Back

sharing your devotion

A tingle in his chest, a swirl of pins and needles — no blue, when he opens his eyes, but the feeling of it, the knowledge of the Spirit’s presence without evidence of it. It’s calming, almost, as he adjusts to the waking world. The knowledge that the Spirit stirs, that the Spirit is here with him — this is calming now. Things have certainly changed. Sunlight peering through his window, golden rays of light invading his eyesight. It’s all light. It’s always all light.

“Good morning,” Larry says, with a sharp exhale. “I don’t want to get out of bed.”

He has to. They need their breakfast, they need his guidance. He’s the only support that they have now. It’s nearly ironic, the responsibilities placed upon his shoulders.

He can bear this burden now. It does not rest solely on Larry Trainor. They have each other now, the Spirit a welcomed passenger. Appreciated. Embraced, even. He searches for a word that can accurately describe their relationship — his feelings, the Spirit’s emotion — and comes up short. It is inextricable and inexplicable. They belong to each other.

“But,” he continues, “you know how it is. It’s been two weeks. Sometimes it’s… tiring.” He smiles, forlorn. “I think we could all use a break. I wish we could get one.”

It’s time to get out of bed.

Larry swings his legs onto the floor—

and hits a table. Upon closer look: his night stand, now emptied and directly in front of him, with a record player resting on top of it.

“Did you do this?”

His response comes in the form of a faint chest-glow. Somehow he knows there’s a bit of sarcasm to it — he cannot place it, assumes that their communication must be getting better. It’s almost like -- who else would it be?

So he can read the Spirit’s mind now, and the Spirit is a sarcastic bastard. He’s not surprised. He is - open to this harmony, accepts the relief. There is something comforting about the Negative Spirit now that they understand one another. He’s never alone. Larry Trainor has spent his entire life trying to be alone without being alone, and the Spirit represents the end and furthering of his loneliness.

It is complex.

He smiles to himself, bites his cheek when he realizes the expression. He places the needle on the record—

I wasn’t jealous before we met, now every woman I see is a potential threat…

There’s some irony in that.

“Never thought you were the Swedish disco type,” Larry says. “Guess you learn something new every day.”

He moves the table to his side, stands up. He doesn’t even own this record — this thought occurs to him when it’s too late. He doesn’t want to know where or how the Spirit acquired an ABBA vinyl — after sixty years of this shit, he’s learned not to question them.

It is, admittedly, a little touching.

Another glow in his chest, a slightly paler hue. Odd.

“So, what is this? What’s the message here?”

Now the chorus kicks in—

don’t go wasting your emotion, don’t go sharing your devotion, lay all your love on me…

He can’t help himself. His body is no longer stiff or tired; his feet and fingers tap to the beat, awakened.

Oh. He gets the message. He has to say this to their… face.

“Release,” Larry breathes. The room fills with the Spirit’s light, and it pulses in front of him, their eyes burning into his. They are hovering patiently. Waiting. He doesn’t understand how he is capable of feeling their anxiety, but it is overflowing now. Unbearable.

“Do you—-”

He’s interrupted by the Spirit’s hand. They extend their hand towards Larry -- take it. They want him to take their hand, to trust. Oh. He trusts.

He gives in.

Lightning-fast, the Negative Spirit places itself on the floor of Larry’s bedroom, and they grab him — twirl him — dip him, a rhythmic dance. Lay all your love on me. How the hell do they know how to dance?

Larry forgets his question, when they place a hand against his left side, entangling his right hand with theirs. It’s historical, now — this is more important. He knows the answer.

Another realization — this is his break, this is his life now. This is the rest that he desired, the distraction from reality. It’s fleeting, but its effect will have a lasting permanence on the mind of Larry Trainor.

The Spirit knows him too well.

“Thank you,” he whispers, as the music continues to burst. “By the way, do I even want to know where you got this?”

The Spirit shakes their head. They are always going to be cryptic.

It’s almost endearing.