Send Me Your Amnesty

Last night.

What happened?

She sat up in bed, legs crossed, her arms settled on her knees as her long, wavy black locks draped over her eyes and her head sulked low resting in the palms of her hands. She massaged her temples trying to recall any of the events from the previous night.

Loud music.

Lots of drinks—too much to drink.

“Hey you wanna hang out?”

Vulnerable. Weak. Desperate. It was all a blur.

All she could recall was that she felt lousy, depressed, and angry—he caught her at her weakest moment and they fell together. It was all a mistake.

She was stupid. He was stupid. The night was stupid.

It was all stupid.

It had only been a week since she left her idiotic-scumbag of a boyfriend; she had to get the fuck out of town. She needed excitement; but the kind of excitement that had appeared last night may have been too much too soon.

After a few lonely drinks at the bar, she moseyed on down to the local club called Gilman. She pushed open the heavy, rusted metal door revealing the dimly lit musky atmosphere of the small club. Immediately the loud, raw beat of the bass and spells of screams and shouts filled her ears. Her heart jumped into her throat as the sight of the happy-go-lucky teenagers wasting the night away suddenly made her feel welcome.

A slight smile grew on her round tan face. She grabbed a drink off the table and sipped at its carbonated sweetness as she wriggled through the crowd of head-bobbing adolescents. She made it to the front of the mosh pit and watched the young punks who called themselves Sweet Children play their instruments with rage, passion, and finesse.

The night carried on, mindless drinking, dancing, and socializing proceeded. Sweet Children finished their set and the lead singer and guitarist called her out as she was walking back to the bar.

“Hey!” he shouted into the microphone. “You—with the Ramones shirt,” he pointed at her as she turned around and pointed at herself. She mouthed me? He said, “Yeah. You. Come here…” inching his finger as if to reel her in. She retreated to stage downing the last of her soda as he kneeled down to her eye level. “Hey, I saw you jammin’ up here and I was wondering if you wanna hang out backstage, maybe grab a drink,” he offered holding out a hand.

She took it pensively as he helped her up and then brought his arm around her shoulder and guided her backstage.

From there it was a fast, hazy blur.

Bright lights.

Loud Music.

And more drinking.

“Thi-ss--this is Blue—had ‘er since I was 10,”he said caressing the blue Stratocaster.
“Muh name’s Bi-i-i-ll-ll-i-i-e-e Jo-o-o-o-e-e-Armmmm—whatever…” his spoke, head bobbing and grinning as he downed another bottle.

“It was just too much—he was such an asshole!” she gritted, mumbling into her hands as she wept.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry little lady…Come on it’ll be alright,” he reassured patting her back as he breathed close to her neck and kissed her.

She could recall little snippets of the night.

Having a drink with the band---Winding up at some guy’s apartment---Being pushed into a dark room and being toppled onto a soft structure as he kissed her passionately---Stripping down to skin, sliding under the covers making mindless love.

As the morning sun slipped under the blinds, she could now envision the night. He was sprawled out on his stomach, lightly snoring into his pillow. The sheets disheveled about the room. Clothes sprinkled around like confetti. She squinted at the bright light and she could see dust particles dancing in the sunlight. The lonely room reeked of alcohol, smoke, and shame.

Now awake, nauseated, and hung-over, she remembered the purpose of last night. She needed to get out of this house. Get out of the city. Get out of the state. Just. Get. Out.

She flung the covers back purposefully waking him. She was down on all fours groping for her clothes in the poorly lit room when he awoke with an annoyed groan.

“Babe? What’re you doin’?” he asked propping himself up on his elbows, bending his back inward to crack it. He rubbed his eyes with his palm, mimicking a young child.

“I have to go. Last night was a mistake,” she spat out softly, flinging his T-shirt at his face while she slipped into her undergarments. She stood up jumping into her ripped jeans and throwing on her alcohol, smoke, and sweat ridden Ramones T-shirt. She dipped her head down, shaking and finger-combing her black wavy locks, and then brought her head up, pulling her hair into a messy high ponytail.

“You’re just leavin’? Will I see you later?” he asked slipping into the shirt she tossed to him.
She sat at the corner of the bed slipping on her worn out chucks. “You don’t understand. That wasn’t supposed to happen--I’m on my way out,” she bluntly stated heading toward the door.

“Wait,” he said, hopping out of bed, messily pulling on his boxers as he waddled to the door to meet her. He pulled her close, enveloping her small figure. He breathed slow, steady breathes, his hands moving rhythmically up and down her arms and torso. He snuck a peck finally evolving into a long passionate lip-lock goodbye. “If you ever come back; look me up. I’ll be the punk-ass kid at Gilman rocking out on trusty ol’ Blue-over there.” He nodded toward the guitar propped up in the corner.

“Don’t count on it.” She turned the brass-colored doorknob and strutted out, not looking back. It was time for her to leave it all behind and face the truth.