Sean Hanna (sean_hanna) wrote in omega_reality, @ 2012-08-10 17:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | *complete, 2012 08, character: sean hanna, character: troy bolton |
RP: Sean
Who: Sean Hanna
Where: The Club
When: Friday, August 10, 2012 -- after lunch
Summary: Sean can't put it off any longer. He has to try something.
Three days.
Sean had given it three days since the splints came off and the tape went on. For three days the only time he pushed at all was on Thursday when he wrangled some range time out of his Dad and G to see how well he could do with the tape. It hadn't been as well as he'd hoped. There was a little bend at the knuckles where fingers joined to the hand. But, not enough he could get a grip. At least for shooting he was still stuck working left-handed for a while longer.
But, that had only put a fever in his brain, questions and wondering that wouldn't go away, wouldn't quiet. Sean had to know.
Once the deliveries were taken care of, there wasn't much for Sean to do and, while he normally would have been more than happy to sit and talk to Nell and Brian, Sean couldn't sit there. Telling Brian he'd be back and he had his phone if Brian needed him, Sean took his case and headed for the empty club.
One way or another he wanted to know.
He probably could have called Troy and asked him to join him, since Troy had the day off. But, this was something he had to do by himself. This first time, it had to just be Sean and the dreams that would live or die with him. He could feel the static build-up around him, his anxiety translating to a physical manifestation through his power, and he took several deep breaths to calm himself as he set the case on the floor and sat down.
Very carefully, he picked at the edge of the tape until he could pull it back smoothly and without pulling at his damaged fingers as he unwrapped them. He had the roll of tape in his case and would rewrap them in a minute. But, for a moment, he just examined them in a way he hadn't been able to let himself do in April's office or after each shower that stretched the medical tape and loosened the wrapping.
Most of the real swelling had gone down over the last six weeks, though he could still tell the difference easily enough. Most of the bruising had faded as well, leaving just some lighter blue and yellow spots that could still take weeks to fade.
It was those bruises that had given him hope, actually. After speaking with Savannah about the possibility of using his power for his own home-grown variant of electro-therapy, he'd started paying attention to how his hand reacted in powers training. Sean had a tendency to use his hands to focus his energy, not because he needed to. The several occasions when he'd burst light bulbs and scorched walls as a result of intense emotions, both good and bad, were proof enough he didn't need the focus. But, it helped him mentally train himself for control. The hope was that some day he wouldn't have those accidental misfires at all, no matter what his emotional state.
Still, since he did use his hands to focus a lot of the time, he started paying attention. He couldn't see too much around the splints, but he'd been able to see enough to notice that when he used his power that way, the bruising started to fade a little more. He was hoping it meant the electro-therapy would work, would actually improve the circulation and stimulate the muscles. Regaining enough use of his hand to be able to play like he had before would take months, maybe years. But, as long as he had hope, Sean would keep trying.
Swallowing in anticipation of expected pain, he slowly bent his fingers, feeling the still healing tendons and little used muscles burn. He bent his fingers until the pain brought tears to his eyes and then he stopped, straightened them back out again. The first knuckles of his middle and ring fingers hadn't even bent much at all. The second knuckles only about thirty or forty degrees, though the ring finger bent a little more than the middle one. Just as slowly, this time he spread his fingers apart until the same pain kicked in. It was barely half the span he'd had before. He was going to be lucky to be able to play scales on the sax when the tape came off for good, let alone any real music.
One more test.
Holding his hands very loosely, letting the fingers curve naturally, he pressed his fingertips to the top of the guitar case as though it were a keyboard. He didn't press hard, just enough to feel the resistance, to feel how far he could go before the dull ache of sore tendons turned into the sharp pain of protesting bone. It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough to stop the renewed spike of fear that he might not be able to truly play the way he had -- on any instrument -- ever again.
But Sean wasn't one to give up, not when he'd worked so damned hard to get to where he'd been in the first place. He'd spent his life working to take his natural talent and turn it into a true gift. He'd been the best studying with the best. He'd been the golden boy of the Jazz department, if he'd been at home, he'd still be on the fast track to an amazing career. He might never play Lincoln Center or Carnegie Hall again. But, he'd die before he let this world rob him of the skill he'd worked so hard to achieve. The audience he played for now might never be able to appreciate what he did, but he wasn't giving it up for anything. He wasn't giving up his soul to this world's insanity.
With his left hand, he opened the case and took out the roll of tape. It was slow because he was moving with very careful precision, but he retaped his fingers again. At the same time, he sent a low stream of power running through his hand. He didn't think he'd do any damage to himself if he used a higher voltage. No matter how strong his power got, he'd never really felt more than a tingle himself, even when that tingle turned destructive in training. But, he wasn't going to risk it. He wasn't going to risk his hand on a hunch. The low, steady approach would be just as effective, if slower.
After he had the tape secured once more, he reached into the case for the guitar. Setting it on the floor, he started loosening the strings and removing them completely. Then he restringed the instrument so he could play it right handed. He hadn't played right handed in years. His first teachers had tried to make him learn and he had. When he was a kid he'd played right handed for his lessons and made himself good because he refused to do less than exceptionally. But, it had never been as comfortable for him as playing left handed and when he got into high school and his instructors cared more about clean technique and sound then which hand fingered the frets, he'd switched permanently.
Now, he was going to relearn that old skill. There was no way he could play left handed until he regained some of the movement and dexterity in his hand. It'd be as bad as trying to play the piano. But, if he switched to right handed, he could use his good hand on the frets and...
Well, he'd see.
Strings in place, he hooked the strap on the guitar and slung it over his head as he stood up.
Man, it felt weird to hold it like this again. Fishing a pick out of his pocket, -- There was no way he could play without one when he had three fingers wrapped up. -- he very carefully picked his way through half a dozen major scales and half a dozen minor scales. It was slow, just like every damned thing he did since his hand had been injured. He had to work to get the fingers of his left hand placed correctly for each note, the fingerings not coming as naturally through a lack of muscle memory. When he got use of his hand back fully, he was going to start switching so he never lost this again.
Most of his favorite pieces were jazz or blues or classical guitar pieces. None of which he could do well without his fingers. Hell, he couldn't do more than pick out a melody, really. Heavy pick work was more predominant in rock and even then the other fingers were used for harmony and effect. But, he settled on a beginning guitarist standard with a simple melody, picking his way through it slowly and cursing every time the fingering was off or his bad fingers accidentally caught on a string and he had to stop for a minute to let the pain subside.
Sean knew he was pushing and he'd pay for it later. But, he had to do it. He had to know how bad it really was.
It took almost an hour and a half and he was going to have to get food to take back to the office because he worked right through lunch.
But at the end of those ninety minutes he could play the melody line through at a slightly slower tempo with no mistakes. The third time he ran all the way through it, he couldn't help singing the last verse quietly. The song as appropriate as any for their situation in this world.
Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
"Relax, " said the night man,
"We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!"
Tears were in his eyes again as he finished and Sean felt a little piece of himself fit back into place.