Running Scared
Chapter 1
He quickly exited the large industrial doors located at the back of the building, breathing a sigh of relief once they closed behind him. There was a sharp pressure right between his eyes. He rested his back against the cool bricks of the venue and pushed his head back, closing his eyes. Running a hand through his midnight black, shoulder length hair, he contemplated his next move. Should I stay or should I run? She was there, in the crowd. I haven't seen her, not since...She looked... 'No. Stop it. It's done. Over. Dead and buried,' he told himself. But her hair, her eyes, just her... He opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings.
He was in the dark and dingy alleyway of Trade, one of biggest rock venues in the country. On his right were gunmetal industrial doors which led to the green room, where he in no way wanted to be. To his left was a large dumpster filled with broken glass and shiny black plastic garbage bags. The alleyway itself was quite clean, no rubbish strewn across the cobblestone road. Suprisingly, there were no bothersome odours. Pushing himself off a little ways from the cool brick wall of Trade's exterior, he reached into the left pocket of his torn, black skinny jeans, fingers grasping for his cigarettes and lighter. He needed to calm down, do something to relieve the pressure between his eyes, most likely from seeing her. He took a cigarette from the packet, not paying any attention to the strategically placed images warning of mouth cancer and impending death, putting it between his painted black nailed fingers. We all rot together eventually. He lit up, and drew the cigarette between his lips, inhaling the calming smoke. That's fucking better. Just as he exhaled, the smoke dancing enticingly from his lips, the back doors swung open – Violent Soho's covered in chrome, blaring through the open doorway.
"Oi, fuckface, did you see her?! Did you fuckin' see her?" Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez demanded, towering over me, his face far too close to my own. He had both arms blocking me and forcing me back into the wall. His whole demeanour demanded an answer. His face just searched mine for any sign of recognition, any sign of emotion, really. My face remained stoic and emotionless, not giving a damn thing away. The doors slammed shut, the music from the club shut off. It's quiet once more. Grimmjow hadn't moved, he was even further into my personal space, his breathing anxious and harsh. I ducked beneath his arm and put some distance between us. "Of course you fuckin' saw her – that's why you're out here, fuckin' brooding. Give me one of those," indicating toward the fast burning cigarette. I grabbed the packet from my jeans pocket, along with the light, throwing it at his face. He caught it, lighting up, putting it to his lips and inhaling. "Don't be all fuckin' pissy with me, fucktard. What are you gonna do?" came out roughly as he exhaled.
I looked at Grimm, my oldest friend, my band mate, my brother. "Did the others see?" I asked, avoiding his gaze, concentrating on the broken lace of one of my scuffed black combat boots, crossing my right ankle over my left. "You're damn right they fuckin' saw – Nnoitra messed up his bass during Breakdown – don't pretend you didn't fuckin' notice." "I see." "Dammit Ulqiorra, what are you gonna do? You know she's gonna come backstage – you know she won't ignore us, too much history and all that shit. She's too fuckin' nice for her own good. Need some armour? Groupies? Want me to call those sluts Loly and Menoly in for you?" I looked to Grimm, moving my focus from my boots, giving nothing away. "Ulquiorra – what are you gonna do?" he repeated, taking in my emotionless expression.
"Nothing," finally giving into his demanding questioning. "I will not do a thing." I turned away from him, walking out of the alley, towards a cab rank a few hundred metres down the road. I need to get out of here. I need to go home. "Oi fucktard, get back here! What do I say to her? What do I tell the others? You need to face this. It's not going to go away. She is not going to go away." Turning my head and peering over my shoulder at Grimm, "Do not tell them anything. Do not tell her anything. Later." Dismissing him, I walked away, away from Trade, away from my band mates, away from her. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans, I wished I had grabbed my hoodie from the Green Room before I left. My black Henley just wasn't cutting the cooler air tonight. I need a drink. A strong drink. Deciding against a cab, I walked for maybe ten, fifteen minutes before stumbling into some dive bar. The bar's name was lost on me. I walked down the entrance steps into a sea of smoke, darkness and sweat. I found the bar, pulled out a black leather stool and signaled to the bar tender. "Scotch on the rocks," handing him a hundred, "And keep them coming."
As I waited for my drink, I took a look around. Dark, dingy, not as dirty as I first thought. Not too many patrons for a Friday night, maybe eleven, twelve tops, strewn around between the leather stools at the bar and a number of old leather couches about the bar's entirety. There were only two bar tenders, mine, a shaggy blonde guy, about six four, dressed in similar attire to me, black distressed skinny jeans, black long-sleeved tee rolled up exposing Japanese inspired Yakuza tatts – strange – and a brunette, maybe 21, small, her arms and exposed chest covered in brightly intricate My Little Pony and cosmetic related ink. Trash.
My scotch was placed in front of me on the bar top without a sound. My hundred left to its own devices. "It's on the house. You're Ulquiorra Schiffer, yeah?" the blonde guy asks, looking pointedly at me. "Didn't you have a gig tonight?" he continued, "I would've been there but had to earn some coin, I'm a big fan man." "Thank you," I stated, shooting the entirety of my scotch down my throat. That's fucking better. "Another," I said simply. As the bartender went about his task, I thought to who I was and how I've come to be here.
My name is Ulquiorra Schiffer. I'm 29 years old. My birthday is December 1. I am one part of an internationally successful hard rock band with my three best friends, the Cuatro Espada. We've been on this train for the past eight years, making it big with our first album at 21. I'm the lead, providing lyrics, clean vocals, and lead guitar. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez is our animalistic drummer, the incredibly intimidating Nnoitra Gilga on bass, and the ever so calm Coyote Starrk on throat and guitar. The boys equally compose our songs. We've had four international top five albums, which is by no means an easy feat when the music scene is bombarded with such utter drivel. Musicians these days seem to be heavily auto-tuned and barely play their own instruments, if they do so at all. Trash.
Tonight is the last of a three month long promotional tour for our upcoming fifth album, coming home for our final show in the foreseeable future. I'm looking forward for the next six months off, before the touring machine starts up again – I need a break. I need sleep. I need to be numb. My thoughts are disturbed when my scotch is again laid before me. Instead of shooting it down, I savour the taste, the smoothness of this spectacular liquid invading my palate. It goes down so well. "Another," I once more signal the bartender. My weapon of choice is once again placed before me, as I bring the glass to my lips, I am interrupted from my reverie -"Ulqui-kun," a beautiful voice invades my ears.
I know that siren song. Looking to my left, sure enough, I see her. She is smiling shyly at me, looking hesitantly around herself, as if she will be scolded for being in my very presence. I drink her in – lusciously straight waist length burnt orange hair, small curvy figure clad in a white Peter-Pan collared blouse tucked into a leather skater skirt, black ballet flats adorned with bows upon her plum stockinged feet. Her face is just as glorious as I when I last saw her. The only makeup she wears is black winged eyeliner and mascara, her naturally flushed cheeks and lips standing out. She sits herself down in the empty seat to my left. "Ohayo, Ulqui-kun," she all but whispers, silver eyes shyly peering into my own.
"Another," I again signal to the bartender. I will need it.