Strings

The tiny amp screeched loudly as Rayne Taylor tested its abilities. Her cheap electric guitar was obviously at its breaking point, but music could not be stopped. Music simply continued on and on.
Finally, the lights in the house went out as Rayne’s amp went out and took the fuse box with it. On her fingers, Rayne counted down from 3, until she heard her mother’s annoyed voice.

“Rayne Andrea Taylor, you fix this mess right now!” her mother screamed, probably in a drunken stupor.

After the divorce, Rayne’s mother never returned to normal. She had been against the divorce, in a state of slavery to Rayne’s father. When he ignored her pleas, she took up the next best thing to him – drinking. Constantly, Rayne’s mother had a flask around her neck. Vodka was her poison, and she wasn’t afraid to drink it around anyone.

Though Rayne would never admit it, it killed her to see her mother like this. But Rayne Taylor never admitted love. It was rule number one of punk rock: Keep your love to yourself. Instead, she feigned annoyance at her mother’s indecent words and rebelled against everyone who thought they had a right to rule her life.

Rayne walked out to the fuse box, past her mother and, presumably, her mother’s new boyfriend.
“Another sucker,” Rayne thought. It was just another man who expected Rayne’s mother to be enslaved to them. There was only one man in Rayne’s mother’s heart, and he had left a long, long time ago. Now, it was just physicality that mattered.

Rayne fixed the lights and walked back in.

“Hope he’s a good fuck,” she spoke, more at the new boyfriend than to her mother.

“Ignore her,” she heard her mother say, as she walked away. “She’s got some idea that she’s a punk rocker,” she explained, laughing.

Rayne was 19 years old and had graduated high school a year earlier. She had taken what she called a “gap year” but what she really knew to be “an excuse to do whatever I want to do.” Rayne never had a slight inclination to go to college; it wasn’t for her. Music was for her. She wasn’t really sure who she was lying to. Rayne doubted her mother even knew her age anymore, so why would she care? She had no friends to impress; no intellectual-types that would make her feel inferior. In fact, if Rayne really thought about it, she was lonely in this world. Besides her bandmates, of course.

Aliyah was a 16-year-old bass player who had silky black hair and possibly the brain of Einstein. It could be said that Rayne and Aliyah were polar opposites. Aliyah would probably be going to Harvard or Yale or one of those other posh schools that Rayne would spit at. But she was a hell of a musician, so Rayne kept her around.

On drums was Hailey Brown. She was a closet lesbian with blunt bangs and baggy clothes. Hailey didn’t talk much. Rayne liked her for this. Silence was Rayne’s best friend. Hailey was the closest thing to a friend that Rayne had. She was 20-years-old and an excellent drummer. Sometimes, Rayne felt as if she was in love with Hailey. She’d brush that feeling away every single time. Rayne couldn’t possibly know what love is, because she had never felt it before, and she didn’t plan on it.

Every Saturday, they would jam out. They never spoke. Sometimes, Rayne thought of them as a punk girl band from the 90’s. She’d pretend to be the raunchy Courtney Love and think about yelling expletives at everyone around. She’d chop her hair off by herself and keep it uneven. Sometimes, Rayne would fear that people would compare them to the Spice Girls. She hated the Spice Girls. She wanted to be angry, and she wanted to scream – not talk about love and disgusting things.
As Rayne returned to her room, she considered replugging the amp in and trying to finish her rendition of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” But, as much as loved pissing her mother off, she knew when things could be taken too far. She sat on her loft bed and began to practice the chord progressions on an air guitar. Her head hurt, and her palms were sweating. She had bouts of sicknesses often, and this was one of those times. The music fixed her.

Rayne lay down and closed her eyes. She let herself go for once. She drifted to sleep for at least a minute, until she was interrupted by her mother’s new lover.

“Where’s the beer?” he asked, seemingly already having been in contact with alcohol.

“Not in here,” Rayne angrily responded.

“Little bitch,” she heard him murmur as he walked away.

Words didn’t hurt Rayne anymore. She was numb. Numb to emotional pain. Rayne couldn’t remember the last time she had cried. But that didn’t mean she was happy – far from it.
Rayne was suicidal. At least, she thought she was. She could never be sure of her sicknesses or issues. Her mother didn’t have insurance and refused to take Rayne to the doctor. They were too far in debt. But Rayne had planned out her death several times. The only thing that kept her from doing it was the fact that the funeral costs would drive whatever money and possessions her mother had left into the ground.

She shut her eyes and let herself succumb to sleep, hoping that everything would be better once she woke up.

Sam Wilson closed his eyes and let his paintbrush glide. His mere scruff had become more of a beard. He hadn’t gone out of his room very much in the past few days except to pee and occasionally grab snacks. He’d broken up with another girl, which meant another month of seclusion from the world. It wasn’t exactly post-relationship depression. It was more like he didn’t have a reason to be social anymore. He was finally able to catch up on his art and sleep.

He wiped the paint on his fingers onto his tattered jeans. Sam was carefree in the very sense of the word. He didn’t care about petty things. But when it came to the big issues, he could be as outspoken as needed. He hated world hunger and pollution. He had ideas on fixing world problems but no one to tell them to.

Finally, he dropped the paintbrush and wiped the metaphorical sweat off of his forehead. It wasn’t done – it never would be. Sam was never satisfied with anything that he did. He was too much of a perfectionist for that.

He had no idea what he’d just created. It was some kind of artwork, that was for sure. There were colours everywhere. It was what they called “abstract.”

Sam’s shaggy blonde hair started to cover his eyes. He knew he needed a haircut, but that would require leaving his house. He wasn’t even ready to get out of his own room.
Sam wasn’t depressed, but he wasn’t exactly happy either. He considered himself content, in the fullest sense of the word. He had no shortage of people that loved him, but he didn’t depend on anyone else either. He didn’t consider anyone his friend, nor did he love anyone, but he had plenty of people that considered him their friend and their love.

He wouldn’t change anything in his life, but that didn’t render him happy. He didn’t know what exactly happiness was, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t feeling it. People said they found happiness through physicality, so he had girlfriends – a lot of them. He went through the movements, and they found happiness, but he didn’t. No matter how much he questioned it, he couldn’t figure out why. Sometimes, he thought he was broken. Once, when he was younger, he’d gotten the board game Mouse Trap as a gift. As soon as he was excited to start playing, he realized that a piece of it was missing. Sometimes, he thought of himself as that game of Mouse Trap – one part was missing. An essential piece that he could live without, but something would always feel like it was missing.
Sam pushed his blonde hair back. There were only two things he was sure he loved that could possibly bring him the closest to happiness he’d ever feel: art and music.