Mix Tape by Brett Witty Version: 0.1 Pre-release (see ABOUT and HELP for more information about the game) The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don’t wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules.Rob Gordon, High Fidelity *** PRESS PLAY TO BEGIN *** Track 1. Ben Folds’ Five – Smoke ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Out here you can forget everything else. With the tangle of scrub behind you, craggy cliffs below you and a vast, churning sea beyond, the only life here is that which you bring along. You duck under the last thin claw of branches, and follow Peter into the clearing. The clearing is only a few metres wide, covered in a weary dirt broken up with spindly tufts of grass. In the middle lies a small pile of dead ash sheltering behind a clump of rocks. Peter drops his satchel beside the rocks and moves towards the cliff edge, silently looking out. He didn’t say anything on the hike up, so you’re a little worried what this is all about. In fact, asking you to come here was the only thing he’s said to you ever since he decided to break up with you. The only reason you came was the possibility, however faint, of a second chance. The Cliff Top Between the ragged divide separating the scrub and the sea is a small dirt clearing atop a cliff face — where you find yourself. Three rocks form a small wall, protecting a dead campfire from the southerly winds. Above you a grey sky drifts wearily north, towards the city and people you left behind. A thin dirt path wends its way through the scrabble of trees, following the clouds. Peter stands on the cliff edge, staring out over the churning grey sea, lost in thought. >hi “Um, Peter?” you ask. He quietly turns to face you, and nods, letting you speak further. (You could ask him why you are here.) >ask him why you are here You dread asking. He shattered your heart before and you’re not tough enough to face it again. But you still love him and have trust in him. You shield your eyes from the winds whipping about and ask, “Peter, why did you... Why did you bring me here?” For a whole beat, Peter stands motionless at the edge of the cliff. Anxiety bubbles deep inside your stomach and you open your mouth to ask again. Peter suddenly turns to face you, his glasses perfectly mirroring the grey skies, but hiding his eyes. He hunches his shoulders and takes a few steps towards you. “Val, about that letter... After I sent it, and when I heard about... well, I felt really bad. It wasn’t right. ” He steps even closer and puts his hand on your shoulder. “Val, I still love you.” Your heart aches and you smile. With his face still solemn, he drops his hand from your shoulder. “But I can’t be with you. It’s complicated. I feel like I betrayed you. So I wanted to do it right.” Your heart, your spirit, everything falls. It slips down, away from you, and over the edge of the cliff. Your hands tremble. Peter grabs your arm and you almost pull away. “Valentine, no wait. Listen.” You narrow your eyes at him. “Val, believe me. I love you but this is the only... the best way.” He reaches into your satchel and pulls out the scrapbook that he asked you to bring. The scrapbook you kept of your relationship. All the memories, photos, and poems, he takes from your bag and presses it gently into your chest. He looks into your eyes. “I know you don’t believe me, but I know with all my heart, we need to do this. We need to burn your scrapbook. We need to free the memories, and start again. I still care for you, and I think we can have a stronger friendship if this... the scrapbook is sacrificed. Pay it the respect it deserves, but start anew.” “Valentine, do you understand? Do you understand what we need to do?” (You could say yes or no, or ask him about the scrapbook.) >yes You shrink into yourself and nod, eyes closed. “You sure, Val? You know I’m doing this for you... for us... That it’s the right thing and I still care for you?” You swallow hard and nod more definitely. “Okay... Okay. Let’s find some kindling,” he says, turning away. >get kindling You slowly gather up the kindling, still unsure about all this. >give kindling to peter You walk over to Peter and silently show him the bundle of sticks you gathered. He takes them and nods. “Thanks.” You follow him to the campfire shallow, and sit down on a rock. The wind sighs above you, but you are sheltered now. Peter drops the sticks into a roughly tight pile. He doesn’t look up at you as he searches his back pocket, eventually removing a fistful of tattered paper and a lighter. With quiet care, he lights the campfire. Still not looking at you, he drags a small piece of log onto the fire. The burning kindling licks the log, gradually igniting the edges and starting the fire properly. Peter sits down on the rock opposite you, and finally looks you in the eye. He smiles weakly. “Okay, Val. Do you want to begin?” >yes “Yes, I’m ready,” you say, a little unsure. Peter nods and says, “Good. Tear out a page when you’re ready.” >tear out page You stare at the scrapbook for the longest time. There are so many good memories here. So many fun times. So much love. Sorta. This was the closest you and Peter had to having a baby. Moreover, the scrapbook was your idea, and the result of your hard work collecting, gluing and decorating. Tearing the scrapbook apart seems like sacrilege... like murder. You look over at Peter. He stares back, his face supportive, but you can see his heart is broken. This will hurt him as much as it’ll hurt you. If you can’t trust the ones you love, there is no point to anything. And so, you take a deep breath and open the scrapbook. The thick pages flick over, flashes of colours, faces and words. The page before you is not as decorated as the “happier” pages that lay before it, but it does have a CD glued in the middle. Around the perimeter are the words, “A mix for my Baby Blue”. Memories whistle past on the wind, spinning around you. With a grim determination, you grab the page and rip it out, throwing it on top of the crackling fire...Track 2. Little Birdy – Baby Blue ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You bounce up the cool concrete stairs that criss-cross Peter’s apartment block. The fluorescent lights swarming with creepy flying bugs and the lime smoothie paint on the walls don’t sour your mood; you’ve visited him countless times and time with Peter is well worth the two minutes of headache-inducing exterior. (And hey, if it does give you a headache, it’s always good to have an excuse if Pete’s frisky and you’re not.) A grumpy old toad of a man shuffles your way, muttering to himself. You pull your handbag close to your side and squeeze between him and the wall. He continues shuffling along the balcony and you just smirk at him. You spin and twirl past a string of lifeless, duplicate doors and stop at Pete’s. The lights are on so he should be in. Outside Peter’s Apartment Soothingly familiar ol’ number 18. Outside: a still night air, fluorescent lights glaring off pale lime walls, and about forty jillion creepy bugs crawling and buzzing about. Oh, and you, watching the bugs warily. Inside: warm, warm Pete and his servicable little apartment filled with enough CDs, records and tapes to give one to each bug out here and still have enough to listen to over dinner. His door stands before you as listlessly as the others along the balcony that stretches to either side of you. The grumpy old man is shuffling along the balcony. (Your score has just increased by ten points.) (If you’d prefer not to be notified about score changes in the future, type NOTIFY OFF.) >knock on door You knock on the door and wait. There is movement inside and you see Peter peer out his window. He smiles and gestures, “Just one second.” >spray yourself with perfume You spritz a little of your perfume around your neck and breathe in the delicious fragrance. You hear Peter juggling his keys inside. >wait Time passes... Peter opens the door and invites you in with a smooth wave of his hand. >go in Peter’s lounge Peter’s lounge reflects Peter’s tastes: density rather than intensity. Although he has a good few splatterings of decorative memorabilia around, the whole point of his lounge is for his vast, vast music collection, and the equipment to enjoy it. It’s certainly cosy, but it’s all Pete. With anyone else, you’d complain, but you rarely get such a concentrated form of someone in one room, especially if they are someone that you love. Every nook and cranny is a subtle splash of Peter, and you love it. The concentration of him dilutes beyond this room, though. The small dining room and kitchen to the north, and his bedroom to the east could be anyone’s. But this room, it’s definitely his. Peter’s west wall is almost floor-to-ceiling with albums and singles of all sorts, all kept together in a sturdy set of shelves. A catalogue to the collection hangs to the side of a bookcase. Next to the doorway to the dining room is Pete’s gigantic stereo system, with his favourite bean bag sitting right in front of it. Across the other side of the room, underneath the window, is Peter’s ratty tan couch. Peter is standing by the door. He looks a little out of it, but pleased to see you. As he closes the door behind you, Peter brushes his hand through his hair and says, “Hey, dude. How are you?” Peter perks up and sniffs the air. “Hey, is that a new perfume?” It’s an old perfume, actually, but you just smile sweetly. He smiles back. “You smell nice.” “Thanks, babe.” (You could tell him about your day.) >kiss peter You lean in and kiss Peter tenderly on the lips. He smiles, though his eyes look tired. >tell him about your day You sigh theatrically and say, “Oh, I’m going okay. Work was the usual office politics, bitch sessions around the water cooler — you know how they are — and all the usual tomfoolery. But, anyway, how’s my PJ?” Peter stares blankly at you for a second and suddenly catches up with the conversation. “Yeah, um, good. Sorry, this CD has really... I dunno, caught me. I’m in the reviewing groove and my brain is having trouble changing gears. Sorry. ” You shrug and smile at him. (You could ask him about his review, or his day.) >ask him about his review “So, how’s the review going?” Peter shrugs and looks at the stereo. “Um, good. It’s hard getting the right description for these guys. They’re... different. But yeah, it’s going okay. ” (You could ask him about his day.) >again “What’s the CD like?” Peter looks up at the ceiling for a second, probably deciding upon very fine distinctions before he said anything. “It’s... it’s good. Real good. They’ve got a really inventive new sound, but they could have been around in the mid- nineties.” You crinkle your forehead and say, “Huh?” Peter strokes his chin and frowns seriously. “Hmm, these guys are half Jane’s Addiction, half Sonic Youth... but with a JPop twist. You know, a little gritty, a little glittery? You should listen to them once I’m done.” You nod politely, not understanding at all. You’ve gotta humour boyfriends every so often. (You could ask him about his day.) >again “What’s the name of the band you’re reviewing?” Peter waves dismissively, “Oh, you wouldn’t know them. They’re new.” Okay then. (You could ask him about his day.) >again “So the review’s going along okay?” Peter nods, still a little zoned out. “Yeah. I should have it done soonish.” >ask about dinner “So Pete, do you want dinner?” Peter’s face lights up. “Yeah, that’d be cool. Thanks.” You try to clarify that you weren’t volunteering, but he’s already collapsed into his beanbag and returned to his CD before you have a chance to respond. Darn. >north Dining area The dining room is almost spartan, in stark contrast to Peter’s lounge to the south. In fact, if it weren’t for the large dining table taking up most of this room, it’d basically be a short connecting room to the kitchen to the east. In other words, Peter’s done nothing for this room except put a large table in it. All his energy goes into his lounge, and not just in a Feng Shui way. Boys are goofy like that sometimes. Peter is in the lounge, sitting on the velvet beanbag. >east Kitchen It’s too big to be a kitchen nook, but too small to be a proper kitchen. Oh the complications of twenty-somethings’ living arrangements. Peter seems not to mind so much, but he lives pretty basically as far as food goes. Peter’s refrigerator tries to fit into the kitchen area like a grizzly bear in an elevator would. Installed right next to it (well, actually, it’s the other way around, but whatever) is a generic brand oven. A set of oven mitts lie on the bench. >open fridge Opening the refrigerator reveals an instant lasagna and some condiments. >take lasagna Taken. >cook lasagna You peer at the instructions. “200 degrees Celsius for ten minutes”. You set the oven controls to the appropriate settings and turn it on. The oven door opens with a clang and you slide the lasagna in, and close the door again. T minus ten minutes until deliciousness... The oven timer ticks down steadily. The refrigerator door automatically closes with a kiss. >z.z.z.z.z.z.z.z.z. Time passes... Time passes... Time passes... Time passes... Time passes... Time passes... Time passes... Time passes... Time passes... >x lasagna Pre-made lasagna combines the best of both worlds: yummy food and no actual cooking to worry about. This one is still cold. There are cooking instructions on the box. >x lasagna Pre-made lasagna combines the best of both worlds: yummy food and no actual cooking to worry about. This one is still cold. There are cooking instructions on the box. >x lasagna Pre-made lasagna combines the best of both worlds: yummy food and no actual cooking to worry about. This fine specimen looks cooked. >take lasagna (first taking the oven mitts, wearing them, then opening the oven) Taken. >west Dining area The dining room is almost spartan, in stark contrast to Peter’s lounge to the south. In fact, if it weren’t for the large dining table taking up most of this room, it’d basically be a short connecting room to the kitchen to the east. In other words, Peter’s done nothing for this room except put a large table in it. All his energy goes into his lounge, and not just in a Feng Shui way. Boys are goofy like that sometimes. Peter is in the lounge, sitting on the velvet beanbag. The oven timer ticks down steadily. >serve dinner You serve up the lasagna. “Peter, dinner’s ready.” He sighs and rolls out of his beanbag, begrudgingly leaving his review behind. As he flops into his chair, you serve up steaming plates of lasagna. “Mmm, smells good,” you say. Peter mumbles some thanks for cooking and begins chowing down. You eat together, in silence. You try to make conversation. “So how is work going?” “Mm? Yeah, okay. You know, the same.” You frown. “What? Nothing special happened. Am I supposed to have a prepared speech or a great story to entertain you?” You sit back in your chair, reeling a little. “Sorry?” “I mean, you come over here, expecting me to fool around with you, completely forgetting I had this review due.” “Hey,” you say, setting down your fork. “I’m your girlfriend. We’re supposed to hang out, right?” Peter gives you an annoyed look. “But I’m busy!” “Too busy to love your girlfriend?” “Yes, because I’m...” “Yes?” You kick your chair back from the table. “So you’re saying that your silly little review, that you can do any time, is more important than me?” “Hey, no. I didn’t mean... Wait, my review isn’t stupid!” Your blood boils. “I said it was silly. But obviously if it’s more important to you, then that’s fine!” You stamp your feet and rush out into the lounge room. You grab your handbag and fumble with the lock of the door. From the dining room, Peter calls out, “Hey, wait! Don’t... I mean, wait up!” “Too late, Peter,” you shout over your shoulder. You fling the front door open and storm out into the cool night air. As you barge your way along the balcony, away from that ungrateful bastard, you can hear him groaning loudly. You reach the stairs and look back at his door. He’s standing in his doorway, exasperated. You catch eyes, trading fury. “FINE!” he yells, slamming the door. Yeah, fine. Keep working on your stupid review. You don’t need the girl that loves you. Nooo... She’s just an annoyance. But just keep her phone number if you need dinner cooked for you. Jerk. You both stare at the fire, watching the page crackle and curl, and the CD glaze over and blacken. The wind sighs through the trees. The ocean crashes and hisses below. “It wasn’t really about the lasagna, was it?” Peter asks. You pull your knees up to your chin and peek over the scrapbook. You mumble, “No.” Peter says nothing. He doesn’t encourage you to continue burning the book. He doesn’t seem lost in thought. He just waits, still as a rock, and stares into the fire. The reflection of the burning CD covers his eyes. You watch it crack, bubble and melt into the ashes. He doesn’t say sorry. He doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t ask for your side of the story. He just watches the fire. Your heart is on that bed of flames and he doesn’t say anything. A long time ago, he said he loved you. He was such a liar. You look down at the scrapbook. Smiling faces and tokens of your relationship stare back at you. Each posed photo, each impromptu poem scribbled down, each journal entry is a slap in the face. And still, he says nothing. Well, to hell with you, Peter. You want to burn our scrapbook? You say you love me? Well get on the pyre with me. You grit your teeth and flip to the last page. Glued there is a torn piece of paper riddled with Peter’s writing, and a torn picture of him. Completing the trinity, you grab the page in your fist and tear it out. You throw it on the fire and it lands flat, in front of Peter. His eyes remain hidden by reflected flames, but nothing hides his frown. The crackling doesn’t drown out his sigh. Join me, Peter. Track 3. No Doubt – Don’t Speak ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The bus doors sigh and clatter shut behind you as you heft your shopping bag closer to your shoulder. You wipe a loose bang off your face as the bus rumbles down the road, leaving you alone on the corner. There’s just one final stretch before you get home. You’ll be glad to get there; these new loafers of yours grip your feet like vices and your eyes are all puffy from staring at a computer screen all day. A whisper of wind hisses through the trees. The sun is slowly rolling over the horizon. Time to go home. Street corner Soft, rich, orange sunlight bleeds between the silhouettes of suburbia. Trees, cars and houses have their shadows stretched far down the street towards you. The shadows reach over you, cutting through the gentle warmth of the sun. Frankly, you want to get your aching bones home, and into a hot bath. Your place is only half a block down to the south, but with your aching feet, it looks like half a mile. A street sign points down the road, to home. Track 3. No Doubt – Don’t Speak ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The bus doors sigh and clatter shut behind you as you heft your shopping bag closer to your shoulder. You wipe a loose bang off your face as the bus rumbles down the road, leaving you alone on the corner. There’s just one final stretch before you get home. You’ll be glad to get there; these new loafers of yours grip your feet like vices and your eyes are all puffy from staring at a computer screen all day. A whisper of wind hisses through the trees. The sun is slowly rolling over the horizon. Time to go home. Street corner Soft, rich, orange sunlight bleeds between the silhouettes of suburbia. Trees, cars and houses have their shadows stretched far down the street towards you. The shadows reach over you, cutting through the gentle warmth of the sun. Frankly, you want to get your aching bones home, and into a hot bath. Your place is only half a block down to the south, but with your aching feet, it looks like half a mile. A street sign points down the road, to home. (Your score has just increased by ten points.) >south Outside your place Your street glows like melted butter in the dusk sunlight. The shadows are just beginning to harden, in preparation for a cool night ahead. The road slides down the hill to an intersection and onto more of suburbia. Your front door hides under an alcove to the west. Your mailbox sits solidly by the footpath. >check mail Leaning your groceries against the top of the mailbox, you lean down and open the mailbox. You grab the thick bundle of mail, tuck it under your chin and lock the mailbox again. >west Wedging the groceries between your shoulder and the wall, you use your free hand to fish around in your handbag for your keys. You finally grab them and jam them into the keyhole. The door opens and you stumble into your apartment, closing the door behind you. Your Living Room Although your bedroom at your parents house is about the same size as the entirety of this apartment, you feel more at home here. It’s all you, and it’s just you. No snooping parents and their little oddities. And although it’s a bit of a real estate euphemism, this place feels cosier. Your red couch sits near the door, inviting you to lie on it. >put groceries in pantry (first opening the pantry) Although you are pretty tired, you find the energy to put away your groceries and store your environmentally friendly shopping bags for next week. You smile. There’s few things nicer than a freshly-stocked pantry. >remove shoes You gladly kick off your loafers. A wave of relief washes up your body from your throbbing feet. >look through mail You flick through the mail, skipping over the glossy but useless ads, the dreaded assortment of bills... There’s a letter here. From Peter! You pull it out from the middle of the bundle. On the front it says simply “To Valentine” with just his name on the back. Strange. You separate the note from the rest of the mail and bundle it back together. >open envelope Opening the envelope from Peter reveals a note from Peter. The envelope is sealed only at the bottom of the flap, so you dig your finger underneath and break the seal. There is nothing inside but a plain, folded piece of paper. No presents, no pressed flowers, no CDs. A feeling of unease creeps up your spine and you remove the letter, discarding the envelope. Your fingertips grow cold and you’re very reluctant to read it. >read note You take a deep breath and read. Peter’s handwriting is strong and deliberate. It reads: Dear Valentine, This may be a little sudden for you but I’ve been thinking about this for some time. I’m sorry but I just can’t do this any more. I can’t go out with you any more. I’m so sorry, Peter. For one long second, everything is quiet. The world slips away into shadow. You are just a bead of disbelief. You gasp. Your heart thumps like a cannon, and the world rips back around you. Through shivering breaths and a pounding heartbeat, you choke. Your eyes well up with tears. The blood in your hands turn icy, and you become too weak to hold the letter. A squeak escapes your mouth before you have time to clamp your hand over it. The letter drops from your other hand and flutters to the floor. You stand, weak and alone. Your throat tightens... How could he? >take photo from purse Taken. You almost burst out crying, but hold yourself together. For now. >tear photo You stare at the picture of Peter. He stares back, an unerring smile on his face. Your lips snarl and you grab the photo with both hands. You rip and rip and rip until it is just crushed up fragments of colours scattered over your fingers. You nervously rub your hand through your hair, your eyes welling with tears. >examine me You are still reeling in shock. Your skin is ash-grey and your hands tremble. At any moment, you could collapse in a cloud of sadness and be swept away. You want to crawl up inside yourself, away from all this. The now-lonely world. A tear rolls down your cheek. >cry You fight it back. Be strong, girl. Be strong. You choke and the tears flow. The world swirls around you and you drop into darkness. Into oblivion. Into the chasm formed by your broken heart. Tears stream down your face. Across the fire, Peter drops his head. You sniff and wipe tears and mucus from your face. The scrapbook trembles in your hands and you may just jerk and throw it all in the fire. Peter sighs. “Hey, come on. Don’t cry, Val.” You glare at him with tear-reddened eyes. “We shouldn’t dwell on this... the bad stuff. I’m really sorry I hurt you like that... like this. Here,” he says, carefully taking the scrapbook from you. “I’ll help.” You pull your knees up to your chin and hug them. Why are you still here? Why do you keep enduring this for him? Peter flicks to the start of the scrapbook. For a moment, he is enthralled. Pictures and poems, long dead for you, dance on his glasses. “Val, let me tell you about this...” He carefully tears out the first few pages and shows them to you. On the first page is a single receipt from “Music Mania”. Scrawled on the bottom is Peter’s phone number. You breathe deeply. You know exactly what that was. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Track 4. Goo Goo Dolls – Iris ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You know, Val, that was my first month at “Music Mania”. I was just out of university and had nothing better to do. They had employed me not for my amazing university degree, but because I was a “preferred customer”. But I wasn’t complaining. It was a cruisy job and the guys I worked with were cool. Of course, none of them would admit that Rufus Wainwright’s version of “Hallelujah” kicked the butt of all other versions, but I let that slide. I remember the first day you came in. I was restocking the Top 40 shelves, trying to ignore the new Avril CD the other guys had put on to annoy me. For no reason, I’ve looked up and I saw you over in alternative. You weren’t wearing anything special, just a blouse and you had your hair back. You had more hair then. You bopped along to the store music. You were absolutely beautiful. Everything had paused, and it was just you, looking at a They Might Be Giants CD, and just me, looking at you. I’m no longer stacking CDs. I’m soaking you in. All I can taste is that moment, and all I can breathe is your life. I said to myself, “There’s no way she’s leaving here, without meeting me.” It was silly, but I was awestruck. I had to talk to you. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Warren has spotted you and is trying to roll his big belly towards you. I thought to myself, “Not today. No way.” I don’t know if I dropped the CDs or threw them over my shoulder, but I know that where I was and where they were, were completely different places. I was quicksilver sliding through the aisles. My consciousness was trailing a few steps behind, but it didn’t matter. It was like I was on a Mission From God — all Jake and Elwood. I came to a stop a few steps away from you. Far down the other end of the aisle, Warren shook his fist at me. I smiled and composed myself. In my friendliest voice, I asked, “Can I help you?” You said, “No, I’m okay” and I almost died. But in desperation I flicked out some comment on the CD in your hands. At first you looked at me uneasily, but I pushed on. I told you about Dial-A-Song, about Apollo 18. Lincoln. Flood... While I drew you to Fountains of Wayne, you began nodding and asking questions. While I pointed out Reel Big Fish, you smiled and I almost died if it were not for my momentum. You followed me up and down the aisle, from The Aquabats to The Flaming Lips, through Jon Spencer Blues Explosion to Weezer, listening to every word of my Musical History According To They Might Be Giants. You laughed at my jokes and made suggestions. We clicked. By the end of it, I was selling you a handful of CDs and promising to make you mix tapes. When I handed over the receipt, my heart stopped. Would I ever see you again? Would I be just a “Oh you’ll never believe what happened to me today” story? I froze, holding out your receipt. You tried to take it, but I couldn’t let go. I came to my senses and let go. Instead of being annoyed, you smiled at me again. You looked at the receipt for a second and then handed it back. You said, “Can I get your number?” That, Val, was the best day of my life. I absolutely loved you. Everything else was background noise to your full symphonic beauty. I know I said it, and I know I’m not good with words, but you were beautiful and I loved you. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You snap to, and you’re no longer curled up. You’re sitting up, looking deep into Peter’s eyes. You feel guilty and awful, but there’s a smile on your face. Peter slowly flicks through the rest of the scrapbook. “Val, you’re still beautiful. I still love you. But the relationship, no. And here is why I think so...” He passes the book over to you. The page is a poem surrounded by a picture. In the corner is a coffee stain that you turned into a sunflower. Pink, green and blue vines wrap around the poem. It’s been so long since that morning...Track 5. Jewel – Near You Always ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Your eyelids slowly slide open. Pale, white light. It’s morning and you’re in Peter’s bedroom. More aptly, you’re in his bed. You roll over, but your hand rests on an empty patch of bedsheet. You turn and find Peter gone. He must have gone to work, but let you sleep in. The darling. You sit up and stretch. You sigh contentedly. Your whole body glows with a warm serenity. A fuzziness. Some feeling that your sleepy mind can’t quite sort out just yet. But you feel happier than you have in a very long time. Peter’s bedroom (sitting on the bed) Morning light floats through the window, covering everything in a light, white glow. The room has signs of last night’s... fun. You can also see that Peter has already gotten up and left for work without disturbing you. On the far side of the dresser lies your scrapbook. Peter’s dirty clothes lie discarded about the room. Peter has left you a note on the dresser. (Your score has just increased by twenty points.) >read note Peter’s left you a little note. It reads: Please lock up before you go-go!Aww, so cute. You sigh and smile at the sunshine. >read scrapbook This page has you and Peter posing with baguettes, with the caption: “Pierre et Valenteen”. For some reason, being in Peter’s room, in his bed, makes you giggle. >read scrapbook The Award for the Most Boring Caption Ever goes to this page. Peter is sick, eating a bowl of pumpkin soup. You captioned it: “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater”. >read scrapbook You and Peter smile out from a photo taken at the mall somewhere. The caption reads: “One quarter of The Who and one fifth of The Go-Go’s” Something is slowly floating its way towards the front of your mind. Whatever it is, it feels good. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You stare at the campfire, blinking in disbelief. You had gone on for so long pretending, and only that morning did you really love him. No... Surely not. Peter nods at you. “Later that day I caught up with you and you were a changed woman. You were positively glowing.” You smile to yourself. Peter looks down at his hands and pokes at the fire with a stick. “But you know, the saddest thing was that it was too late. All that time I loved you and loved you but I could feel it wasn’t the same for you. You seemed to like me, but... I dunno... There wasn’t that extra magic. Maybe I’m a boring, old romantic, but I needed that. And when you finally came around, I just couldn’t meet you there.” You raise an eyebrow at him. “I mean, I wasn’t bored with you. I wasn’t broken after so many failed attempts of true love... I just knew that I couldn’t give you the love that you needed. It’s complex, but in a weird, weird way, I think the missed opportunities explained it.” It makes no sense, but somehow, you understand. Somewhere, way in the back of your mind, there was that indescribable feeling constantly begging for attention. You couldn’t evoke it correctly in your scrapbook, and Peter couldn’t find it in his music. You both kept searching everywhere, but you couldn’t find it and couldn’t deal with it, and then, you couldn’t find the love to replace it. Peter looks deep into your eyes. “Do you understand, Val?” You look back at him and smile. Without a word, you tear off a page and drop it into the fire. He grabs the next page and drops it on top of the ashes of your page. You both grin. Page after page, memory after memory, burns and flakes and crumbles. There goes the time when you waited in line for Star Wars. There goes the time Peter’s car broke down. There goes the fight over the lost Franz Ferdinand tickets. There goes the mix tape Peter gave you for your birthday. There goes the morning where you drew all over Pete with a sharpie. Love, hurt, fun, boredom... It all becomes ashes and floats away. The freed souls tumble through the air, over the ocean, scattering and fluttering. And then, there is no more pages. The book is completely empty. You smile, sigh, and drop the cover on the fire. Peter stands up and offers you his hand. “Val, I’m so sorry I hurt you.” You pull yourself to your feet and look up at him. “It’s okay.” On the horizon, the clouds part and a beam of sunlight dances on the ocean. Far below, a wave crashes. “Val?” “Peter?” “Thanks.” You hug him. And it feels different this time. You’re still feeling a bit bumpy, but you can see smoother waters ahead. “So do you want a lift back, Val?” “Sure,” you say. “But I choose the music.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Track 6. U2 – Everlasting Love *** GAME OVER *** Would you like to RESTORE a saved position, RESTART the story, see the CREDITS, see some AMUSING things to try, or QUIT? Would you like to RESTORE a saved position, RESTART the story, see the CREDITS, see some AMUSING things to try, or QUIT? >amusing Have you: found the various references to the following bands/artists (CDs in Peter’s collection and the track titles don’t count): Jimi Hendrix, Modest Mouse, Gerry Raffety, Pearl Jam, Rolling Stones, Spoon, They Might Be Giants, Jane’s Addiction, Sonic Youth, Cibo Matto, The Clash, The Go-Go’s, Sonic Youth, Darren Hanlon, The Who, and Wham!. have you tried to KISS THE SKY in the Smoke sections? hung around at the start of “Baby Blue” and watched the old man amble down the stairs? tried to walk straight into Peter’s apartment in Baby Blue instead of knocking on the door? examined the green walls outside Peter’s apartment? examined Peter’s Pearl Jam poster? Tried to write on it? knocked on Peter’s door, from the inside? asked Peter about the old man in “Baby Blue”? told Peter about office politics in “Baby Blue”? found the various ways you can end “Baby Blue”? (You can undercook or burn the lasagna, or get into an argument with Peter) looked under Peter’s bed? tried to HAVE AN EXISTENTIAL CRISIS? Would you like to RESTORE a saved position, RESTART the story, see the CREDITS, see some AMUSING things to try, or QUIT? >quit