Painting Counties Blue!

𝚝𝚠𝚘.

· · ──────·ピシビ·────── · ·

𝟹/𝟸 𝟷𝟸:𝟻𝟼𝙰𝙼

I lay in bed, but I can't close my eyes. I can't fall asleep. My mind is empty, yet somehow full at the same time. I flick the blankets from my body, and climb out of bed towards the kitchen. I didn't think I'd have to use these again for a good while.

I pull out a small, round container from one of the cabinets and open the lid, slightly tipping the opening to the side, into my hand until two small white tablets tumble out into my palm.

Sleeping pills. My eyes burn, begging to be closed as I listen to pattering of the rain outside. I pull the fridge door open, taking a water bottle from the freezing box.

Twisting the lid off, I check my phone. 1:02AM. I yawn, shoving the pills into my mouth then quickly taking a swig from the cool bottle of water. I swallow the lot and scrunch up my face at the sour taste.

As I clutch my phone between my fingers, I stumble back towards my room. Flopping down onto the mattress, I pull the covers back over myself, willing the medicine to work faster than it is.

The muffled sound of the rain fills my ears, the dim light from outside filtering through my blinds. I close my eyes as I feel the effect of the sleeping tablets kick in, my thoughts becoming blurred, and drowsy weakness blanketing my body, until I fall asleep.

♪

My eyes flicker open to the same sound that wakes me up every morning at exactly 6AM. I groan.

I swear the worst thing about sleeping is waking up.

I reach over, swiping away my alarm as I sit up, the blanket falling to my lap. The pills really did their job, but I don't feel well rested at all, and it doesn't surprise me.

I have a few things I need to do today, I'm performing at a bar for lunch, so I need to do guitar warm-ups and practices otherwise my little show will be next to jack-shit. Then I also need to proceed with my vocal exercises. As they usually teach you in dance classes; our bodies are like spaghetti, when uncooked, they are fragile, and snap very easily. Although when boiled, the spaghetti becomes bendy, and flexible. This rule also applies to your voice, and vocal cords. Very similar.

I make my way over to my wardrobe, pulling it open, then also the drawers located behind the doors. I lift out a pair of folded, blue jeans, along with a white, stitch striped button-down shirt, and busy myself with getting ready for the day.

When you don't have a consistent schedule, life gets pretty stressful. But I find that keeping a schedule is worse. It's 10AM now, and I'm sat on my bed with my white electric guitar sat in my lap, the cord trailing to its socket within the amp.

I play out a fingerpicking tune to warm up my fretting hand, then switch to strumming out particular patterns to refresh my muscle memory, as I do this I do my vocal warm-ups. When I've finished making hideous sounds that don't make any sense and definitely do not belong together, I begin to rehearse the song I'll be playing at the bar in an hour or so.

Humming along to the tune that still lingers in my head, I unplug my guitar and gently lay it inside its thick fabric case, slipping my pick and cord into the front pocket, and retrieving the amps' cord from the outlet in the wall.

I take my equipment and lean it against the wall beside the exit, ready to go when the time comes around.

After I've fucked around for a bit, I finally decide that I should catch the bus. No, I'm not driving. My car is out of petrol, and I haven't had the chance or motivation to collect enough to get it going again.

I nod at the driver as I walk past him, slumping down in a seat, and waiting for my destination to arrive, or rather, for me to arrive at my destination.

Once the bus finally stops at my requested station, I stand, thanking the driver before stumbling down the steps, my guitar slung over my shoulder, and amp held as though it were a very dodgy briefcase of drugs.

I nervously enter through the front entrance, looking around the room, which seems to be packed. Finally spotting the counter located at the far right wall through the mob of people, I quietly make my way over, keeping my head down as a few glances pass over me.

I don't even know what I'm supposed to do. I shake my head as I shuffle to a stop in front of the barista.

"U-um, hi, yeah, er... I'm here to uh- perform? At 12:10PM" I stutter, finding myself troubled by the only small social interaction. I internally panic, what if she thinks low of me because I can't even speak to her without being uncomfortable?

Nonetheless, she speaks in a loud, bright, (non-stuttering) voice;

"Oh yes? Let's see... was your name... Y/n? Y/n S/n?" She smiles, trailing her finger over a page of the heavy looking book that sat on the surface in front of her. She looks up with a welcoming smile.

"I-I... yeah. Yeah that's me" I attempt a small smile in return, admiring her long lashes that weren't caked with makeup, which is extremely uncommon to see with a majority of women these days.

"Yep! Okay, you're up in about..-" she stops, her gaze unfocused as she does the math.

"-Forty minutes" I interrupt her train of thought. The girl behind the counter looks back up at me, the warm expression returning to her face.

"Y-yes, forty minutes" She struggles with her words this time as she cowers, a wave of shyness overcoming her, as she stood under my tall, now slightly more confident gaze.

"Y-you're the first performer, so you can go ahead and set your things up" She smiles, rubbing her neck. I notice how short she is as she uses the countertop as leverage to see over the crowds of people. The barista points through the mob towards the opposite corner where I noticed a raised platform, with a mic stand, stool and speakers that look like they belong in a performance theater.

I nod;

"Thank you..-" I glance down at her name tag "-Everleigh." I smile down at her small figure.

"You can call me Lee. Goodluck with your song, Y/n!" She grins. I grinned back.

"Thank you, Lee" I send her a cheeky smirk as I turn away, pushing through the crowd to set up my stuff.

♪ ───☆彡★彡☆─── ♪