The Second Chance Theory

Prologue: And in a Flash Comes the Flood

All right, my people. I know I have few of you that actually read my books, but I just wanted to let you guys know that this, along with MMATVC, is another one of those books that IS NOT completely child-friendly. In fact, if you can't handle "choice language, gestures, or ideas"  I would just leave now. You do not find a home here.

For those of you who actually stick around to read it, I really like the concept I came up with. I hope you guys enjoy it too. The Second Chance Theory, or TSCT, does not center around band members alive today or in the past. It does center around someone in a band, though the band is not currently a part of the real world. (Please don't steal the band name either. If you're starting up a band and happen to read this, be creative. You don't want my dumb ol' band name.) That being said, I'm not saying I won't incude some actual bands/band members/band events. I'm also not saying that some things will be completely accurate. I've never worked in a tattoo parlor. I'm just writing about what I think the general work would be like.

Last disclaimer: I think, with this book, I'm going to include a Song of the Chapter. This feature will be presented at the very end of each chapter. The prologue's title actually derives from the SOTC. Not every chapter will be like this.

Finally, enjoy the incredibly short prologue. Thank you so very much. :3

It's really, really hard to just sit down somewhere and watch your life crumble to smolders, and sift away into the wind. It's harder knowing there is virtually no hope of salvation. Even harder just to have to make that realization that whatever good you had, it's gone. And it sure as hell isn't coming back. It would go against the general "law of the universe" to have it any other way—to have a positive outcome of it all or for there to be evident hope of piecing your life back together, however tragically hard it may be. Really, it's the twisted theory of a second chance.

We fell so quickly for each other. It wasn't like magic; it was more of how a crack in an aquarium starts small and almost minute, unnoticeable except for the fine trickle of water oozing out of the fracture. Then all of a sudden the crack fingers off, grows. More water escapes. Finally, it just explodes. The levy breaks. The passion floods. I mean, sure, he was an outrageous asshole and I was more or less a prick at first, but he persisted, and soon enough, so did I.

A whoosh of shaky breath blew from his nervous smile and fanned my face delicately, and fingers trembled as they brushed over the sides of my face, grappling at a place to settle firmly. But they wouldn't, couldn't, for all his jittery nature. Finally words flitted past his pale lips. "I think I may be in love with you." Though weak in audio, his words were firm in belief. His eyes searched mine, and his fingers remained warm around my face, thumbs underneath my eyes, slightly brushing back and forth. His eyes were raw with pure emotion. As I gazed into his eyes—those nothing-special eyes that just opened up like a chamber door—I believed too. I believed in a beautiful life between the two of us, something we could make. I smiled a grace and nodded.

Things were good for a while. Amazing, actually. We accepted each other and our luggage. We knew that we both had problems of which we were ashamed, things that deeply disturbed us. But we figured out we could mend each other if we tried.

I tilted my head back into the pillow in laughter. I giggled contagiously and tried to wiggle away as he placed a light kiss on my stomach. His hands planted firmly on my hips to keep me from going anywhere. He traveled farther up my stomach in the same manner. His tongue flicked out slightly and I squirmed once more. I cried through laughter, "Stop!" A low rumble emanated from his throat, enough to respectfully prize his Russian heritage. Devious eyes graduated to mine. He brought his face up to my own, pecked my lips multiple times and collapsed at my side. He twisted an arm around my waist and pulled me closer. A tiny hand, marked with tattoos, rose into view—it was my own. I curved my forefinger inwards, toward my thumb. I smiled, and he glanced up at me. He beamed right back and brought his hand to mine, almost a perfect replica. Our fingers conformed to a heart. One side was bigger than the other by far, but it was still a heart. Our little lopsided heart.

Then things went wrong... With just a slip of the mind, a slip of the tongue, and a slip of the hand, our perfect love story dismantled. Things went awry with the flip of a switch. I had been made a believer that words could kill back when I didn't know any better, and it was a moral I wouldn't soon forget. However, I don't think I was the only victim, and I don't think the only murder committed was mine.

"I can't fucking believe you!" His bloodshot eyes stretched wide with anger. "After everything I've done, after everything I've given up for you.... You bitch!" he spat. My lips trembled. Ten minutes ago I was satisfied, happy, even. A minute ago I was seething and venomous. Now, I was curled up in a ball on my bed, tears staining my cheeks, and my breath was coming out in unstable puffs. He stood in front of the bed, pacing. His hands twitched with the irritable itch to take something in his hands and crush it.

"Please, baby..." I whimpered. His eyes darted to me at the sound. Then they flew to the lamp on the bedside table. I hugged my knees closer to my chest and squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could. An almost inaudible whoosh sounded before the rattling of the lamp's cord could be heard, followed by an explosion of sound filling the room. It was a combination of glass shattering and metal striking the bedroom wall. It was a horrible sound that I couldn't bear to hear. A slight whimper escaped my lips again as quiet flooded the room.

Then his voice, raging with silent fury, broke the soundlessness. "Is the bitch hurt? Crying? Quite a shame that a whore like you got her feelings hurt." And with that, my eyes snapped open. The tears stopped. Rage flooded my body like the adrenaline pumping through my veins. The fury crackled and popped and sizzled in my head like static drowning out the volume of a television, as it did my sorrow. His figure leaned with his face close to mine.

"Don't say shit you can't take back, asshole. Haven't you ever heard that or were you too ignorant growing up? It wouldn't surprise me," I snarled. I planted my hands on his shoulders and pushed him from the bed. I extended my arms and legs and advanced towards him. I stood up and continued in his direction. "You're calling me a whore but you were the one that slept with anything on legs before we got together," I spat.

"It's not my fault you were too damaged for anyone to want you. Here I am, weighed down with you, the mean little bitch with a past she can't forget. You expect everyone's sympathy for it, too!" The words spewed off his lips like poison.

"I don’t expect sympathy! Or pity or anything of the matter. But then there's you, who can't even maintain his bullshit band."

"Oh! Get off your high horse! At least I wasn't too much of a coward to follow my dreams. You're stuck with a quaint little job at a tattoo parlor, when you wish you could be out having the time of your life! You're just too. Afraid. To do it."

"The tattoo parlor is where you met me!" The tears began falling again. My voice wobbled too, and I was gulping back my grief.

"And I wish I'd never walked in that day! I regret setting one foot inside that Goddamn door!" I shrank back. I stood speechless except for an occasional weep. My eyes dropped from his face to some fixture in space. He loomed near the doorway, panting. We stood in silence for several heartbeats. I finally raised my gaze back to his eyes. I straightened my posture and looked him squarely in his eyes, those simple eyes that only I could call special.

"Ouch," I said. "That hurt." I swallowed back an oncoming sob and pushed past him. I rushed out of my apartment and down a single flight. He didn't follow me. Good.

No one ever really understands a broken heart, unless he or she has had one his- or herself. You know it's over, but you're so incredibly desperate you cling on to any bit of faith you have. There comes a time, though, that your hope and your faith runs out. That basically leaves you stranded from general humanity. I know the feeling.

I understand.

SOTC: The Fallout by Crown The Empire