Blonde Ivory

#2: Macha Emerson-Cleary

Macha Levay-Fitzgilbert (Bassist of Blonde Ivory)

Before I decided on cleansing my bedroom with my leftover sage, I noticed something quite odd. A few things actually:

1. The apartment is completely silent which never happens. There's always some type of noise echoing throughout. Whether that be mugs clinking together, shower water running, a toilet flushing, the gossip television shows playing in the background, or the sound of heavy breaths and drunk swears. There was nothing happening though. Silence makes me uneasy.

2. There is a human-size lump still lying in my bed, buried beneath my blankets. Usually they're gone by now. I even try to speed along this process by getting up, making coffee, taking an extra long shower, blow-drying my hair, and brushing my teeth three times. Clearly that wasn't long enough for this person. What was their name? Something along the lines of Michael or Macy? I can't remember.

3. I have a hangover this morning! I know that sounds like no big deal especially if you were to witness everything I drank last night but let me tell you that I am half-Irish and half-English. It is, to say the least, UNCOMMON for me to ever wake up with a hangover, at least one that is this bad.

So yes... Things are going pretty wrong today and I sincerely hope that this bad luck streak is going to end once I cleanse my palette and cleanse the negativity with the sage. I really need today to work out. If not for me, then for my bandmates, you know.

Before I light the sage, I continue staring down at the lump in my bed. What if they're dead? That's exactly what I need. One more thing to go wrong and that wrong thing being a dead person in my bed. That would be great for management and publicity.

I can see the magazines now: "THIS JUST IN: MACHA LEVAY-FITZGILBERT MURDERED ONE NIGHT STAND AFTER NEARLY CAUSING THE SUICIDE OF HER EX-GIRLFRIEND AND BANDMATE..." or something short and to the point "MACHA A MURDERER?" It's more likely than you think.

I shuffle my feet to my side of the queen bed and nudge their shoulder with three fingers. They don't move. I pull the duvet off the bed which proves to be difficult because the person is wrapped in it like a doobie.

"Hey, you need to leave. I've got somewhere I need to be." I say so loudly that I irritate my own ears. That wouldn't have happened if I weren't hungover. The person still doesn't move. "Seriously leave. You need to be out of here by the time I get dressed." I grumble which is unlike me.

Macha Levay-Fitzgilbert? Grumbling? It's less likely than you think.

"Okay." The person finally moans. I turn my back on them and walk to my wardrobe, and thankfully so because I hear the popping of nearly a thousand bones coming from my bed and I nearly gag. I hate people popping their bones. It's disgusting. It's revolting. It's many other adjectives like that.

Thankfully, getting dressed doesn't take me long. Two minutes at most. Partially because I walk around naked and partially because all my clothes look the exact same so there isn't much deciding that goes on. I hear my bed creak behind me but don't bother looking at the person behind me.

"Thanks, Macha. I appreciate it." The voice suddenly becomes eerily familiar. I turn around and see a familiar person with familiar features.

1. The tan and hairless, mole rat body? Check.

2. The gelled-back black hair that (after last night's events) is messily poking out in all directions, creating a halo around his head? Check.