Teenset Shimmer Gets Wasted In Her Room While Listening To Nirvana
Ch. 0 - Like Specks Of Dust In The Sun
The busted speaker and its good counterpart crackles a bit because of the loud volume. Even before the song begins, it is like electricity in the air. Bright daylight from outside beams in through the single, dirty window. Specks of dust glitter in the light and dance with the smoke from a smouldering cigarette butt left in an almost full tray. The room looks like a bomb went off, the usual fine mess. Clothes everywhere, the bed undone, stuff on shelves, stuff on the bed, stuff on the floor. In the middle of this intricate clutter of random things lies a lone teenage girl. Her jeans-clad legs are bent with shins and bare feet resting on the bed. Her back as well as her head is on the floor, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her head is surrounded by a halo of crimson and bright yellow. Even though her mane of hair is tangled and dirty, it has a certain brilliant sheen in the light.
The buzzing electricity from the stereo is joined by the blaring guitar and stomping drums of the next song. The endless microseconds of silence are over. Time now passes at its normal tempo for a while again. The teenager on the floor does not move a muscle for a good five minutes. The song fills the room, enveloping her entire being, letting her thoughts drift off to other places. Other times. Other memories. She balances between sad, contemplative and wilfully apathetic. The chorus of the song cuts through her thoughts. Somewhere between a pleasant picnic and the last time she got beat up. Losing a fight doesn't happen that often. Picking them has steadily decreased though. She chews on her lower lip for a bit, letting the words “pick a fight” mull around and mingle with the other little thunderclouds that float around in her mind.
She takes her eyes off the swirling glittering specks in the air and her eyes searches for a while before falling on a bottle standing next to her on the floor. She reaches out and grasps it. Cider, not the first nor last. She looks at the bottle for a while, the music snaking its way back into her divided focus and interrupting her drinking. The kicking drums, the screech of the vocalist along with the grinding of the bass. The lyrics float into her mind on their own little glittering specks to contest even more of her momentary attention. Beautiful words, no matter if they are poetry or nonsense. A good minute passes before she raises the bottle and empties the remaining cider in between slack lips. The dying fizz of the cider is followed by a swallow and a soft sigh. She lets the bottle fall out of her grasp. It thumps against the linoleum and takes a short roll before stopping by a discarded sock.
She looks up to the ceiling again, the empty white space looms, threatening to crush her. She rolls her eyes and tries to put her focus back on the flying dust. That fancy has passed. Breathing out through her nose, she sits straight up in a lithe motion while tossing her legs off the bed. She twists around and sits down like a sack of potatoes, back against the edge of the bed. She pulls a hand through her hair, collecting a stray strand from her face. Surveying the room, she looks for her next little goal. The music surges back, attempting to steal away her attention yet again. She has nearly given in to it when her eyes fall upon a new object of momentary fancy. The ash tray. The earlier source of smoke has now died but that is not what the searching hand of the girl reaches for. Among its thicker, factory-made kin lies the thin, burnt, hand-rolled stump of a not quite fully smoked joint.
She holds up the twisted little thing in the daylight and examines it with great scrutiny. She flicks away some ash from the burnt end and straightens out the crumpled rolling paper. There seems to be some meat left on this carcass. She pats her pockets absent-mindedly, looking for a lighter. A source of fire she knows is in close proximity but can none the less never be found when needed. Turning around to root around in a tangle of shirts on the bed finally yields result as a plastic lighter clatters down onto the floor. It is soon scooped up and put to use. She lights the crumpled roach carefully and puts it to her lips. It tastes stale and burnt, a strange change in the aftermath of the latest input of cider. She billows out a thick, white cloud after skilfully milking out the last lungful of smoke from the finally spent stump. She stubs it out back into its previous grave before looking up, watching the last wisps of smoke disappear up against the oppressive white. The cloud is gone in fair synchronization with the beginning of the next song.
She shifts a little and puts her elbows on the bed behind her while letting her head fall back. She closes her eyes and invites the music fully into her mind. Things rush back and forth through the darkness behind her eyelids. Did she have plans for today? No, it had been some time since she had an interesting Saturday. Her head spins lightly as the muddled high of the cheap weed dances a little jig with the alcohol already in her system. She opens her eyes, takes a deep breath and licks her lips briefly. There is only one solution to this problem. She brings her head forward again, the movement causing a firestorm of hair to follow.
She starts off forward. Getting up proves more difficult than expected and she has to place a hand against the floor to steady herself. This provokes a giggle. The short, bubbly sound throws her further off her game. She half-stands in an uncomfortable pose for a moment, listening for if the strange sound is heard again. Nothing but music. She shrugs it off and takes a few fairly coordinated steps. Why is the cider so far away? Because the bottle she emptied was the last one of the pack. She ponders the “pack” question while grabbing a fresh bottle of cider from the box on a chair by the door. A pack of bottles, a pack of wild animals. She chokes back another giggle.
Twist-cap is a girl's friend right now. No actual brain power needed to acquire or opening the container of alcohol. She raises the bottle to tip some of its contents into her mouth. The not-quite-cold, sweetly acidic liquid instantly kills the last of the burnt-taste in her mouth. She takes a few short, non-straight steps back towards the bed and soon slumps down in the same position as before. The cottony cloud in her head has grown to such a size where it rather successfully blocks out her ability to think about more than one thing at a time. This is a surprisingly good feeling, or thought as it were.
She sits as if in a trance for some time, fascinated by her current inability to think. Life has boiled down to the very now, every breath, almost every blink. She cracks a small smile for herself and puts the glass bottle to her lips again, taking a long swallow with more savouring the enjoyment than before. The drone of the music has swiftly been demoted to a background player. She climbs the stairs and ladders of her own mind. The obstacles are many and the path is not the least bit straight but there is a goal. Why should she sit here, in her self-styled hell? The room starts taking on almost comically villainous characteristics. The steady stream of music becomes the only thing that beats back the oppressive evil the walls and ceiling hold. She rubs her arms as she suddenly feels like a lone traveller, huddled by a dwindling campfire in some dark, cold, inhospitable place.
The song ends and she is rushed back into reality for a second. She sighs deeply and eyes her bottle of cider. Was she on the edge of something there? The verge of discovery? A possible path out of this overgrown jungle. The next song kicks in and before she can grasp what she was supposed to soul-search for, she is cast back into the torrential river of thought.
The song passes, so does the next and next. The girl sits unmoving, much like before, when the floating specks of dust were still a sight to behold. When was that? A week ago? A day? She cannot see if there is any difference in the light, there is just something about it. It feels different, as much as light can be felt. She looks down from the dancing light and chase the last coherent thought she had. Something about wanting to leave this prison. How does she go about something like that? Then again, she managed to free her mind from her previous burdens. Burdens that now start to look like solutions to the problem closer at hand. All it took was some booze and drugs. And the music. Sweet, enthralling noise. What was it? Neighvana? That doesn't sound right.
She blinks, the silence after the music has ended hits her like a sudden cold breeze. It is as if everything she was trying to sort through in her head has suddenly organized itself. Not neatly but at least in labelled boxes and fairly even piles. If thoughts could indeed be piled. She rises, a ragged spring flower punching through the stiff snow of her own apathy. She strides in long steps over the clutter-filled landscape beneath her to an equally clutter-packed plateau that stands against one wall. A chest of drawers that looks less like furniture and more like a gap-toothed grin. On it sits the tool she seeks, the key to her prison now that she knows the combination to the lock. The mental lock that is. She picks up the telephone and stares at it for a moment. She looks to the side with a pained expression, searching in her mind for a number. The number.
She picks about in her pocket, pulling out a crumpled pile of mixed papers, a few recipes and the likes. She looks them through, tossing the ones that do not have the scribbled numbers she seeks. Her heart has already begun sinking when the sight of blue-pen numbers on a ripped, glossy scrip of paper stops her dead in her tracks. She reads the string of numbers quietly to herself. They sound right. There is no name on the note. She remembers not putting one there on purpose. What was that good for? It seems ancient history and even less important right now. She gathers herself and forces herself into action. One last push. She dials the numbers and wait for the tone. In the silence left after the powerful music, the dial-tone is like a brutal whip-crack every time it sounds.
The other side of the line picks up, a voice is heard, cheery and pleasant. The floodgates in her mind open, any preparation she had managed is absolutely blown out the window. She hesitates, swallows and remains quiet, seconds feel like minutes. When the voice on the other side is heard again, this time with a more questioning tone. She chokes back an unwanted, nervous giggle. A second feels like a year, her head floats above her body like a gas-filled balloon. Why did she call? Oh, right. Escape. She knocks down another mental wall and blurts out some words.
“Uh, Twilight. Shimmer...”
Her heart races, chasing her head in the ever-expanding void far above the clouds. What did she say? Something utterly nonsensical. No, almost communication. She tries to commend herself on her bravery in the journey of getting sound through the communication-device in her hand. Something so much more difficult and scary than it should be.
“Oh, uh, Shimmer... Sunset Shimmer! Haven't seen you around lately.”
She bites her lip, all thoughts of bravery swept away on a swirling, frothing river of blank-mindedness. She searches deep within her own memory, whatever she can salvage. How long was she away? What was the latest ordeal she faced while in the company of Twilight? Her blank mind is so squeaky clean, it would make the perfect canvas for anything else than thinking. Time passes but how much? Did Twilight hang up? She hears herself talk with a trembling voice. She has no idea the next words to come out of her mouth.
“I've been busy... Things.”
She forces herself to try to recover once more. It does not matter how much thick, juicy awkwardness drips from the conversation. Even though to her, even her own voice sounds like there is something wrong with it. She grits her teeth for just a second, seeing herself in a third-person perspective. The hard bit is done, the next step is to take the leap of faith. She looks like a beaten, broken but defiant action-hero, glaring sternly off into the distance while pressing demands on the phone. She blinks rapidly a few times. Did she say that out loud? The silence on the other side of the line suggests otherwise. She nods once to herself and speaks, strangely out of breath.
“Here's the thing. I mean, things. No... Like, if you don't have anything else to do.”
She stops, takes an audibly deep breath and rolls her eyes. What? Come on, it's not like asking her out or anything. Wait, it is, isn't it? She licks her lips thoughtfully as the voice on the other side softly asks what she meant, where she was going with that muddled, unfinished jumble of words. She grasps another tiny moment of clarity and manages to bark out another fairly intelligible string of words.
“... I got this new album...”
She falls into a breathless silence. She could hear a pin drop, she can feel a drop of sweat crawl down the side of her face. It is like a spring storm, newly found heat giving the spray of rain a certain warmth. What could the response possibly be? The declaration that all nations of the world spontaneously declared war? The mixed feelings of seeing a puppy you never asked for run at you from under the holiday tree? All these things are swept aside by gargantuan, purple hands from the sky. The monstrous appendages slash through the skyline and into the sleepy suburban setting below, crashing through the walls of her prison. Her eyes widen to a painful point as she is picked up by the giant, purple hands. The air buffets her and tussles her hair as she is brought upwards, into the sky. No, into the atmosphere. Before the face. The gentle, smiling face of Twilight Sparkle. The enormous, cosmic goddess observes her for a moment, then, without her lips moving, a voice is heard.
“I'd love to listen to music with you.”
Her mouth has gone dryer than the deadest of deserts. Little spots dance before her eyes and she can feel the giant hands give way from under her. No, those are no pantheonic digits, it is just her own knees giving out. Failing to steady herself, she slumps down with her back against the wall. Visions of space and grandeur faded back into her self-styled hell. She breathes heavily, swallows the taste of dust and pretty much whispers her next words.
“... Come over...?”
The blessed goddess-voice is quiet for a moment. She scrambles to swig her drink, attempting to re-establish some manner of moisture in her own voice. She slowly lowers her bottle as she listens to the angel's choir in her ear.
“You want to, or... Should I? Uhm, just give me a moment and I'll be over.”
She presses her knees up against her chest and suckles the cider-bottle like a pacifier. Did she just hear that? It wasn't some kind of illusion, some figment of her imagination? Answer, give confirmation. Now.
“Awesome.”
She hears her own word echo into and out of the void in her skull. Did she do it? Did she appease the goddess? She sits as if frozen for a long moment, listening to the silence. Noticing it is not all silence. Words? Twilight speaks again, something about seeing her soon. She sounds cheery. Just as cheery as before. When was before? When she answered the phone. She nods to herself. Did she just emote for the phone? Nods don't make any sound. She breathes in to speak but notices that the words and even the silence on the other side of the line has been replaced by tone. Did Twilight hang up? Did she even call Twilight to begin with?
The visions of the endlessly huge goddess and the taste of glass in her mouth gives her another strange moment of clarity. She pulls the bottle out of her mouth as she puts down the phone. Examining both, she nods once to herself. She did make the call, the solution to all her problems have been summoned. Panic and joy mingle closely in her mind. Another deep breath and a sharp exhale, she looks around the room. An uphill struggle and all downhill from here. She manages a smile, have to stay positive, after all, what's the worst that could happen?
