Survival

It wasn’t enough that my uniform itched, but they stole my tie and put it in the trash can. Wasn’t that five different kinds of illegal? It was an invasion of privacy, that’s what it was; for all the administrators preached of equality and right to privacy, they didn’t practice it when their tight rules were being smacked in the ass with a ruler by someone with style.

Real style, I had that, even if the people in my old town thought I was a crack pot, or a moaning elephant, I couldn’t remember which was the most common nick-name, but they were all quite inaccurate. I dressed in a two to three tone color palette, two of those being neutrals, but was it my fault that pink looked so fantastic popping vividly against my white skin? No, it was not my fault at all.

The healing hand of mine against a guitar was the only thing I ever paid any attention to, not the people in the hallways, not the corridor couples who I knocked over on a frantic dash to class. I really should be sedated; I was dangerously klutzy, though I could round-house a few assholes quite elegantly should I find the need to. My feet finally found their way to my first class without the aid of fellow student or map. I sat on the teacher’s desk, waiting to give her my slip, twiddling my thumbs with a blind boredom, random tunes peeling my brain, turning it to stew… or carrot cake. I missed carrot cake, but chocolate cake was much better. My parents had carrot cake as their wedding cake, before an untimely divorce that is. Who had carrot cake as a wedding cake? Crazies.

The teacher entered and accepted my slip and a few murmurings of my new comings. She pointed to one of the few empty seats, telling me to make it my own. I didn’t take too kindly to the people around me, but the song that ran through my head was comfort enough. The only solace I had in this town was that I had already done all the curriculum, meaning that I could ace all of my classes with little to no effort.

As I was heading to the cafeteria a bright green slip of paper attached to the base of the dull brown dusty bulletin board caught my eyes. I had to read it, it was green! I stopped briefly despite the avid rumbling of my stomach to catch the header:

Musical Artists Needed for Mystique Grand Reopening

Why are all the bands out of town just when their favorite gig spot is back? Oh well, we need a solo artist or two to fill in. Call or come by to sign up.

Where was this Mystique place? I decided to ask someone who looked remotely friendly, well; nerdy was pretty much my assessment, but I’d never tell them that, “Excuse me,” the demure young teen looked me up and down with fear in his eyes, clearly he was scared of me, “Where’s Mystique?”

“Girl or place?” What kind of question was that?

“What? Oh, never mind. Place.” Great, he’d probably be on me about my lack of full thought in my sentence, grammar police, nerdy the grammarian, whey-oh-whey-oh-whey-oh.

If no one cared to notice, that was my brain imitating a siren.

“Corner of Broad and Whiskey, you might want someone to go with you, little lady, it’s just on the bad side of town.” I scoffed at his moot attempt at being… whatever he was trying to be. He put his hand on my shoulder and I brushed it off with the light touch of my own hand. He looked as if it sent ephemerae chills down him, as if her never knew what the scent and feel of girl was.

“Thanks, a lot, cowboy.” I took my cap that blatantly read “Harley Davidson” across the front from my pocket, tipping it off to him before placing it on my head. I gave him two thumbs up as I walked away from the gawking child. He was clearly speechless at my affront to his supposed bravado. The poor boy was rather funny, if awkward and overly tall, lanky almost.

“Nice to know you’re fitting in with the lowest common denominator of society.” Someone shoved me into the locker, just as I was turning around to face the front, so my face ended up being smashed into the nearest cement wall tile. I managed to avert my nose from the impact, so it was undamaged, but I expected that by the end of the day, a nice swelling would develop or perhaps a distinct discoloration due to blood pooling beneath the skin. Either way, what a laugh, right?

To them at least.

I wasn’t discouraged by their antics, I was used to it, even if I didn’t like to think that I was, even if I didn’t like to think of how lonely I was. It was true, I was all alone and there was a reason, because I wasn’t like them. I wasn’t easily fooled and I wasn’t emotionally invested, until I discovered I was and my life crumbled before me. That was what happened with dad, when he left. That’s why we got a new life, my mother and I. Hopefully that new life would include playing at this Mystique location.

As soon as lunch was over, and any smattering I possibly had of sociality was gone, I walked to the next few classes, picking up information unintentionally here and there. Mystique was the daughter of the owner of the club, Mystique, and she dropped out of high school as soon as she turned sixteen, though there were small rumors that she could be returning. The person that shoved me into the locker was none other than the atypical cheerleader, You Know Who. Literally, they called her that, because the snippety little whore had ears everywhere, so the angry obese lunch lady said.

At the conclusion of the day, I returned home briefly to grab my guitar. I decided on acoustic, because that was the most amenable of soloist instruments. I would make note to mention that I had an electric guitar as well, though.

I followed the magic of map quest all the way there, and the estimated time of arrival was quite skewed due to my lack of wheels, but the show would go on. If I made it, that is.

If not they would most likely give me a shot to play on a different night, anyways; that, or they would turn me away with disappointment and never want to speak to me again. I would literally be like a dog at their door if that happened, I wouldn’t let go if there were still a possibility of performance. I didn’t have performance anxiety or public speaking issues; I craved the attention, despite how disgusting that might sound to a normal human being.

I did a quick ditty for the owner, who was clearly desperate for entertainment, as he, in a bored state, swiped the tables clean and even washed the pin-ball machine, “You’re hired,” he jubilated as soon as I mentioned my ownership of an electric guitar.

That was easy.

I walked out with a promise of a gig and a free beer. My life was slightly bettered by this experience. He told me to come with enough songs to entertain for three to four hours; these locals knew how to party, according to him. I decided that I would keep my repertoire consistent of upbeat proto-punk, some glam, with modicums of my favorite savory songs. Something even these tasteless children could appreciate, like chocolate or skittles.

The Friday just a few days later was unacceptably close; I was prepared, but just barely. I could only pray that people appreciated the time I put into my covers, and the one or two original songs that I inconspicuously mixed in, hoping no one noticed.

It was unlikely that the girl on stage was anything other than a… oh. The Council didn’t tell me that the girl was a punk, a good for nothing punk. She wasn’t supposed to be some vain peacock, she was supposed to be a trained warrior, how was she supposed to reinstate the full slayer line?

She couldn’t even play the D7 chord in accordance with a rhythm on the bass strings; much less handle the weight of the world. No, this couldn’t be her. It shouldn’t, even though it was there, the faint recognition of the evil doers in the crowd, the lean muscling. She was definitely the Slayer. The one and only.

Wow. This girl might not have been the best player in the world, but she had pipes, pipes that could make the company famous. They were tinny when delving into the higher range and much lower than most of the females that made it big, but the kid had a shot.

A shot in the dark, but the target was slowly increasing in size, making it easier to hit. With every verse of her cover… no, that was a legitimate new song; I had never heard that chord before. Technically it was a discord, but she cleverly balanced it with an unconscious change in key of her vocals. She probably didn’t even know what magic she was working in the musical department. Hell, it would suffice to say that she probably couldn’t even read music notes, but the kid could make it with raw talent until we gave her over to a bigger label.

Definitely hold onto her for two records and a tour with some hot shots, though. She could be the label’s ticket to the big time. We might even have to rest everything on her shoulders to get it across.

She was going to have to give up everything to save the Slayer line. The First was back in action and there was a hell mouth brewing right here. She was the only one left.

“I’m the only one… Dreaming here at all…”