Oh my lord... Eden came out with vertigo and I am way too happy about it. Like, this isn't healthy.

Beca woke up Tuesday with her head in total work mode. She had her first day at Coffee and Junk and her first at Las Bonitas, the place she was going to play piano for. Francisco, the owner, was from the all-elegant Spain. He loved everything perfect, there wasn't a piece of lint on his crimson red capret. Though Las Bonitas was at the corner of a sketchy street, it was a definite beauty. The outside painted red and yellow, the Spanish colors, the sign had a golden frame, a man stood in the lobby checking reservations and walk-ins. It was a legitamate restaurant. On the other hand, Coffee and Junk was a typical corner cafe. The manager, Elise, was your typical diner manager. Everything about the place was really normal. Picking up good skills on the streets with being nice to her "clients," she found it pretty easy to get good tips. The only thing about the place was the name tags. They were absolutely hideous in Beca's opinion, and she knew everyone agreed. Why they didn't get rid of them was out of her knowledge. The light brown did not go well against the neon lime green.

She walked into the diner and her mind raced with work. She was a workoholic some might say. Beca was obsessed with juggling responsibilities, and was very good at it. She first began her addiction when she was fourteen and realized that it could take her mind off the abuse she received from Mr. Mitchell and the awkward stares from other kids, whispering to eachother seriously. Everyone knew she was in a low time, everyone knew she would give them a hard stare if they even tried to talk to her. All the kids knew her as "the girl you ask for a pencil" or "the girl who when they are force to present a math project would take the most complex concepts and simplify them so anyone could understand." That was until Junior year. When her father passed, she out of thd blue asked the sketchiest guys in the school for the best drugs they could find. She had a couple months where she went to school high and went home high, went to parties high and dell asleep high. Her friends that she had made at parties started to realize what was happening and shook her out of it. After a week of staying with a friend, she disappeared into her textbooks again.

Then her workoholism came around the block again, dragging her deeper in than it had previously.

The diner was great. She got generous tips and respect, like she was never a homeless hooker. The sensation of being treated as an average human being was exhilarating to her. Everytime someone said a casual "thanks" or "sure" it felt like a conversation with a friend. When people said "wanna" or "gonna" it was excitingly informal. All her relationships with teachers and peers had always been strictly polite. Scary almost. And alright, there were a few exceptional teachers, like Ms. York and her kindergarten teacher. But they were the ones who pitied her, and Beca hated being pitied. It was stupid and pointless, in her opinion.

Once her shift at the diner was done, she had about two hours to get from her morning job to Las Bonitas. Instead of walking less than a fourth of a mile per hour and the hustling, bustling sidewalks of Boston for the entire time, she thought it would be best to change into something a little more "I work at a nice second class restaurant" outfit at the apartment.

The apartment she couldn't really call home, she thought as she walked there. Home. "Home" was not apart of her vocabulary once her mother moved out. "Home" was destroyed when her father went on his his first drinking binge, more when he put his hand over her mouth at night to not wake the neighbors. Again, her part-time job after school at Market Basket easily kept her mind off everything. Constantly crunching numbers, beating the cash register to the total in her head, the busy brunette made a game that involved the quickest math adding and subtracting. Sometimes dividing, if the customer had a coupon. She enjoyed it.

With her first two hundred dollars, she bought her first and only guitar. She got to her room and laid on her bullshit of a bed. The instrument lay across the torso of the small woman while she allowed her fingers to play the notes they wanted. Without thinking, the word practically fell out of her mouth.

It's been a few years since you've been gone

There's been a few tears, but that was years and years ago

Yeah, I grew up to be exactly what you wanted

Francis Mitchell. She felt like she disappointed him, like she was apart of the reason he did what he had. What other trigger would there have been? She knew he was being affected by his suddenly cut off marriage. He had no idea his now ex-wife was cheating. He was hurt and didn't know what to do with his anger. Beca had thought about that a few times, but the reason it had to be his own daughter who suffered the same loss, was beyond her.

'Cause you are not who you think you are

There's no grain on these brown eyes

But they can be green if they really want

So many years of isolation, so much time of loneliness. That month of drugs and alcohol was what she marked as her favorite, yet most foolish. She thought about trying it again, returning to that other side of her. The only major thing holding her back was the money. She couldn't afford it yet, but after three years on the streets, a year or so in an apartment didn't seem too long. She craved to work. She craved to reach goals, set goals, reach them, set some more. The result was never enough.

But silence is better than fake laughs or faking we're we're always up

Beca did prefer to be inconspicuous than have to fake a smile or a laugh all the time. Though with Aubrey and Chloe, she didn't feel the need to fake. They made her genuinely feel appreciated. Chloe was an all-around positive, interesting person and Aubrey was witty. She really thought she could see herself hanging out with them, drinking after her shifts and maybe a coffee in the morning. Since high school, she'd become more social, but still remained a part that she didn't show to just anyone, and no one yet. These two neighbors of hers, she knew, had a good chance.

One her way down the stair, she was caught by Chloe who was just walking in. "Hey, Beca. Where you off to?"

"Um, hey. I was- was just going to work," she had always had a bad habit of mumbling faster than what her lips could keep up with.

"Work? Didn't you go this morning too?" The red furrowed a brow.

"Uh," Beca knew there was no use in lying, the world would find out soon enough. "I did, but I got another job."

"And Marty's?"

"Well I suppose that makes three," she apologetically smile. That was a bad habit of hers; apologizing for no reason. She guessed that was onf of the side effects of thinking you're a terrible person.

"Oh god, aren't you tired?"

"Nah. But I gotta get going, it's my first day at this one!" she turned to go, but Chloe stopped her for a moment.

"Wait, what's the job?"

She really hated people knowing she was a music freak. Partly because they would ask to hear, partly because the guitar was the only instrument she had available to play for them. And just in general, all her songs were sad. Everything just sounded best to her in the minor scales. Concluding to this, she'd point her just slightly in the wrong way. "I work at Las Bonitas. It's pretty nice actually," she took a glance at the clock hung on the wall. "But seriously, I gotta go."

"Good luck!" Her face had kind of a look that reminded her of the way she looked at her guitar.

"Thanks!" She called out before Chloe could reach her for a hug. If the redhead had made it to her, she wouldn't even know what to do. The last time she had physical affection was... she couldn't even remember. It was probably a pat of a scruff of her hair from her mother. Maybe not. Who knows.

The restaurant was crowded. Beca wondered what kind of miracle allowed her to be employed. She managed to put her stuff down at a work's cubby in the back. Cubby. She hadn't had a cubby since third grade. Trying not to think much on her past, she pulled out a few pieces of sheet music, but Francisco cane to her first. "Hey, you can call me Fran," very, very thick Spanish accent. "These are a few commonly requests. You mix them in with..." he peered over her shoulder, giving an approving nod at her sheets.

"Yeah, of course." She made her way over to the piano feeling a little lightheaded. He was too close, and she had been holding her breath for too long.

The grand piano was definitely grand. Its shiney black paint contrasted well with the bleach white keys. Damn, Beca thought, this is the real fucking deal. She sat down almost cautiously on the cushioned seat. Afraid to damage anything, she placed the papers carefully. First up, Gymnopedie No. 1. The tiny pianist barely needed to even glance at the sheet music. Her long, slender fingers tickled the black and white keys beautifully. Before she played the instrument, she hated her hands for being so big in comparison to her body, but now she was grateful for the odd appearance.

The Gymnopedie finished and she delt like her blood was in flames. The adrenaline rush overwhelmed her as she started on the next, and the next ,and the next. Beca was so consumed in the sound that she hadn't noticed that a red name Chloe Beale had followed her to initially thinking she could be the first for the newest employee to wait. Instead, she was in awe of the ability of the unexpected and suddenly remembered where she had seen Beca Mitchell.

Beca was that hobo down on sixth street...

Sorry for the delay. Meant to finish this earlier, but my brain can only think one thing at a time I guess. The first song was crash by Eden, which is on his new album that I in fucking love with. And the Gymnopedie is hopefully obviously by Erik Satie in the late nineteeth century. Thanks, like always, for the support. It means so much, especially right now.