Molly

1: Psychedelic

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this story are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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My faith in general existence— especially mine, is a one-time belief after reality made it confusing. Scandalized brain, hypnotic illusions, unnerving realizations, everything appears to be made up of a limitless variety of trauma that causes my world to blend in.

But this thing, this has me truly showing. None of any hallucinogenics can ever give. Not a single pill or two.

Here, it's been so long since I had my fingers possessed this four-stringed device, indulging the blast of a growl booming its way to the executioner's shout, the thickest sound ruling with the beat of the drum as it's conquering out of the rehearsal studio evenly louder to romanticize my own perdition. It's heaven but in the heat of hell. Lurching my back like making love for loving the way it sings, stirring through the octave where its vibration begins to take over the ground and the sickest kind of inducement. A reminder that I own the grandest friend that always gets me high, but with a cost. For proving my existence.

To complete this almost desolate band that just decided to reunite.

For one last ambitious reason.

"Xanny?" asked Rowan after his last clang of the cymbal. Drug's name from his tongue could be a joke, could be an enticement; 'cause everybody—not the police, knows I'm the lone user among this unproblematic circle.

I rest the bass on my lap as I seat on the nearest couch to reply, "We didn't patch up for that" Regardless, at least I made my dedication shows.

"We're reaching sobriety now?" Rowan teased, but it was the truth in my mind.

"Reaching to live, 'cause you all need a junkie bassist" I casually replied. Let's hope it was worth it, 'cause I'm horrified by the idea of regret.

"So I hope you're a recovering addict now. Well, that's true, you're the foundation," Eugene, playing a strum with his guitar joined the discussion with a sweet talk, "...we might not know if this bullshit finally works out this time" he added, where I'm disturbed by the ominous in his eyes— slipping afar into the open window blinds like a boy waiting for his mother to arrive with a toy, or a killer waiting for his victim to come close.