erasing the siren from my mind. Eventually I give up, disentangle myself, and head for the console.
Just for one track. Maybe two.
Blood pulses to the beat of harsh machine-driven noise; the music’s texture is like shattered glass, each note precisely jagged, edges hard. They fit together in a melody that moves my feet inches and sends my mind miles away .
Freedom. I move, fly, float on memories, and sink into dreams .
I am nowhere. And everywhere. One day maybe someone will look, scan through my thoughts and find this night, this club, this floor on which I’m dancing. They’ll see the neon lights brushing over my skin, red hotter than blue, green that tingles a little, purple soothing as a warm shower. They’ll see Haven through my eyes and know that I loved every pink, glittering, fierce inch of her .
If it’s the twins who look, they’ll know I couldn’t make it stop, but that I wanted to and maybe that will count for something in the favorable light death casts on the dead .
The sound presses in and crushes me. I can’t move in this tiny box and my hands beat against the door. I can see them through the glass, why can’t they see me?
Someone’s coming. Pounding, rhythmic footsteps. A halo of lights bursts outside the door and I see myself, my own pale skin, corpse-white between streaks of glowing color .
A siren wails. Blood, again. I’m covered in it, watching it slide over me, bright red. Then green, then yellow, and that makes no sense. I don’t understand .
Cold. So cold. Get me out of here! I’m shivering, gasping, dying. My fists punch the glass over and over. Help me! I scream again with my last breath. Something pink reaches out, opens the door, and touches me as I tumble out into warmth. I gulp the air, and I’m okay. Haven is there, right next to me, the lights turning her face different shades of happiness. Scope is here and the twins are safe at home, wrapped in the kind of sleep that can only be had by the innocent, the unknowing, the untainted .
I stay above for as long as I can, fighting the pull long enough to compose myself .
I’m okay .
I dive back in .
I’m pretty sure the couch is going to have a permanent dent from my father’s body, lying on his side with his eyes on the TV. He’s getting worse. His favorite foods don’t tempt him anymore, and flesh is dropping from his bones at a rate that can only mean one thing.
The music itself isn’t the only cause of death, but it’s the guaranteed one if starvation doesn’t get you first, or if you can’t summon a last, fatal burst of energy to put an end to all of it.
I wonder what my brain looks like. Not as bad as my father’s, but the damage is there already, growing every time I put on a track, building with every song I dance to at the club. One day it will be a scarred, twisted mess and I will be nothing at all. A chip in a locker, stored memories lying by omission.
Maybe I should move him back to the bedroom and sleep on the couch myself. No. The twins deserve as much time as possible with whatever’s left inside his shell. The pain is intensifying, though—Ihave to pry clenched fists open on the rare occasions he agrees to eat—and he whimpers through his dreams.
He’s not the only one having nightmares. Mine are jagged, bloody, horror-filled with sirens and screams. I wake, gasping in the sour scent of my own cold sweats, and pad to the console. I’m not sure whether I track to calm myself down or for the reminder that I can still hear.
It’s Wednesday again, so I only use the console to check the balance of my account and find an expensive pain-killing track for my father. His reddened ears are hot to the touch.
It’s fine. I’ll just have to shop more carefully the next time I hit the depot.
Scope isn’t waiting for me on our usual corner. I hang around for a few minutes and lean against the window of a cheap clothing store until the old woman who runs it bangs on the glass and shouts at me
Just for one track. Maybe two.
Blood pulses to the beat of harsh machine-driven noise; the music’s texture is like shattered glass, each note precisely jagged, edges hard. They fit together in a melody that moves my feet inches and sends my mind miles away .
Freedom. I move, fly, float on memories, and sink into dreams .
I am nowhere. And everywhere. One day maybe someone will look, scan through my thoughts and find this night, this club, this floor on which I’m dancing. They’ll see the neon lights brushing over my skin, red hotter than blue, green that tingles a little, purple soothing as a warm shower. They’ll see Haven through my eyes and know that I loved every pink, glittering, fierce inch of her .
If it’s the twins who look, they’ll know I couldn’t make it stop, but that I wanted to and maybe that will count for something in the favorable light death casts on the dead .
The sound presses in and crushes me. I can’t move in this tiny box and my hands beat against the door. I can see them through the glass, why can’t they see me?
Someone’s coming. Pounding, rhythmic footsteps. A halo of lights bursts outside the door and I see myself, my own pale skin, corpse-white between streaks of glowing color .
A siren wails. Blood, again. I’m covered in it, watching it slide over me, bright red. Then green, then yellow, and that makes no sense. I don’t understand .
Cold. So cold. Get me out of here! I’m shivering, gasping, dying. My fists punch the glass over and over. Help me! I scream again with my last breath. Something pink reaches out, opens the door, and touches me as I tumble out into warmth. I gulp the air, and I’m okay. Haven is there, right next to me, the lights turning her face different shades of happiness. Scope is here and the twins are safe at home, wrapped in the kind of sleep that can only be had by the innocent, the unknowing, the untainted .
I stay above for as long as I can, fighting the pull long enough to compose myself .
I’m okay .
I dive back in .
I’m pretty sure the couch is going to have a permanent dent from my father’s body, lying on his side with his eyes on the TV. He’s getting worse. His favorite foods don’t tempt him anymore, and flesh is dropping from his bones at a rate that can only mean one thing.
The music itself isn’t the only cause of death, but it’s the guaranteed one if starvation doesn’t get you first, or if you can’t summon a last, fatal burst of energy to put an end to all of it.
I wonder what my brain looks like. Not as bad as my father’s, but the damage is there already, growing every time I put on a track, building with every song I dance to at the club. One day it will be a scarred, twisted mess and I will be nothing at all. A chip in a locker, stored memories lying by omission.
Maybe I should move him back to the bedroom and sleep on the couch myself. No. The twins deserve as much time as possible with whatever’s left inside his shell. The pain is intensifying, though—Ihave to pry clenched fists open on the rare occasions he agrees to eat—and he whimpers through his dreams.
He’s not the only one having nightmares. Mine are jagged, bloody, horror-filled with sirens and screams. I wake, gasping in the sour scent of my own cold sweats, and pad to the console. I’m not sure whether I track to calm myself down or for the reminder that I can still hear.
It’s Wednesday again, so I only use the console to check the balance of my account and find an expensive pain-killing track for my father. His reddened ears are hot to the touch.
It’s fine. I’ll just have to shop more carefully the next time I hit the depot.
Scope isn’t waiting for me on our usual corner. I hang around for a few minutes and lean against the window of a cheap clothing store until the old woman who runs it bangs on the glass and shouts at me
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