Tuesday, March 22, 2016 (1:00 AM)
Michael couldn't sleep.
The conversation with Isabella had left him empty in a way he hadn't expected. It wasn't sadness exactly, not even emotional exhaustion. It was sothing deeper. As if by absorbing another person's pain, he had awakened sothing inside him that had been dormant for a long ti.
The suite at the Miami Beach hotel was obscenely luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, furniture that probably cost more than a car, minibar full of bottles that glead under the dim lights.
Michael walked to the minibar and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He wasn't a drinker, not really, but tonight he needed sothing to quiet the noise in his head.
He poured himself a glass. Drank it in one gulp. The liquid burned his throat, still sensitive from the shows.
'One more', he thought. And then another.
T-Roc appeared at the door connecting their suites.
"You okay, Mike?"
Michael raised the glass in a silent toast. "Processing."
T-Roc ca in and sat on the couch. He pulled sothing from his pocket: an already rolled joint.
"Would this help?"
Michael looked at the joint for a mont. He didn't smoke much. Amy had advised against it for his voice. But tonight... tonight the rules didn't apply.
"Give it here."
T-Roc passed it to him along with a lighter. Michael lit it, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling slowly toward the ceiling.
The effect was almost imdiate. The tension in his shoulders began to dissolve. The noise in his head beca softer, more manageable.
"Thanks," he murmured.
"That's what we're here for."
---
Three glasses of whiskey and half a joint later, Michael was sunk into the couch, watching the lights of Miami Beach through the window. The city glowed like a million broken promises.
Sothing was bubbling inside him. Sothing that needed to co out.
"I need to record sothing," he said suddenly, his voice hoarse from the whiskey and smoke.
T-Roc, who was half asleep on the other couch, sat up. "Now? It's almost three in the morning."
"Now."
"What song?"
Michael got up and walked to his laptop, which was on the desk by the window. He opened it and searched through the files until he found what he was looking for.
"This one," he said. "I've had it for a while but never found the right mont."
The file title read: "I spoke to the devil in miami - INSTRUNTAL"
T-Roc ca closer and looked at the screen. "I don't know this one."
"Nobody does. It's... different. Darker than anything I've released."
"Why now?"
Michael looked out the window at the city glowing in the darkness.
"Because I'm in Miami. Because I just talked to a girl who almost killed herself. Because the whiskey has honest and the weed has open." He paused. "And because this song talks about making deals with the devil. And tonight, I feel like I'm negotiating with sothing I don't understand."
T-Roc said nothing. He just nodded and started setting up the portable recording equipnt they always carried.
---
The hotel suite beca an improvised studio. T-Roc had set up the microphone near the window, where the city lights created a ghostly glow. Michael stood in front of it, headphones on, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
"Ready?" T-Roc asked.
"No. But that's the point."
T-Roc pressed record.
The instruntal began. It was different from anything Michael had produced before. There was no traditional beat, just layers of ambient sounds, distorted voices whispering in the background, and a lody that crawled like sothing out of a nightmare.
Michael closed his eyes and let the intro envelop him. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper:
'It will all be over soon...'
The words floated in the air like a warning. Or a promise.
Then the verse began, his voice hoarse from the whiskey and smoke, each word falling like a stone in dark water:
'And I'm always where the sun don't shine'
'The tears don't show, won't hurt now'
''Cause heart's been broke'
'I hate myself, but it won't show'
'I constantly lose all my remorse'
The song flowed from him as if it had been waiting years to co out. He wasn't really singing, more like reciting, letting the words spill out in a dark stream of consciousness.
'And it's ten for the wolf and three for the shepherd'
'And it's one for the sheep who led by your leopard'
'Often gave his perception as a handle of weapon'
'Took a bite of your apple, give all you can offer'
T-Roc watched him with a mix of fascination and concern. He had never seen Michael like this. So open. So vulnerable. So dangerously honest.
'Now I'm trapped in a changing maze'
'Settin' my soul ablaze'
'Couldn't control the pace'
'Where is this going, hey?'
'Heartless is recklessness'
'It's word of a pacifist to word of a masochist'
'I'm off of the map, my Lord'
Michael opened his eyes and looked directly toward the window, toward the lights of Miami glowing like eyes in the darkness.
'I spoke to a Baphot'
'He said he would save if I gave him one thing he needed'
'"What is this thing?" I pleaded'
'Boy, it's the key to even, yeah'
The instruntal changed, becoming even more ethereal, more disturbing. Michael lowered his voice to almost a whisper for the outro:
'And as I spoke, my fangs were shown'
'Taken aback, he smiles and tells '
'"What you crave will soon be yours'
'But what I crave is already mine"'
A pause. Then the final words, repeated like a demonic mantra:
'Anima vestra'
'Anima'
'Anima vestra'
'Anima'
The music faded into silence.
Michael stood motionless in front of the microphone, breathing heavily.
---
T-Roc stopped the recording and stared at the screen for a long mont.
"What the fuck was that?" he finally asked.
Michael dropped onto the couch, the empty whiskey glass still in his hand.
"The truth," he replied. "Or sothing like it."
"What's the song about? Baphot? Anima vestra? What does that an?"
Michael smiled, but there was no joy in the expression.
"Anima vestra. Latin. It ans 'your soul.'" He paused. "The song is about making a deal with the devil. About selling your soul for what you desire. But the twist is that the devil reveals he already has what he wants. Your soul was already his before you even started negotiating."
T-Roc shuddered. "That's dark, Mike."
"Life is dark. Especially for those who struggle like Isabella. Like all the people who write to saying my songs keep them alive." Michael looked at the ceiling. "Sotis I wonder if I'm helping or if I'm normalizing the pain. If by singing about wanting to die, I'm giving others permission to feel the sa."
"You're helping," T-Roc said firmly. "I saw it tonight. I saw how Isabella looked at you. You're not normalizing anything. You're validating that pain exists. That's different."
Michael didn't respond. He just closed his eyes and let the alcohol and weed drag him toward sothing resembling sleep.
---
Michael woke up with a brutal headache and a throat that felt like sandpaper.
For a mont, he didn't rember the recording from the night before. Then the fragnts ca back: the whiskey, the joint, the lights of Miami, the words flowing from him like blood from a wound.
He got up from the couch where he'd fallen asleep and walked to the desk. The laptop was still open, the recording file visible on the screen.
"I spoke to the devil in miami - VOCAL TAKE 1"
He pressed play.
The song filled the suite. His voice sounded different than he rembered. Rawer. More broken. The hoarseness from the whiskey and smoke gave it a texture no studio effect could replicate.
It was imperfect. It was honest. It was terrifying.
'This can't co out', was his first thought. 'It's too much.'
But then he thought of Isabella. Of the DC staffer whose brother had killed himself. Of the hundreds of ssages he received every day from people fighting in the darkness.
'They deserve to hear this', he thought. 'They deserve to know they're not alone in the darkness.'
He saved the file and closed the laptop.
The song would wait for its mont. But when that mont ca, it was going to change everything.
---
The Prevost left Miami Beach heading for Houston. Michael was in his suite, drinking water and taking ibuprofen for the hangover, when Karl entered.
"Rough night?" he asked, noticing Michael's state.
"Productive," Michael replied. "I recorded sothing."
"At the hotel?"
"At three in the morning. Drunk and high."
Karl frowned. "Michael..."
"I know what you're going to say. But I needed to do it. And the result..." Michael paused. "It's the most honest thing I've ever recorded."
"Can I hear it?"
Michael hesitated for a mont. Then he nodded and opened the laptop.
The song filled the bus's suite. Karl listened in silence, his expression going from concern to surprise to sothing like awe.
When it ended, he was quiet for several seconds.
"That's... different," he finally said.
"I know."
"It's dark."
"I know."
"It's incredible."
Michael looked up. "Really?"
Karl nodded slowly. "I don't know how people will react. But it's real art. It's honest in a way that's almost scary."
Michael smiled for the first ti in hours. "That was exactly what I was going for."
The bus kept rolling west, leaving Miami behind.
But the devil of Miami traveled with them.
In an audio file.
Waiting for its mont to erge.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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