Sweet Poison

01

                        Present day, 18 March 2021
                                                                        Dylan Bryes

New York City. Home to the rich and famous, so what the fuck am I doing here?

A question I've asked myself for six months now.

Everywhere you look, a new cookie store is opening, new broadway arenas drilling with pent up adrenalin, new ways of living, one that shocks me from my old life back in London.

But my absolute loose canon was Madison Square Garden. I don't live 3000 miles away finally. I mentally drool just thinking about it. My guilty pleasure.

Only the best of the best make it to such a famous arena, but only the best of the best of the best are successful to igniting the entire crowd, frankly scolding them with a memory they'll never forget, but I have yet to experience that feeling.

But my mind oozes with the thought as I hit the last strum of the beat onto the drum plates, the sound echoing out into the small little DIY studio I ambushed when we first moved into this apartment.

Twirling the drumsticks in between my fingers in a quickening pace, I lax my back to the ache drilling up my spine, my posture begging for a relief.

The feeling of sleep deprivation saunters through my skin snapping me out of my 'drumming trance' as I felt the smile creep up my tired eyes.

Standing up, I place the sticks back into their rightful spot, a hunchback being the aftermath of such a long day as I tug at the clothes I've been wearing for god knows how long, feeling the tiredness linger through my bones. Maybe 7 hours of nonstop drumming wasn't the best idea.

My feet press into the double layered carpet as I exit the homebound studio, latching my view onto the soft grey couch practically screaming my name to lay on. Rubbing a hand to my forehead, I make my way straight into the living room, tossing myself on the sofa as my body gives out due to exhaustion.

My eyes feather at the thought of sleeping but my mind snaps them back open for a brief minute, I can't go to sleep yet.

Leah hasn't come home, and the more and more she's out, the later and later I hear the door latching open at god knows what hour.

Surprisingly, the rickety chain pushes aside like a ghost controlling it before the door whips open, the chilling draft of midnight spring air evident in the little apartment.

I lift my head up from the couch, black hair lacing my blurry eyesight, her outline nothing but a mere smudge as I rub my sore eyes for a clearer view, but I could already make out it that it was Leah.

I drop my head upside down, leaning against the coach as I glance at her from a Spiderman position.

"Heyyyy Lee." I laugh and watch as her lips turn into a grin.

"Hey spidey." She launches next to me, placing her car keys on the worktop before hand, as she perches her boots onto the small wooden coffee table.

A distinct scent swallows up my nostrils as she adjusts herself, making me wince a little.

"Fuck me, quick question." I lay back down swiping my nose, shuffling up the sofa a little, placing my head on her lap, adjusting my beanie as I let it cover my eyes, the lights straining my already poor souls. "Why do you smell like weed?"

I watch as her body posture tenses a little at the question, I mean the scent was intoxicating enough to make me cough a little, she reeked of it.

"I mean it's your choice, I just thought you weren't into that kinda stuff-"