One day, when Hitch comes home from job hunting and he knows Tolliver isn’t there, he changes; he shifts from his flannel and his t-shirt to a tank top, black and too loose, leaving a wide expanse of space under his arms, trailing half down his sides. The collar hangs low, below his collarbone. He ties his hair back, leaving his bangs to hang down in his face, and he drinks a shot of bourbon, knowing he doesn’t have work that night.

Then he sits down behind his drums, and for a time, he does nothing but stare. He stares back at the home he and Tolliver share, all the tiny traces of them that litter the apartment - he remembers the first time Tolliver came here, he could remember the song, where his now-fiance had been, precisely, the look on his face, the way he’d felt when he’d seen it.

He looks, too, at the photos of his mother, and remembers the way she laughed. The way she smiled. The way she screamed. The sting of her slap against his cheek, now scarred by his own mistakes.

Slowly, he takes the sticks into his hands - and he begins to tap one of the cymbols in a familiar beat, along with the edge of one of the drums, slowly working the foot pedal to compliment it all. He starts a song he wishes he could hear now, but his phone is broken and his music is gone.

At first, he only mouths the words:
I'm so happy 'cause today
I've found my friends ...
They're in my head
I'm so ugly, but that's okay, 'cause so are you ...
We've broken our mirrors.”

His knuckles itch. He plays on:
Sunday morning is everyday for all I care ...
And I'm not scared
Light my candles, in a daze
'Cause I've found god.

He lifts the sticks and hits the drums with the rising tempo, knowing his timing is probably off and can’t bring himself to care. He just wants to play. He just wants whatever is inside of him to seep out, and this time, his voice rises, off key and rough with the ‘yeahs’, bobbing his head as he moves.

The drums die back down to the cymbol and the single edge of the drum, and his voice still hangs in the air, soft and awful and if Hitch was really thinking about it, he’d be glad no one was there to hear it.

“I'm so lonely, but that's okay, I shaved my head ...
And I'm not sad
And just maybe I'm to blame for all I've heard ...
But I'm not sure.”

His eyes narrow.

“I'm so excited, I can't wait to meet you there ...
But I don't care
I'm so horny, but that's okay ...
My will is good.”

And then it’s time to strike the drums more intensely again, and if anyone was watching, Hitch would look angry; but he’s not. He’s taking all the elements of anger and bitterness and discontentment and trying to bottle them all into some palpable, something he loves - this is a kind of ugliness about himself he can embrace.

As he keeps thrashing away, his voice rises, less of a melody and more of a shout, echoing through the tiny apartment:
“I like it - I'm not gonna crack
I miss you - I'm not gonna crack
I love you - I'm not gonna crack
I killed you - I'm not gonna crack.”

He doesn’t miss a beat.
“I like it - I'm not gonna crack
I miss you - I'm not gonna crack
I love you - I'm not gonna crack
I killed you - I'm not gonna crack.”

The song should continue, another refrain waiting to be uttered. But instead his hands drop with a thud against one of the drums, the sticks held too tight in his hands. His shoulders drop and his head does too, falling forward with his bangs falling in his face.
“I like it - I'm not gonna crack
I miss you - I'm not gonna crack
I love you - I'm not gonna crack
I killed you - I'm not gonna crack.”

His voice is still a near shout at the beginning. But it begins to teeter off at the end into something much smaller, less of a melody at all and more just words hanging in the air, too feeble and too small and entirely too raw:
“I like it - I'm not gonna crack
I miss you - I'm not gonna crack
I love you - I'm not gonna crack
I... killed you - I'm not gonna crack.”

Silence falls over the apartment. And Hitch does not move again until he hears the click of a lock and slips a smile onto his face.