JuNk

by zero rose

one:

"O, why are mortal men such fools?
O' all those tha' I've ken
There's nane amongst their doughty selves
I would hae back again, again,"

- Jennifer Lawrence, Rebuttal: The Faerie Queen's Reply

I

Forgetting the last chord was always a problem for her, especially when she was jittery. So jittery enough to make even a grasshopper hyped up on caffeine and candy nervous. Wheels turn in her head carefully and she sings even louder, just hoping that the noise will take away from the fact that she missed the last chord. But why try? No one really cared that she skipped some chord on some song she found on the internet. Maybe the sheet music was wrong. Damn. Lousy internet. Lousy websites. Lousy everything. The world is fucked up if you can't even find an honest song. Just an honest song.

"...another gun for hire and just another day..."

The words are still in her mind but without the right music does it really matter? The wind is having an asthma attack and it blows all over the city, sending out the chill of autumn and candy wrapper tumbleweeds down a concrete road.

"...when you are done, you just abuse it, whatever you say..."

The man gives her a diry look - an older man with slick gray hair who owns stock in a company she doesn't care about - and he thinks 'filthy yuppie' and he walks away, not bothering to make eye contact with the girl sitting on the street and looking homeless, and crazy, and impassioned in her work. So goes another customer. Great way to screw up, girl.

"...if you were offered some, would you wanna bite the hand?"

Sniggering young women walk by - breasts perky and pretty and plastic like their lips, like their souls - and they giggle and act as if she is invisible and cannot hear their words or see their expression. A meek one, the meekest in the pack, walks in back and laughs but there is a faltering in her voice. She stops in front of the girl and tosses some change into the empty case standing at her feet and she smiles. The girl continues singing, too busy to notice the gesture of what could be known as compassion to some and pity to others.

"...would you betray a friend to prove you're then walk away?"

And then there's the look in her eyes. The look in the eyes that give the bread, that give the change: and it's guilt. And she runs away before the girl can end the song and say "thank you" or "you're too kind" or some other poop. She drops down the old guitar and looks at today's earnings. Two dollars and thirty-four cents (the cheap bastards - couldn't bother to see real talent and dig in their fat wallets for some real cash instead of buying french fries and a burgers at the next MacDonalds, the cheap bastards...).

The wind is keeling over in another sporadic attack and air huffs and puffs out of it. The girl picks up the cash and pockets it (and tosses away the half-eaten Lifesavor, most likely strawberry due to its fine fine shade of pink) and packs up for the day. It's getting colder and the city shuts down close to five. She carefully packs away the old guitar - something of a relic from an ancient world you hear on the History channel or maybe something she would learn about in History if she bothered to pay attention and stop making up songs (but habits were habits and, hell, they go kicking and screaming and they die harder than an addiction).

God, she wishes she had something cool - something shiny! Like one of those brand new eleventy jillion (not a number but it was a real number in her head) dollar guitars that had all the amps, picks, and electric thing-a-ma-bobs you could (she could) dream of. But while she was dreaming, she could dream of being on stage in front of a rollicking chorus and scream fans who cry her name as she razes the earth with raw noise. Of course, someone like he couldn't handle such an instrument - those were reserved for the real muscians, with their MTV-worthy cribs, their fake smiles and their lyrics written by another hand.

II

She hates His neighborhood. She hates His plot of land. She hates the house Cathy calls their home. She wants it gone. She wants enough lighter fluid to make it burn, make it sparkle, make it shine - and she'll dance in the ashes when they come. The house is normally quiet when she gets home and today is no different from any other day. She can hear Cathy typing away in her office, doing work for whoever she does, whatever she does. She nonchalantly walks by the door, only to hear Cathy call.

"Chase." calls Cathy. Chase tries to slowly inch by but Cathy calls. "Chase, get in here."

The girl named Chase walks into the room. The light is bright, so she squints a little as it dances off of trophies, awards, and other things given to keep the mundane employee appeased instead of a bigger paycheck. Over the typing, Chase can hear Yasha barking, probably harassing His cat again; that angry little Siamese who is perched just high enough off the ground to annoy Yasha.

"Where have you been?" asks Cathy.

"Out." replies Chase.

"At school?" says Cathy.

"No." replies Chase. What is the point in lying? Cathy's eyes told her that she knew she the truth of the matter. No doubt Mrs. Leidman called in her nasal "concerned about your daughter's grades" speech. Chase can picture the woman, whose face reminds her of chunky, rancid milk.

"Chase-" begins Cathy. Chase isn't sure what she said next, because she found herself thinking back to the songs in her head. It was most likely one of Cathy's patented speeches, concerning Chase's future, but she isn't sure. All she could do was guess. Eventually, Chase heard Cathy say, "I know your father and I have given you a grace period because of what happened but that gives you no excuse to-"

Chase loses all interest in the conversation and walks away at this point. She can hear Cathy calling her but who cares when she has other things in mind besides Cathy, Mrs. Leidman, and everyone else in the world who apparently feelings like pryingi nto her life. One life is enough to be in control of, at least it was for her. She places the guitar case in her room, kicking aside some dirty clothes and flopping down into a bean bag chair.

The room has become less of a room and more of a laundry basket over time - collecting dirt, old clothes, papers, and anything else Chase threw onto the ground when she didn't care what would become of it. It is a mimicry - a little mirror - of the city itself. The garbage strike was into week two now and the junkyards and landfills looked ready to burst. Soon the wind would carry the stench of week old pizza boxes, soiled diapers, and God knows what else had been thrown out.

She turns on the computer and goes to myspace - maybe she can see her classmates enjoying themselves or maybe find who used to be her friends.A few minutes later as she surfs from page to page, Yasha comes walking in, pushing the door aside with his bulk. The albino German Shepherd/Border Collie mix settles at Chase's feet, looking exhausted from pestering His cat. Yasha is a mass of breathing hair and flesh - it makes her wonder how much of it is dog underneath all that hair and fur and muscle. She pats the dog on the head and he barks.

"I haven't forgotten." she replies. She exits out of myspace and starts to print out other things she had saved in Microsoft Word days before. The print wakes up and starts spitting out paper after paper, sheet after sheet: newspaper articles, a map, a guide, and a train and bus schedule. Yasha presents in front of Chase her much neglected school backpack, and Chase adds the papers already to the mix inside.

Yasha sniffs at everything; checking to see if everything is there. If human eyes cannot see it, at least he can trust his nose to smell it out. He smells the change of clothes, a poncho, socks, toiletries, a small first aid kit, an inflatable pillow, a thermal blanket, a towel, twine, and a battery pack with radio. They all smell of Chase as so does the backpack and it heavenly (at least for him). As Yasha checks, Chase puts on her shades, changes into a fresh set of clothes, and gets her guitar.

Last, Chase kisses the single color phot and puts it on the single photo on the inside of her jacket. She ruffles Yasha's fur and the dog barks happily. Chase would have asked him if he realy wanted to be with her, but she knows the dog would always follow her, even into the darkest level of Hell.