A/N: Experimenting just a bit, not exactly sure how it will go over. The story takes place in college, but more present day; everything should hopefully explain itself. Certain Thrice songs set the tone for this like "Silhouette," but also "The Abolition of Man" for this chapter. Actually, each chapter kind of comprises a song on a fictional band's album.
So that it's clear, I don't own anything (a given) and credit where it's due, please don't sue. Anyways, Enjoy and, of course, review. Constructive criticism also works well.
…
Silhouette
"Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated."
–Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869)
…
It feels almost clichéd to start off the bat with a quote or two. In this case, I'm going to assume it works.
So, I hear the shortest distance between any two points is a straight line. Pardon the language, but what a pile of steaming shit. In a sense, it, well, makes sense, but placed in a different context, life is almost never that simple or that straightforward, is it?
Then again, I'm not boasting about my life being all that complicated either. If anything, it is far from that.
I probably should clarify a few couple before we begin:
The first, this isn't one of those stories where the twist turns out to be that I've been dead and telling the story posthumously similar to that of The Sixth Sense. I'm also going to go ahead and rule out purgatory considering I'm not deceased. Of course, one could also argue going through life, in itself, is purgatory.
And the second sounds somewhat "pompous," but how things are arranged and the titles might have some significance attached to them. There is a reason for it. For instance, the first letter (not necessarily in order) of the first few chapters' titles will eventually reveal an identity.
On with the story, shall we…
(…oh, and if I've ruined the aforementioned movie for you, get over it. It's been long enough.)
…
Abolition
…on the ground, he stirred from unconsciousness before slowly standing on his two feet. Groggily, he stumbled around his surroundings covered in blood. Vision slightly and temporarily clouded.
"What the…" he grumbled to himself, dabbing at the fresh swollen gash above his left eye. The scenery felt familiar;oneof the last things seen before blacking out.
The stench roamed faintly but every bit as repugnant, enough to make him gag. The further he went the stronger and concentrated the scent.
There, he staggered upon laid a decaying corpse, a morbid sight. A bullet hole punctured through the victim, shot at point-blank range from what appeared to be a nine millimeter gun… not that he was some firearms expert. Dried up tears had rolled down her porcelain skin.
The pieces (chunks, really) of human flesh, brain and hair plastered about the alley's brick walls.
His eyes started to well up. The hot and stinging tears careened down his face without much restraint, sloshing down the crisp cold air onto the wet pavement. He wiped them off with the sleeve of his jacket, but to no avail.
This innocent woman murdered.
At best, she would be a national news story, the murderer brought to justice and almost everything would go back to "normal".
At worst, she would be nothing more than another statistic, an unsolved crime or some other pessimistic slogan you could attach to it.
The sick fucker should've finished them both off, he screamed a silent scream when those words simply would not come out.
Reality set itself in, comfortable and smug.
He wanted to punch someone, something.
As his knuckles met the nearest wall, there were no formal introductions or greetings exchanged. Obviously, the inanimate latter prevailed. And now, as if things couldn't get any better, bloodied knuckles in the process.
He restrained yet another scream, balling his hand into a fist while blowing on another wound. The frigid weather could not offer him any help or sympathy either. It wasn't the most rational of his actions, but who would be thinking rationally?
Right now, that was the farthest thing from his mind.
…
He resisted the urge to light the cigarette perched securely between his lips, a "disgusting" habit he had picked up a few years ago. Flicking the lighter open then closing it, his final attempts at "remaining cold turkey" were futile… and eventually, lost out.
As the smoke moved its way to the back of his throat, he exhaled. Its filthy warmth temporarily offered a comfortable solace and cloak. It hung there indolently like a cheap hooker or one of the countless groupies throwing themselves at him or his friends after playing one of their sets.
He scribbled chicken scratch into the spiral-bound notebook, its cover torn a bit.
He handed off the cigarette to an ashtray, dabbing off its ashes. He poured from a bottle of whiskey within proximity into a shot-glass and a can of cola clutched in the other hand, downing a couple shots of both.
"…testing my will," he recited monotonously. "They leave me broken and bruised and bleeding."
He thought he should visit his family. Forget it, he never could muster enough courage or drive to visit them. He could always rely on his number one excuse: he was busy.
It wasn't like he was lying.
Technically, he was busy. Their band had a full-length album, their first on a major industry label, set to begin recording in January. The band had been stoked about since being signed on. The album itself was estimated for a late fall or early winter release.
Other than graduating from college this upcoming semester, music consumed most of his life. It was one of the few things keeping him sane. Well, it was the least-destructive thing keeping him sane anyways.
For the most part, he had been one of the constants of the band.
The band underwent several changes from its name to lyrics and influences to band members, the humble beginnings in his parents' basement to lining up shows at skate parks and recreation centers to winning a couple "Battle of the Bands" competitions to recording a couple demos and EPs.
He had witnessed all the arguments or quarrels accompanying some of the band changes, the thrill and adrenaline rush of playing on stage as audiences sang, swayed and thrashed to their songs. And yet, absolutely none of that could compare to what was happening right now, in the present.
The band was now venturing into uncharted waters.
Of course, it helped that they were being hyped as the best New York band in recent memory by a well respected publication. It eased the transition from indie status to possible stardom. Their passionate sound mixed with the atypically raw lyrics separated themselves from the ridiculously formulaic genre of bands currently plaguing the mainstream.
…
Bittersweet reverie set his thoughts and conscious ablaze, broken by his cell phone vibrating on the makeshift table before blaring out some obnoxious ring-tone.
He lowered the television to its lowest setting, forgetting what he was watching to begin with.
"…the hell, man," a drunken man slurred loudly with several voices chattering and other noise amidst the background. "Anyways, keg party at Missy's, you up for it? There's like five or six of 'em."
"Yeah, definitely," he responded, grabbing his keys and coat. "I'll be there in thirty, Gandalf."
…
I'm giving you a couple pieces of discernible information for now.
Mike "Gandalf" Ganderson: a college roommate, one of my best friends and the drummer of our quaint little band. And if you ask me, he is undoubtedly the best at what he does.
