FFS.

I'm with the band.

The black of the night began to hit the window, drearily as if it had no effort left to give. Wires trailed across the cement, flooding into a voltaic city of amplifiers and pedals and electric instruments. One jack away from tripping the switch, killing the music. 

Heavy black boots padded across the floor to an output, pale burgundy-painted fingers turned some dials on one of the loudspeakers. Transparent and ghostly, they drifted across to fondle the other settings. 

"Leila, the gain is definitely too much, I can barely hear my own voice over it." A tall, skeletal girl with a bleached fringe that covered only half of her forehead said as she crouched over the AMP. Her eyes appeared almost triple-lidded, heavy with the dark makeup that smothered them.

"Like that would be such a bad thing Chloe" Leila rolled her eyes beneath strings of greased black hair, formidable red lips avoided smirking at such a conceited comment, lest she damage the ego of the precious singer.

"I'm not the one thinking of myself here you pretentious bitch" Chloe's eyes bored into Leila, like she was studying her reason for being here. Not at band practice here, but at here here. 

"How fucking dare you? I made you, I made this fucking band! Don't throw it back in my face." Leila raised her voice and set down her guitar, an apparent musical equivalent of rolling up ones sleeves for a fistfight. 

"Oh you did, did you? You think you'd be anything without me? You think your half-an-octave voice would be enough? For anyone?" Chloe stood up and swung her bass behind her, dwarfing it with her sheer height. Her fringe swung wildly as her voice thundered, blue eyes attempting to drown the matted bleach. 

"Fuck off, Chlo, you know I write all our shit! You're just the pretty little twig that stands there, shaking her tiny tits. You're the picture not the fucking artist!"

"HA! You're an artiste now are you? That's rich! You know wh-"

This had become a regular segment of their band practice, like a skit. If it wasn't so painfully irritating to witness, it would almost be a comedy sketch to Scarlett. Patiently she waited behind her drums, the barrier between the bickering bitches. She pulled out her phone, sick to death of this menial sparring and dick-measuring contest. Scrolling and scrolling and scrolling and scrolling and scrolling. Scarlett thought being in a band was supposed to be fun; they could finally drink, legally anyway...scrolling... it was meant to be about sisterhood and butchering the patriarchy and throwing up a middle finger to capitalism or Thatcherism or tories in general or something. Whatever it was, it was definitely not about hurling part-baked insults at each other. It wasn't cute and for sure as hell wasn't very feminist of them...scrolling...scrolling. Wasn't instagram just a fallacy? she thought as she double-tapped a picture of some bikini-clad, almighty  femme-celeb icon.  No one was surely enjoying this? And she wasn't just thinking of her friends feud.

Scarlett brushed back her bangs, tucked her drumsticks into her belt and headed towards the door. This conflict, much like a storm, was inevitable and tiring and made you just want to foetus-style curl up beneath a duvet... or the ground, dealer's choice. Her cropped chocolate hair danced in the garage lightbulb as she slid the panel up to escape the periodic insanity of familiar defaming slander. 

"Oh Scar, don't leave just because of her!" Chloe mused, fluttering her spidery eyelashes as Scarlett turned on her heel to face them.

"This bitch is crazy, we can work this out hun, I promise! Even without the people's fucking princess over here" scoffed Leila. 

"You're both bat-shit, and I'm going. Figure this out on your own time" sighed Scarlett. The panel screeched as it rose to reveal the runny treacle sky, dotted with halo's of white from the lampposts. 

"If you walk out that door, the band is over" Chloe stood defiant, balled fists, aryan eyes still flickering beneath that peroxide piece of hair that guarded her gaze. 

Scarlett paused, a mere moment. "I'll take my chances" she laughed "good luck in marriage counselling you two", waving, her back to them as she pounded her heavy boots across the tarmac, splashing the puddles of rain that lapped at her heals, drinking down the laces. 

"I better go too" Chloe shrunk back, abandoned her guitar and swanned out of the garage, her laced skirt blended seamlessly with the night so she drifted above the black, pastel skin glowing beneath the streetlight. 

"Dios mio" muttered Leila, staring at the empty shadows of the evening that her friends had been consumed by.

Scarlett walked with purpose on her way home through the dimly lit streets, a purpose she often lacked in band practice. Pools of water shimmered, transparently and impossibly sable in the midnight that constricted around her. 

Chloe had tears in her eyes, smudging her already implausibly black makeup. Footsteps began to creep up behind her but she could hardly notice through the thoughts that raced like greyhounds, padding through her mind. 

Scarlett's heavy boots thudded, splish-splashing through the rain that seemed to increase with every step she took. A rustle echoed through the water from behind her. She stopped abruptly. Spinning on her heal, eyeing the bushes, the pavement, the road, a sign for something that could have made such a noise at this impossible hour. It was late, too late. Quiet, too quiet for anyone else to be around in the cul-de-sac. Dense brown eyes scanned the neighbourhood, foraging like a hungry herbivore for something that might give sustenance to the noise that had made the hairs on the back of her neck raise in the spotlight. Nothing. Shrugging, casual as she tried, Scarlett marched on. But then, in between each step she took, another footfall softened between them. A stinging pain shot through her brow as if it were trying to will her to turn back around, but it had to be her imagination, it must be. What was the alternative? Sleepless nights, over-worked, sore calloused hands- that was it. That's all it was. 

Street lamps seemed to close in around her, flickering between a conscious white light and an empty void. Her breath quickened, rapid to keep pace with her heart. Scarlett stopped dead. That was definitely not all it was. There was no way she was alone, she thought. Steadily, she spun to face the slimy treacly sky behind her. It ran, no, flowed into the lamppost light so vision seemed distant. But still, nothing, no one. A raspy breath of relief slipped from her lips. Whirling back round, she made for home. Except she was immobile. A searing, jarring, torturous burn rippled across her corneas like a migraine that murdered. Scarlett plummeted to the ground, heavier than even her boots. Metallic irony liquid flooded her mouth as she choked on what felt like nothing. Contorted, her body convulsed briefly before returning to stillness. 

Something thin and twig-like protruded from her eye sockets, almost levitating off her skull like some grim antenna. Drumsticks. Scarlet liquid seeped from them, trickling down her head and into her hair, melting the chocolate.