Painkillers - {Fred Weasley}

6

New Lainey.

Narcotics have become my only friend. It lessens the pain, and sometimes I feel as if I'm floating out of my own body.

Sometimes I talk to Fred.

And then the high is gone and I'm alone on my cheap apartment floor with the butt of a joint. Sometimes I have a freshly written song.

I play a lot of gigs. There's a place nearby I go to. The owner pays me in meals and drinks and let's me have up a tip jar. There's one downside: guys are pigs. Not all, but I haven't met a single nice one yet in America.

Why am I here? I don't know what I hoped to gain by moving to L.A. Opportunity? Rediscovery?

I just want to stop the gnawing at my chest. It's agonizing. I want the constant pounding in my brain to cease. I can't think with so much destruction going on inside of me. I've been so long without these raw monsters that it seems twice as worse to lose another.

I pull myself off the stool sat center of a five inch high wooden stage under a spotlight. A few clap, most throw vulgar comments at me. One girl calls me out for my unnatural white hair.

I could say the same about her roots.

But I stay quiet and plop down at the bar.

"Give me anything," I tell the bartender.

"Hey, babe," a guy greets in his thick American accent.

"Hello," I reply flatly. He sits down next to me anyway.

"British? That's hot."

Thanks for not paying attention to my singing.

"I would appreciate it if you would please let me be."

He scoffs. "What a bitch. I bought you a drink, you know."

America is a rude place. I guess only rudeness can save you from situations like these.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you buying me alcohol meant I'm obligated to fuck you. Why don't I just suck you off right here, ay? Seems about how classy you are!"

"Fuck you! You're just a stuck up slut!"

"Ah, I see. I'm a slut because I won't sleep with you? Right. Understood."

He grumbles and stomps off. Another guy takes his place.

"Brutal."

"I like to think he deserved it," I snap.

He laughs. "I was talking about what he said to you."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Are you trying to sleep with me too?"

He laughs again. "No, actually, I came here to say I love your music. A few weeks ago my girlfriend dragged me here. That's when I first heard you play. I've been coming ever since. You're really talented."

"Oh, well, thank you," I reply.

"I love how much raw emotion really shows when you play. It's beautiful. What was that last song called?"

"Red Disaster."

"Boyfriend?"

"Sort of."

There's a short silence when I sip my drink and he fidgets.

"I was wondering if you wanted to duet sometime."

I frown. "Pardon?"

"Well, uh, my brother is an underground producer and he's always looking for new sounds, and I'm recording an album with him now and I thought maybe you'd want in. Unless you plan on doing gigs here forever."

A producer.

"I... I'll have to think about it."

"Okay, well, here's my card. Really think about it."

I leave with my guitar in hand. Do I want this? Do I deserve to live a success life? Am I not doomed to bars and drunk guys?

If I become popular, will they know it's me? My hair is chopped short and dyed white. I'm thinner. My contouring alters my true face.

I light a cigarette of death and stroll down the sidewalk, the embers burning and bright as the stars above.