DAYLIGHT FADING

eleven | but that's the least of all my fears

                       | eleven: but that's the least of all my fears |

                                                        or

                              | barton hollow: the civil wars |

The words of the vinyl spinning on my turntable haunt me. I try to block them out, but there’s little use. They repeat themselves in my head like they’re trying to drive me mad.

Ain’t going back to Barton Hollow,
Devil’s gonna find me ever I go

I find an excuse to take the needle off the Civil Wars’ Barton Hollow when my doorbell rings. Today’s the day we’re fighting the law and winning. Or at least, I certainly hope we’re winning.

I walk slowly down my hallway, wondering when the house began to take on the scents I like. When I lived here as a teenager, it always smelt of my mother, of lemon and jasmine and when I first arrived there was only the salty brine of the sea. Now, the house is filled with the delicate scent of cherry blossoms and lotuses.

Jez looks comfortingly familiar as I open the door. She’s wearing a simple black band t-shirt that drowns her with black leggings that have fishnet panels down the sides, plus her customary black Dr Martens, all topped off with the shockingly bright blue ends of her dark hair. The colour changes with her mood. In a world where everything always seems to be changing, I always need her daily reminder that not everything does.

“I’ve got the shit you asked me to get,” she uses far too much profanity, but it suits her. If she was well-mannered, it wouldn’t fit well with everything I’ve learnt about her.

“Well then, we’ve got a car to get into,” I smile at her. We’re quickly stopping off at Norwich in order to pick up her false ID from Matt before we drive down to London. Hopefully, we’re not going to be singing the Clash on the way back up.

After I unlock the car, Jez clambers up into the Defender’s passenger seat. I gently tap the hood as I go past, glad of my chunky car. I will admit, she is quite a posh Defender, looking like a futuristic robot truck rather than an army vehicle.

As I back out of the driveway, Jez begins sifting through the CDs that I have stored in my glovebox. She huffs before pulling a Ramones messenger bag up to her knees and pulling a CD out of it. There’s a few hits of drums before a wall of sound explodes from my car.

I don’t recognise the band, but I do recognise the angry tone of the music, spitting and snarling. I’ve never been an angry person. When thing have gone wrong in my life, I’ve always been more morose. I glance over at Jez when we finally reach Eastfields’ idea of a high street and notice her tapping on her legs along to the music. All of this anger is as familiar to her as sadness is to me.

The next song continues in a familiar angry tone and when it ends, ironically just as my car pulls past the sign announcing that we are leaving Eastfields, I turn slightly and raise my eyebrow at her.

Jez simply shrugs at me. “Not in the mood for soft stuff,” and the guitar riff that explodes through my car certainly proves it. Maybe she’ll let me put on something a little softer after the album ends. I’ve got no problems with heavy music but I’m not good with the jagged edges of all of this anger.

The music suddenly stops and Jez gives me another smile. “You were uncomfortable with angry. I figured we’d find a middle ground,” she puts another of her CDs into the player and I give her a small strain as I recognise the feedback at the start of Paramore’s Careful. It’s an excellent compromise.