Rise and shine

Who: Ben and OPEN
Where: Right outside Ben's house
When: morning

He wasn't a prophet, not by half. The rare instances when Ben's jumbled thoughts landed in line with actual events were pure coincidence, even he knew that. But something about his dreams the night before had been truly foreboding. He was back in the hospital, fresh from his coma, but this time he was alone. The lights had been off in that dreamstate hospital, the floors and monitors dusty with disuse. He'd wandered empty corridors in search of signs of life, screaming until his throat felt raw, but there had been no one.

Dreams like that were never good to wake from, even if waking meant a break from the dreams themselves, and this one was no different. Ben came back to consciousness with a soft growl, one hand fisted in a sheet that had grown cool from the damp sweat of night terrors. He'd struggled out of bed, stumbling over his feet twice on the short trip from bed to light switch, only to get nothing for all his efforts flipping the switch up and down. "Dead," he muttered to himself, pushing out of his bedroom and towards the kitchen, "Hollow glass, soft skittering inside for lost light."

The kitchen light wasn't any better, and after managing to get a glass of water Ben moved for his front door, muttering with every step. What he saw beyond the front door made his blood run cold. Boarded doors, boarded windows. No street lights. Pervasive darkness hanging overhead. No signs of life at all, no signs of anything. Nervous hands wound into his beard to tug at it hard enough to hurt; a desperate bid to wake himself from what had to be a dream, a bid that fell short.

He could feel the tension crash through his muscles, locking tight in his neck and shoulders as panic welled up in his throat, begging him to scream. Ben's eyes bulged, his jaw knotting tight as the scream bundled tight. "Hello?" came the soft word, far short of the pressure he felt inside. It was just too much; too much space to confront, too much panic to find his strength to even yell. Rebekah was close, but even going next door was impossible. Who knew what was out there? Unseen tormentors from the old house loomed large in his mind, becomign shadowy shapes that lurked across the street and between the houses on either side. They begged Ben to come past his door, to go to them.

"No," he whispered frantically, dropping his water glass and turning to rush back inside. Credit his musician's mind, then, for already having a plan in place, even if it was buried under the untamed chaos of his conscious mind. He ran for his guitar where it leaned against a sound board, snatching it up and cradling it like a security blanket, and for a long moment his eyes stayed shut as he took solace in the familiar shape pressing against him. When his eyes finally opened? Well, that was when he saw the bit of plan that some part of him had already seized on.

Ben's amplifier sat on the floor beneath the sound board, as dark and powerless as everything else in the house. Or was it? His grip shifted to hold the guitar by the neck as he squatted, yanking the amp out and flipping it face down to reveal a battery cover set next to the cord's base. It was common on smaller amps like this, a simple addition to offer short supplies of power for outside play. Or when the power drops, he remembered in a rare moment of lucidity. Seattle. Little bar. Crazy Horse. Rocked so hard we blew three fuses.

Ben laughed in manic delight at the memory as he dug open the battery cover to reveal a D-cell battery set in place. Was it any good? He normally had the amp plugged into an outlet, so he wouldn't have drained the battery on his own. But the cold could've, or age. Ben wasn't aware of it, but the manic laugh hadn't stopped as he pried the battery free; it only subsided to a steady, unhinged chuckle and a wild grin spreading beneath his beard. He was shaking in anticipation, knowing what he was about to do was a bad idea, but simply not caring.

Ben's tongue stretched out flat, his teeth settling on it to hold it steady as he raised the battery and pressed both coils of the D-cell against the surface. The world went white, the smell of ozone mixing with the taste of fresh blood as a current ran through him wildly. He was on the floor when he opened his eyes, guitar strewn across his legs and the battery still clutched weakly in his hand. "Still good, he muttered, swallowing a coppery mouthful as blood ran weakly from the bitemarks he'd given himself.

He worked quick, trying to shake off the lingering jitters and clumsiness of the shock as he popped the battery back into the amp, lugging it and his guitar to the door and throwing it wide. The sight of the street outside chilled him again, locking away his voice even if he wanted to try and sing with a bloody tongue and lingering blips of electric shock in his body. "No words," he mumbled, spitting red on his front walk and plugging in the guitar.

The low buzz of the amp powering up was almost as good as finding someone; it was noise that wasn't just his own voice. The soft hum was beautiful, and when Ben heard the first contact between pick and string? It was a symphony, all in one note. But time was wasting, and the battery wouldn't be good for very long even if it was fresh from the package. So he stepped back a bit from the door, letting the amp project clear beyond it as he started to play. Hendrix was a favorite; wild guitars soothed his mind, and this moment was no different. The Woodstock version the the Star Spangled Banner belted forth, carrying loud and clear as Ben worked each note within the dark of his house, not skipping a bit of the fuzz or feedback he loved so much. Someone hear it. Hear it before it dies. Before it's still and silent.