaze fall on the piano. “I…I don’t hate you,” he admitted. He placed his hands back on the keys, and waited for the instrument to respond. It did. It was talking to him. It was speaking to him in a way that only he could understand. Be calm, it said. Let me in. He took its advice. The music ran through him. His veins, his heart, his brain…breathing life into him. It was reaching places that hadn’t been filled with any sort of joy or happiness for months. He felt whole for the moment. “Oh no, I see. I spun a web, it’s tangled up with me…” he sang. The tears began to fall again. He didn’t try to stop them. “And I lost my head. The thought of all the stupid things I said.”

Coldplay had always been a way out for him. A release from his chaotic lifestyle. Nobody had fully understood this, except for Trace. After a show, popping in Parachutes and sitting on the couch with a beer had been the equivalent to a night at the club. He could be at peace with himself. Coldplay had been something that he could do, that nobody could take pictures of…or harass him about…or have him sign. It had been his…and Trace’s too. Something they could share as friends. Something they hadn’t shared with the guys, or Marty, or Elisha…or anybody else. It had been theirs.

And now he was alone with the memory of it all.

He stopped playing.

“Don’t stop.”

He gasped, startled by the voice. He looked over his shoulder. Sheridan was leaning against the door frame. He quickly wiped the stray tears off of his face. “W-what’re you doing watchin’ me?”

She straightened herself. “How did you get out of bed?”

He was silent for a moment. “I just…got out.”

“You could have hurt yourself,” she said.

He looked back at the piano. “I want to use the phone,” he said softly, running a finger along the keys.

“Mom’ll kill me. I can’t,” she told him. “Why don’t you play some more? It was nice.”

“No,” he shot at her.

“Oh,” she frowned. “Okay.”

He felt bad. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t her place to be asking him to play. She didn’t know how much strength it had taken him to do what he just did.

“C’mon. Serenade the girl.”

Hearing Trace’s voice, he glanced around the room. But Trace wasn’t there. Great. Now he was hearing voices too. “No,” he said.

“Alright,” Sheridan replied, stepping into the room. “I heard you.” She approached him and sat down on the bench. “Maybe…we can just talk then. You seem like…you could use a nice long talk with somebody.”

“It’ll be like old times,” the voice echoed.

“I said no!” Justin yelled. “What don’t you fucking understand Trace!”

“Who’s Trace?”

Justin gasped. He stared at her, his eyes wide with fear. “Nothin…nobody.”

She folded her arms under her breasts, and smiled. “Do you have an imaginary friend?”

He became enraged. He grabbed by her arm and pulled her close to him. “Don’t mess with me.”

“I told you that you would need to talk about all of this eventually,” she whispered, obviously not phased by the grip he had on her. “Don’t you think you should do it now, instead of trying to hold it all in? I mean, look at you Justin…sitting there like that, trying to intimidate me when you could be pushing all that negative energy out instead. It’s okay you know…it’s okay to let go and cry.”

He sucked in a breath. The tears wanted to come out full force. They wanted to spill out all over his face, and his body wanted him to bawl like baby. He was desperately trying to hold it all back. He didn’t want to let go. Not now. Not in front of her. She didn’t know. And she couldn’t know. “No…” he said through gritted teeth. “No Sheridan.”

“Shh,” she said, reaching out and caressing his face with her hand. “You’re okay.”

Her hand was warm. Warm like his mothers was. It felt wonderful…like warm apple pie on a summer day at Nana’s. He grabbed onto her hand, and held it against his face. He needed it. He needed it so badly.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “You don’t have to hide anymore.”

The tears began to slide down his face, despite his efforts to keep them away. “I…I have to.”

She shook her head, and brought both her hands to his face. “No. You don’t.”

“It hurts,” he said.

She nodded. “I know.”

He stared at her. That face…those eyes. They were so honest, so caring. They wanted to help, any way they could. He felt his body tighten, his throat, his heart, his eyes. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. He looked up and she wasn’t making fun of him, or giving him fake sympathy, or trying to make him "feel better"

She was just there.

And he let go.