𝐇𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 :: 𝗝. 𝗝ordison. [ˢˡⁱᵖᵏⁿᵒᵗ]

𝘃𝗼𝗹. ①: 𝖈𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝖔𝗻𝗲

Ⅰ
NOW PLAYING:
«My Own Summer (Shove it)», Deftones
1:07 ───ㅇ───── 3:34

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July 15th, 2000.
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𝔗iffany found herself reclining upon the casement of the touring coach, her elbow gently cradled upon the window frame. Her visage was gently pressed against her fingers as her head rested pensively upon her fist. In this moment of repose, she perused the annals of her history textbook, her senses immersed in the harmonious strains of soft classical music that reverberated through her auditory faculties via her MP3 player.

The twirl of her pen, akin to a percussive drumstick flourish upon a grand stage, unfolded gracefully between her fingers. The rhythmic dance of the writing instrument traversed from her ring finger to her middle, from the middle to her pointer, and from the pointer to her pinkie. An ethereal quality manifested in the almost weightless rotation of the pen, a manifestation of her subconscious engagement in the act.

The cap of her ballpoint pen found temporary refuge between her teeth, occasionally surrendering to the intrusion of her tongue. As she diligently underlined a passage in her textbook, she adorned the margins with brackets and cryptic annotations such as (SOS!), serving as mnemonic devices for future examination preparations.

An additional notebook lay open upon her lap, its weathered pages betraying the passage of time. Unlike its newer counterparts exuding the fragrance of fresh paper, this particular tome bore the olfactory vestiges of tobacco and a long-forgotten perfume. Its contents, a chaotic tapestry of scribbles and random notes, stood in stark contrast to the meticulous organization of her university-used, colour-coded notebooks.

Amidst her scholarly endeavours and the orchestral refuge in her music—a deliberate sanctuary from the discordant interplay among her bandmates—she intermittently inscribed stray words and fleeting lines. These embryonic compositions, conceived within the sanctuary of her intellectual pursuits, aspired to burgeon into lyrical compositions of substance.

In a whimsical ritual, a strand of vermilion hair coiled around her finger, her tongue venturing out to explore the metallic orbs adorning the centre of her lip. The rhythmic caress of the piercing against her teeth was as much a manifestation of habit as it was a tactile engagement with the world around her.

A fleeting glance out of the window transported her into the immersive panorama of the early morning. The sublime confluence of classical melodies in her ears and the captivating scenery outside painted a tableau of transient enchantment. This journey, initiated by a flight from NJ to Portland in anticipation of an impending tour kickoff, promised encounters with the musical pantheon, including the likes of Slipknot, Slayer, Mudvayne, Sepultura, and Sevendust.

The genesis of this double-billed tour, a brilliant stroke of genius—likely her own—held the promise of enthralling performances. With Slipknot and Sleep Deprivation headlining, augmented by the inclusion of supplementary acts like Metallica and Stone Temple Pilots, the prospect of auditory ecstasy loomed large. Certainty, however, eluded the participation of these additional luminaries.

As she pondered the intricacies of this musical odyssey, a light tap disrupted her musings. Turning to meet the cerulean gaze of Atticus, the lead vocalist of her band, a soft smile adorned her countenance. Atticus, a man of reserved demeanour, habitually immersed in the realm of literature and introspection, sought a momentary reprieve from solitude.

With a gentle removal of her ear cup, she inquired in hushed tones, "You good?" Conscious of the proximity of their conversation within the confines of the cramped tour bus, Atticus, too, nodded affirmatively. His request to occupy the adjacent seat met with a receptive nod from Tiffany, who graciously made room for him.