Tragic Magic {A Ronnie Radke Love Story}

Little Black Heart

One Week Later

I sipped my tea casually as I sat on Ronnie's kitchen counter. I stared outside his backdoor and continued my sketch of the palm trees and bright horizon that loomed over the other houses. It wasn't quiet in the house, but that didn't break my concentration.

Jacky, Ryan, and Ronnie were in the basement messing around. They told me they were working on more for the album but honestly it all sounded pretty horrible from up here, so I hoped they weren't serious.

Ryan has invited me twice now between this week and last  to come with him to his rehearsals, and I have said yes both times since I have nothing better to do.

It's been the same every time so far; they practice their songs, and I sit somewhere and sketch. It's nice to have some free time, but I just don't understand why they want me here. I don't talk, nor do I do much else. I'm not very helpful. I guess they just keep me around for my aesthetic.

Kidding, obviously. 

After twenty minutes passing with horrendous crashes and guitar shrieks, I miraculously finished my drawing. It wasn't much; just a few trees and lots of lines. It was all still in grey scale so it looked plain. I pursed my lips momentarily, thinking about what I should do. I shook my head, deciding to put it off until later.

I remained still for another few moments until my body realized how much tea I drank. I hopped off the counter and wandered upstairs to find a bathroom.

I hardly know anything about this house, and the fact that he has probably fifteen different closed doors leading to all the rooms doesn't help.

I turned the knob of the first door and found a linen closet. 

Nope. I thought to myself.

I checked the door across the hall and found a guest bedroom with piles of clothes on the bed. He must use this as his spare closet. I rolled my eyes and shut the door again.

Hoping the third time is the charm, I gently pushed the door open to reveal the messiest room I've encountered since my childhood. There were clothes strewn across the floor, light fixtures, and dressers, alone with empty food wrappers and soda can scattered across the carpet.

"What the hell . . ?" I said out loud, in disbelief.

I took a few steps into the room, wrappers crinkling beneath my feet.

I'm glad I decided to wear socks today.

As my eyes continued to scan the war-zone, I noticed something beneath a sweater. It was a thick, bright purple book. I would know that it anywhere.

It was my freshman year year book.

I brushed off the questionable sweater and picked it up.

Why does he have this? We didn't go to the same school . . . Must be Ryan's.

I flipped through the pages quickly, smiling to myself. I haven't looked at any of my year books since I left high school. I stopped on a few select pages: Asian club . . . chess club . . . speech team . . . choir. I always hated those choir kids.

I stopped on the band page and found a small but recognizable picture of myself playing the clarinet in my ugly school-issued concert uniform. I laughed to myself quietly, remembering the good times I had being in band. I don't know why I ever stopped playing. I wasn't great, but I wasn't horrible either.

I continued into the class pictures, landing on my class first since I was a freshman.

Since my last name is Andrews, I was one of the first in the year book. I cringed internally over my picture; I had on the most horrifying mid-riff shirt that day, alone with two space buns that sat atop my head while the rest of my hair flowed down my back. I smiled with no teeth in that picture.