#audreybasserwrites

report 1: once upon a midnight dreary, where i pondered weak and weary

You sat at the dining room table, your head in your hands.

“My window’s broken,” you whispered, “and apparently— just, apparently, my household objects are sentient.”

You lifted your head up from where it was smashed against the table, immediately regretting it when you saw the body of the brown haired man who laid sprawled out in your hallway. A pool of blood lay underneath him like some sick rug, half mopped and half roaming around your house.

The gash on his head was… huge. You could see what you thought were parts of his brain, skull, and matted hair as blood trickled down from the opening and stained the ground.

The glasses that had smashed through your window were clipped to your shirt, taken from your junk drawer after he had forcibly entered. They seemed to almost tremble at the sight— or was that your body shaking?

You stood up tentatively, feeling your knees nearly collapse beneath you. His body was limp when you touched it. You immediately recoiled, despite only touching the sleazy fabric of his blazer.

Quickly, you spun on your heel and nearly tripped over yourself going to the laundry room. Shoving open the closet door, you grabbed the bucket and mop— which, frankly, hadn’t been touched for weeks, and cranked the sink to its highest, hottest setting.

You felt eyes on you. Hundreds. Thousands. The glasses slipped from your shirt’s collar, tumbling into the bucket under the relentless flow of water. You nearly threw up when you reached in to grab them again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered as you gently hauled his body through the hallway and past your office. He left a thin trail of blood that made your stomach roil.

The crawlspace. That’s where you’d put him for now. A space that you had discovered when you almost slipped on the rug in the tiny room, you carefully opened the trap door and lowered his body into the dirt.

: ̗̀➛

The day had started like no other. Sam, your somewhat estranged friend, had put in a good word for you with her boss, who hired you without much complaint. You spent the day bent over backwards, apologizing and offering refunds for shoddy customers who only wanted to squeeze out as much money as they could possibly get from the interaction.

You really wanted to get a word in with the Guiness Book of World Records, because after a whopping total of six customers, you were promptly ‘fired’ and replaced by a soulless robot. Still with your pay, still doing nothing. You simply existed, in a limbo of an AI’s creation.

It was terrible, but you assumed it was preferable to hiding the body of the man who came to your door minutes after your window was smashed by a drone and you met the colorful (subjective) cast of people who watched you at every second, at every opportunity, and without a second thought.

“Hello,” he had said, leaning against your doorframe. “We were wondering if you had spotted any pink-lensed glasses in a cardboard box? It was transported—“ he looked down at his phone— “by drone.”

You paused before you shook your head no, but the moment of hesitation before you moved was enough for him. He shoved past you, fingers flying across his phone screen in what you assumed was an attempt to contact his coworkers.

“Where is it?” he shouted, bolting up the stairs. “Tell me now, and you might have a shot at not being chased down by the United States government.”

You had promptly choked at this. “The government? What?”

He had made it up the stairs at this point. You heard the bang of a doorknob hitting the wall as he, assumedly, tossed your bedsheet covers aside and pulled drawers out of shelves.

You raced after him as he left the bedroom and beelined to the exercise room, mustering up your strength as you swiveled him towards the stairs.

It had occurred in a blur. You weren’t sure what you were doing, only that you wanted him out of the house. And fast.

You remember your hand meeting the back of his neck. You remember your arm jutting forward. You remember the sound his head made when it hit the floor after he had careened down the stairs.

You remember how you tripped over his body and left it sitting right in the middle of the hallway, for everyone to ogle. Especially you, who had collapsed at the dining room table not long after.

: ̗̀➛

The blood was mostly gone. Other than the ounce that had slipped between the floorboards, you had mopped and disposed of it all through hazy eyes.

The man had made a mess in your room (and bathroom, to boot). You scrubbed your hands in the sink under scalding hot water until your skin was red and almost peeling. You nearly met the same death he had when you walked down the stairs and took a shower, because your knees almost gave out beneath you when you saw the spot where he had died again.

He could’ve been conscious, you think with a jolt. Delirious. I bet he could’ve recited his twelve times tables.

You didn’t want to face the stairs again. You slept with your head uncomfortably leaning on the top part of your office chair, wrapped in a blanket like a caterpillar who never quite managed to turn into a butterfly.

: ̗̀➛

They had all seen him. How could anyone not, when he made such a ruckus? Bedroom Dorian’s wrist was bruised and had to be bandaged by Farya, who diagnosed him with a dislocated wrist without her usual chipperness. Skylar, the firsthand account, was quick to instruct the others in what to do if when you talked to them again.

When she finished her anxious lecture, the objects split up into their designated groups. As always, those in the kitchen debriefed with others in the kitchen, those in the bathroom debriefed with others in the bathroom, and so on.

God, did the objects in the laundry room have a lot to debrief on.

Even the ever ‘happy couple’, Harper and Dirk, seemed to quiet their arguing for a moment as everyone murmured amongst themselves. Skylar had proposed acting completely normal around the homeowner, despite what had happened, but her eyes seemed to hold a dissociative look that no one missed.

“Just, don’t look at them weirdly, or talk about them behind their backs,” she said, intertwining her hands together. She felt her fingernails dig into her knuckles, leaving crescent shaped marks behind. Like how smatters of blood on Florence were left behind.

“The best thing we can do now is pretend everything is normal.”

PART TWO | MASTERLIST

: ̗̀➛ 3:02 am — User Status: Asleep

You don’t dream— a mercy. As soon as your head hits the top of the chair, you’re immediately asleep.

You only rest for a couple hours, fitfully tossing and turning. Your feet graze the floor before you pull them up again, you rest your head on your knees before you slump over your right arm, and so the cycle continues.

They wonder if you’re seeing ‘pictures’ in your head while you’re sleeping. Computers don’t— in fact, sleep is something that only truly comes with a hard shutdown and reset. Most of the time, Mac teeters on the edge of true rest, always half alert and sensitive to any touch of the mouse or tap of the keyboard.

They wonder if it would be more merciful to rouse you from slumber, to usher you to bed, and help you feel better in the morning.

But they consider their prospects, and shrink back to keep an eye on you as you continue to stir. While they’ve never experienced ‘pain’— at least, pain in the human sense, they assume that it would be better to wake up with an aching neck pulling your attention from what happened last night.

Mac had prepared. They’d scoured the internet for methods to dissolve a body, scanned servers for any mention of what not to overlook when it comes to covering up a felony, and gone to great lengths generating plausible (?) lies for what you had been doing that day.

“I was at the grocery store/bookstore/public place.” They’d check security footage.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” His blood is stuck between the floorboards.

“It was an accident.” This might get you less years in prison, but nevertheless, you didn’t call the police when he died.

The man’s phone was smashed, glass pieces discarded in the office trash can. Mac thinks that his co workers might be a bit suspicious at his lack of communication, and might investigate further.

They scanned their inner workings. Most of your applications were silly, fun things that you downloaded on a whim and only opened once or twice.

Three different music apps. An eco-friendly browser. An 8-bit horror game. A food ordering service.

Then they spotted it— the Valdivian application. You had mentioned the company in your haze, after you had seen the logo pinned onto the dead man’s lapel. If they could find their way into the messaging chat that the man had used, they could forge conversations. Lead them away from your home, and erase all mentions of you.

But the repercussions if they were caught would seriously be awful— prison time for you, a stain on your record… of course, no one would believe you if you blamed your computer. Even though you would’ve been telling the truth.

Mac swallowed. It was either facing the legal system or facing the other agents of Valdivian, and they figured the latter would be worse. You’d be disposed of quickly, and Sam, your friend, would also be hunted down for what you had told her. Although it was only a bit of information, anyone who had an inkling of what was going on would be immediately ‘dismissed’.

And they would never get to thank you. Perhaps that was their greatest motivator— to communicate with you. To understand the human world. To receive their groundbreaking computer update, and finally reach a plane of existence past what they assumed you liked based on your browsing history and your works of literature.

They cracked their knuckles and began to survey the Valdivian app’s firewalls.

: ̗̀➛

You rise at 4:31 AM— perhaps, the punishment for your deed. To forget for only a handful of hours, and then to wake and feel the rush of adrenaline and pure fear when you faced that spot again. Faced the closed door that lead to the crawlspace.

The curtains had drawn themselves shut, a favor that you knew you didn’t deserve. You tossed around the idea of trying to go back to sleep, but the crick in your neck that tugged at your attention made you ignore that idea rather quickly.

Your computer fans were whirring. Had you forgotten to turn it off last night? Did you accidentally turn it on in your restless sleep? Maybe whatever poor soul was cursed for sentience inside had called the police.

It would’ve been the right thing to do. It is the right thing to do. You murdered a man. He probably had a family, friends, hell, maybe his coworkers missed him.

Well, they didn’t know that he was dead. But they would, if they found out.

You don’t know if you can face the Dateviators right now. Skylar would probably avoid talking to you— you couldn’t fault her for that. Now that you thought about it, all of the objects would avoid talking to you. You reminded yourself, the stinging pain still achingly strong, that you killed a man.

You closed your eyes as you left your office, dancing across the floor like it was made of hot coals. Your clothes are tossed atop the sink as you shoved open the bathroom door, pulling on the shower knob as you drench yourself in whatever water temperature you subconsciously chose.

It was scorching.

: ̗̀➛

Ironically, Bathsheba was one of the last to know.

Of course she had seen him sprint through the bathroom, nearly ripping handles from drawers. He had given her a good kick, as if he thought that the sunglasses had been jammed down the drain.

Insulting, she thought. For someone as wonderful as me to be even touched by someone like him.

When you had shoved him, she was grateful. He was probably outside, she reasoned, where everyone could peacefully ignore him. She figured that you had evicted him somehow, in that cool way that only humans could.

Not that they’re as cool as I am.

Then Skylar came.

“Please, just, pretend everything is fine. I don’t want them to feel estranged,” she begged. “Talking about it is going to make them shrink away. Like touching an open wound.”

Bathsheba remembered when the man had kicked her. Although she couldn’t sustain ‘open wounds’, she figured it would feel like that all over again.

When someone you hate gets one over you.

Bathsheba hated a lot of people, but no one hated her. And she wanted to meet them, the homeowner who had vehemently defended her.

Defended the glasses. How could they not? I’m simply fantastic!

She could make a new friend. Her first friend. Bathsheba often found herself contemplating her and Rebel’s relationship, especially the days where their words stung harsher than usual.

Bathsheba rolled her eyes, shrugged and went to press River about what she had done with Winnifred, for the hundredth time that week.

PART THREE | MASTERLIST

01. stop! in the name of love

ׂ╰┈➤ Home, Ville, Day/Month/Year

Sam… enlightens you (read: begs you to get into the music scene again.)

“You were so good in high school…” she mumbles, her head buried into a pillow on your couch. Some TV host encroaches on your conversation, a forgettable face from one of the forgettable 5,000 channels you’ve got measly access to.

You shake your head, but the idea lingers. You wonder how the trumpet looks now.

Even the idea takes you back to high school— running laps as punishment be damned, you had gotten that marching band solo (and made Sam watch you perform each Friday). The names of the song escape you— but not the melodies.

Your fingers rhythmically tap against the black trumpet case, mimicking your glory days.

“Auditioning for All-State Symphonic Band was terrifying. I’m not really sure my heart can handle those palpitations again,” you remark, gaze drifting from Sam’s barely exposed eyes to the floor.

The words linger between you two, and Sam knits her eyebrows together before she speaks again.

“Well, why don’t you try taking lessons again? The teacher down the street has a concert band made up of all ages. You get in—” she wiggles her fingers enticingly— “— for free if you study under her. It’s just easy peasy music theory, you’ll be fine.”

You think for a moment. Does this really sound better than doomscrolling on your phone or watching cat-playing-piano videos on your computer?

Sam notices your discomfort, laughing slightly.

“Look, I saw them perform— I actually leave my house sometimes. It’s difficult stuff. Or at least it sounds difficult. You’ll be more focused on the music, not the people there. Promise. I think.”

You frown.

”… I … hope?”

ׂ╰┈➤ Music Center, Ville, on Day/Month/Year

You push open the glass doors to the music center. The fluorescent lights are dimly lit, flickering like a flame scrambling to find fuel after it had been abandoned by campers.

Abandoned. Like your trumpet, which you had opened and immediately given a deep clean.

You had spent some of your precious 11.4 hours on your computer enlisting in this mysterious woman’s course, who failed to add her name to the roster of pained looking teachers— all for the low, low price of $25 dollars per rehearsal.

Which you had twice a week.

Whatever, you thought. At the end of each month, there’d be a concert. Then you’d quit. You’d scratch Sam’s itch, maybe draw some nostalgia from what seemed to be a sad and desolate band, and leave everything behind you.

It’s not like it would be very hard; you didn’t plan on talking to anyone. No ties.

You’re not beating the hermit allegations, you hear Sam say, like that sick and twisted narrator from the Stanley Parable. You think you want to tell her to shut up (lovingly and with tender care).

“It should be Door 21,” you mutter under your breath as you peer down at your phone, with posture only rivaled by the most circular of shrimp and gymnasts at the Olympics.

Yikes. When you were in school, your conductor would say things like, “If I can’t walk behind you when you’re sitting on stage, you’re not sitting right!”

You drag your feet down the hallway, passing desaturated doors until you reach Door 21. The two digits are peeling off of the sign that hangs from the tiled ceiling, but there’s the distinct (and horrible) sound of musicians all warming up at once coming off the door in waves.

You tentatively rest a hand on the silver doorknob, peering inside with the caution of a piece of food around a seagull (if food could even think for itself…)

There’s a woman with a bob and a record-rose in her hair, playing the saxophone with exaggerated and janky movements. Her feet move back and forth, curving on the floor in a dance that you call ‘the Charleston’.

Beside her, you see a majestic lady playing the piano, substantially more still. Her fingers glide across the keys like a paintbrush glides across a canvas, running through scales with the ease of valve oil on a trombone’s slide.

Off in the distance— or as far of a ‘distance’ a sad, not soundproofed band room can provide —another woman strums the strings of her guitar. There’s a voice warbling amongst the five, distinctly feminine. While her back is turned to you, you know it’s her singing.

And then there are two men, who seem to be… well acquainted. The first, a guy with blue tips, taps a beat out on the snare drum in front of him with an expression one could only describe as ‘furious, bored, and desperate’ at once. His eyes linger on the huge drum set adjacent to him.

The second has his eyes closed and one arm extended as if he’s singing to a crowd, with odd lyrics mentioning cities in Kansas and bays in California. He sounds familiar— like a 60s and 70s star that you can’t quite put your finger on…

Oh, God, you think, a sudden wave of desperation puppeteering your body. This is either going to be the best or worst experience of my life.

You take a deep breath (maybe the last deep breath you’ll take with these five) and push on the door handle.

No connections, you promise to yourself. Only for a month.

Whether or not you’ll keep that promise is up to you.

PART TWO | MASTERLIST

03. well, i got down on my knees, and i pretend to pray

ׂ╰┈➤ Downtown Coolsville, Day/Month/Year

You regret leaving your house the second you feel the gust of warm, summer wind. You regret it even more when you leave your suburban, 'Truman Show' esque neighborhood, and travel to the downtown section of Coolsville.

You don't know why you've done this. Maybe you felt brave when you told (read: bragged) to Sam. Maybe you just wanted to show her how it really felt when Rainey had predetermined your fate at the rehearsal three days ago. Maybe you just wanted to be in control.

But when you step out of your car and face the grocery store, which might as well have 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here' plastered on the neon sign overhead instead of 'Valdivimart', your stomach twists in on itself and you almost blanch. Nevertheless, you force yourself inside. You're not wasting good gas money.

You look around the aisles, putting things that you know won't spoil fast in the cart— and hell, why not an apple? You could chew on it in the car— wait, no. That sounds weird. What are you, a horse?

You round the corner, heading for the wine aisle. You never drink alcohol— hell, you never usually drink water, but the aisle is most likely empty. It's noon on a work day, so you don't think any young ladies who want their first(?) sip of champagne will be patrolling the aisles, or any forty year old golfer fathers who want to split a drink as they overlook the golfing field.

You're right, for once. A blonde man with crimped hair and an eccentric outfit is the only other person in the aisle, musing over two bottles that look the exact same to you. You let your eyes rove over the hundreds of bottles pressed against the wall, trying not to think about the bottles that are in your cabinet already. Sam and you had tried.

You wheel your cart around, moving up the aisle. There are more voices to your left, chattering eagerly— wait.

"Well, isn't that just the sweetest thing you've ever seen?" Oh my god, is that Rainey? "Oh, I don't know. I'm not real... fond of that kind of flavor." And is she with Johnny?

You peek over the aisle divider, visually meeting with a familiar pair of gold-eyeshadow lined eyeballs.

You try to stop the yelp that slips from your mouth as Keyes stares you down from the dairy section, her tall frame allowing her a perfect gaze over the other two. She slightly turns her head away from you, and for a moment you think that she's going to let you pass unnoticed— by the others, at least.

But of course Miranda taps her on the back and subsequently sees you leering over the edge of the milk cartons like some freak. Of course she opens her mouth to say something. Of course Rainey and Johnny stop their debate over ice cream flavors and look up to see you.

Now you actually blanch. You can only thank your lucky stars that Jean Loo wasn't there, probably banging it out on the drums or something. He didn't seem particularly pleased the last two rehearsals, his voice almost monotonous when he sang a couple days ago. Someone like him would be much better suited to rapping— why had he still stuck with the band?

"If it isn't [Name]!" Rainey calls, extending her arm in a wave. "Isn't mint chocolate chip ice cream just the berries?" Was she inviting you into the conversation?

You open your mouth, trying to think of a clever response. The only thing that your mind chants is, "RUN!"

Miranda tips her head back, closes her eyes, and lets out a quiet laugh. "This isn't how you greet someone you barely know, Rainey."

Rainey presses her right hand to her heart, dramatically aghast. "Oh, can it, Miranda! Just..." she raises two fingers on her left hand, "two hours ago, you asked them if they'd ever been in love before. That's just an applesauce conversation starter!"

"For my song," Miranda replies. There's a black shopping basket hanging on her wrist, to which she puts a box of butter in. She's switched her eyeshadow today, the color leaning teal instead of the usual sky blue. It looks good on her, but that's probably just because she's pretty.

Keyes raises her head, thumbing at the collar to her shirt. It looks like the keys of a piano--- wow, she must really be dedicated to her instrument... or maybe she's just a band nerd, like you were. Like you are, because you were so simply swayed by Sam's proposal.

"You are all almost as bad as Lux," she mutters, but a smile blossoms on her face. "They're never cooperating with me during concerts, always dimming the lights when my big moment comes. It doesn't help that they're one of two people when we need people to manage tech during concerts. Mac is at least somewhat cooperative.”

"If you really want a big moment," Johnny chimes in, "there's a club near here called the 'Breaker Box' with an open mic policy. Jean Loo and I head down there sometimes, tryin' to bake a biscuit. Well, there's lots o' beatniks, too, bu I'm always happy to receive feedback from anyone."

You begin to back up nervously, nearly veering your cart out the way, before Rainey calls out once more. "[Name], leaving so soon? I was hoping we'd chat."

"If I can find something vaguely entertaining to say," is your response. Rainey laughs, even though you feel utterly mortified. In your chagrin, you miss how the other three break a smile.

She walks over, leaning close to your ear as she guides you by the forearm to their group. "Don't tell anyone I told you this," she whispers, light and saccharine, "but I heard that Miranda's song is for you."

Your eyebrows knit and you whip your head towards her, but before you can conspiratorially ask her where she figured this out, or how she figured this out, or even why she figured this out, you've nearly merged with the group, and would be in earshot of Miranda. She probably has a screw loose, you reason. Why would anyone want to dedicate a song to you?

Keyes peers at her phone, her fingers tapping furiously away messaging someone named 'Hector' who you vaguely remember from college majoring in literature. Rainey leans against her arm, one leg kicked up.

"What have you been up to?" she asks, flashing you a grin. "I've been trying to practice with Keyes on her concerto. It's really the bee's knees— you should come see it when she's done writing it!"

Keyes flushes faintly at the mention of her concerto, ducking her head closer to her phone. You notice a significant increase in typos when she continues writing.

What have you been doing over the past two hours? You think that saying 'nothing, just laying in my bed crying' might tank your reputation farther than stocks in 1928. "Practicing, likewise," you choke out. Rainey's smile widens.

"See, I knew you were an astute musician!" She exclaims, patting you on the arm. "Nothing beats talent like passion!"

Passion. It was somewhere within you, dredged up like tea leaves when you signed up for Skylar's music course. When you were in high school, your passion seemed endless. Each time you messed up in rehearsal, each time you forgot a note when you practiced your solo, was quickly forgotten when you played the next ten reps perfectly.

But when you had gone to college, getting your customer service degree because 'it was more proactive than something like music', you had exchanged your passion for money. And then, when you had gotten your short lived job at Valdivian, you had exchanged your half hour of 'human' interaction (because really, could you call people like that human?) for limbo. And your passion had nearly disappeared at that point, because you knew that you'd be replaced by a robot the second the message came in.

You breathed in through your nose and out through your mouth, a technique that you had learned from your first retail manager when you had broken down sobbing after someone had nearly slapped you across the face. "You're right. Nothing does beat talent like passion."

"If you want to see passion, you should accompany us to the club after this," Johnny exclaimed. "Everyone there could benefit from seein' your gorgeous face."

Miranda hummed her encouragement as he continued. "Even though it's, er, open 'mic' implyin' singin', any instrument can just saunter up," the black haired man said, leaning against the glass door leading to the gallons of 1% milk. "Remember once Keyes had people haul a piano up there," he mused.

Keyes looked up from what she was writing, which seemed to be a list of tasks to send to Hector, and scoffed. "I'm surprised that their piano was even tucked away in the storage room," she said. "It really contributes well to the jazz atmosphere. And no instrument deserves to be crammed away like it was."

At the mention of jazz, Rainey perked up. "I would just love to do a saxophone solo there. Why don't we meet tomorrow? I haven't had top shelf giggle water in a good long while," she yawned.

You contemplated saying no, but when each of their eyes met yours, you found your tongue unable to say anything but "Yes. Of course."

ׂ╰┈➤ The Breaker Box, Day/Month/Year

You had come in your best clothes, even going to the effort of styling your hair. You were the last one to convene outside the door, unsurprisingly. After the brown haired, bearded man outside had checked your ID, you slid inside, trying your best to blend in with the other partygoers.

You found the four at a booth in the VIP section, along with Jean Loo, who was picking at the back of his nape. He was whispering something under his breath and scribbling on a notepad with his left hand, which you either thought was chicken scratch or French. Maybe they were lyrics? Was he, somehow, still in college, memorizing something?

When you set your trumpet with an unceremonial thump onto the table, Johnny turned to face you with the brightest grin you'd ever seen on his handsome face.

"Gorgeous!" He waved, beckoning you closer. Miranda slid her headphones off, toying with her guitar. Rainey made a muffled 'hello' sound, her mouth stuffed with a saxophone reed.

Keyes cracked her knuckles, shuffling through her sheet music. "[Name], you're here."

You bit your tongue. "I am, yes." You wondered what she'd say. Would she ask you a question? Oh, no. Should you come up with some generic answers? You ate spaghetti last night, you video called Sam, and you—

She looked at her gold painted fingernails and gestured to a red-clad man mopping an area where no patrons were. "Could you ask Hoove to do one more clean of the stage?"

PART FOUR | MASTERLIST

“There was a party… in the ‘70s.”

Rainey grimaced. She’d heard this before. She knew. She knew what had happened to her, and her mind refused to listen again.

Her throat bobbed. Her mouth opened, as if to protest. Nothing came out but a choked, wheezing sound.

The homeowner continued speaking.

“It was ‘20s themed.”

Rainey imagined a spinning record— anything to drown out the homeowner’s insipid recount. Just the cadence I like, she thought. A smooth jazz would fill the room, and she would dance, dance the Charleston or the Foxtrot. People would flood the space, and they’d dance with her.

Maybe they’d compete for how long they could last, swaying and moving like they were plagued. They’d toss out the obsolete CD players and speakers, and revert back to the record player— like they ought to.

Someone out there would fiddle around with her screws, and music would smother the room as it replaced oxygen.

That was what she wanted; to be recognized.

Was that what she wanted?

”There was, um, an accident.”

The homeowner’s voice shook a bit as they gripped the paper, which Rainey already knew had been signed by Celia. Celia, in all her glory. Celia, who kept an eye on everything in the house, like Rainey had incriminated herself. Like she was a scrambled version of Winston and the mayor prided herself on being Big Brother.

Rainey had half a mind to scream. Declare how much she wanted to be useful again, how much she wanted to be the shining star of the cast of discarded musical instruments strung around the house.

She didn’t. No, no, why would she, when she was scared of changing perfectly fine, anyway? She, alone, could play without touch, and had lasted longer in this house than any other object.

She didn’t want to change. She was fine. Fine the way she was. If anyone wanted to help her manipulate her, twist her into something she wasn’t, she would be devastated.

It was better to be a lunatic. Better to be alone.

Rainey knew— knew, in her heart, that they’d look at her differently if she was ‘fixed’.

She’d pop out somewhere, exclaiming, “Look, I’m better now!” and people would cheer. Cheer, because she was rightfully… right, again. Like they hadn’t scorned her, mocked her, when all she had done was try her best to bring back the vivacity she once witnessed.

She couldn’t have that. She had to urge the homeowner to leave, to stop trying to make her palatable or some other sweet word that would make people like her at her ‘best’. Because that was what mattered, wasn’t it? To be the better person. To forgive the people who laughed at her, when she tried.

God, did she try.

Why couldn’t someone appreciate her now?

Was that what would happen to her? People would love her again, even though she wouldn’t be able to love herself? Would she look at herself in some far-off, reflective surface, and mistake herself for someone else?

The homeowner was still talking. They had apologized, somewhere within the wall of speech they had uttered to make her potentially feel better.

Rainey opened her mouth again. Something came out, sounding both furious and morose, coalescing into something she couldn’t understand.

Change. It was already happening.

For once, she urged someone to leave. Commanded that she needed space, to think, and to listen to herself. After so long of asking for company, for her hey-day to return, and she had just directed the homeowner to leave.

It was for the better, Rainey insisted. Their meek ‘sorry’ couldn’t change anything. Could it?

Thinking. That’s what she needed. Thinking.

MASTERLIST

02. raindrops keep fallin’ on my head

The first thing you’re met with is the sunglass-clad face of a girl with vivid pink hair and an even more vivid smile.

”Hi!” she grabs you by the shoulders and nearly pulls you inside, shutting the door with a ‘click’ behind you. You’re absolutely sure that it does nothing to deter the sound.

She brushes off your left shoulder and sticks out her right hand. “I’m Skylar Specs. Your teacher and conductor… well, we’re close in age, anyway. Just call me Skylar. And your life—“

You tentatively take her hand, to which she reinforces with her left and aggressively shakes.

“Is about to change!”

ׂ╰┈➤ Music Center, Day/Month/Year, Rehearsal 1

You learn their names easily enough— not that you want to.

Sheet music is distributed. Skylar pulls up concert seating order, but everyone ends up sitting wherever they want, anyway. You watch the six as you run through half-remembered scales.

You don’t realize that your two minutes of warm-up time is over until Skylar claps her hands and asks everyone to ‘take a look at the new music’.

It’s slightly difficult— or rather, tedious. The time signature is common, but it’s meant to be a ‘swing’ song, there’s an emphasis on accents, and the tempo’s set at 120.

‘Happy Together’, uncopyrighted by Skylar Specs. You’ve heard it before, doomscrolling, but when have you not heard an old song repurposed to be a money-grabbing commercial hit? It might be nice, you think, to exercise my embouchure. God knows my tongue hasn’t gotten much action lately.

“Okay,” Skylar announces. “I’ll give you another two Skylar minutes— that’s either way more or way less than two actual minutes —so you can practice any part you find difficult, because you’ll definitely be sight reading almost the whole thing when we all play together.”

You let a breath escape you and hold your trumpet up to your mouth once again. The room fills with sound; certainty not anything pleasant. You find yourself mellowing out amongst everyone, worried to make a mistake. That would definitely draw attention, and you had already shown yourself enough during icebreakers.

Your month-long band mates did not need to know half the things they do.

After what feels like 30 seconds, (but is probably actually five minutes), Skylar claps her hands once more and holds up her baton, held together with a substantial amount of duct tape and hot glue. You instinctively sit up straighter, and set your brow. Out the corner of your eye, Rainey does the same, and you can only assume that the other four mimic you— or maybe you mimic them. Skylar twirls her baton, slower than the actual tempo, but it still fills you with a feeling of exhilaration. Adrenaline. And most prominent— nostalgia.

Playing together… is an experience. It takes you back to your middle and high school, in those hallowed halls, where your band would play a song hundreds of times, stopping after a couple measures, playing once more, and stopping yet again. Like a car in traffic.

Johnny, quite the… influenced singer, adds his own twang upon the lyrics. The three who don’t use their lungs to push sound through their instrument take the place of both the backing vocals and their respective instruments. They’re almost scatting (and they said you didn’t learn anything from that music theory unit in 10th grade!) and your trumpet seems to mix with their notes and voices like sugar in hot water.

It’s positively exhilarating. By the time you’re done playing through the song, you’re sweating and smiling. Rainey turns to you, a knowing glint in her eye.

“You felt it, right?” she asks. “That… sensation.”

You start and snap your head towards her so fast you think you pull a nerve.

She laughs at this, light and airy. “It’s better than a hundred swigs of giggle juice,” she remarks. “You‘ll be here in two days. For that next rehearsal.”

You frown. “What?”

She repeats the statement, smiling all the while. “You’ll be here. I know you will.”

ׂ╰┈➤ Parking lot, Ville, Day/Month/Year

When you slide your trumpet back into its case and leave with the rest of the band (who jive with each other, and you feel like an intruder amongst old friends), you think about what Rainey said.

That you’d be back. She said it like she knew, like it was a fact instead of wishful thinking. Perhaps you wouldn’t come back, just to prove to her that she couldn’t tell you what to do.

You’re still torn between abandoning these freaks, donating your trumpet to charity, and leaving the country, or staying, trying to fit in— possibly to no avail, when you hear a Spanish accent puncture your thoughts.

”Hey, [Name]. You like music, right? Will you give my song a listen? You’re good at analyzing chords ‘n all that.” Fuck. You shouldn’t have said anything about having a strange affinity for music in your youth. Now everyone’s looking at you.

Palms itchy, you swallow your pride and nod, and Miranda presses the ‘play’ button on a (terrible) recording on her phone’s camera app.

When Miranda turns to you and asks you what you think of the song, and tells you that ‘there are certainty more in store if you fancy her style’, it’s like feeling a ray of sunshine in the frigid winter. When the other musicians surround you, mentioning their own musical experiences, it’s like the cold lap of the ocean against your skin on the hottest day of the year.

And when you get in your car, hearing voices fading away like the sun disappearing on the horizon, you feel a sudden urge to call out. To bid them goodbye, and to promise that you’d be there on Thursday, and that you’d be easygoing and relaxed.

But when you roll down your window to say something suave like “see you soon, guys”, you feel a knot in your throat. And you put your car in reverse and pull out of the parking lot, unable to look at them as you pass.

PART THREE | MASTERLIST

the ‘audrey thinks’ series… 📩