Give Them Back, Damnit!
The damned music blasted too loudly, torturing the speakers and assaulting her eardrums. Aria groaned, her head throbbing in time with the music. Or perhaps with her heartbeat, forcing her alcohol-thinned blood through her agonized brain. Her fist clenched around the brown neck of her bottle, knuckles showing white beneath lavender skin.
She couldn’t turn it down. It was across the room, a mile away if it was a foot. Far too much to cross in her state. And what was the point. Blow out her eardrums, scramble her brain, the physical pain was a welcome distraction from the whirling maelstrom that was her mind. Too fast, too fast it tore at her sanity, winds screaming accusations and failures, reminding that she was nothing, less than nothing, would never not be nothing. Her hand trembled, with rage or sorrow, as she brought the shaky bottle up to her lips and drank deeply before falling back onto her bare mattress.
The sheets were somewhere, on a chair, or in a closet maybe. Aria couldn’t remember. She hadn’t touched them. Sonata always did the laundry. Why she even bothered was beyond Aria. It wasn’t like it mattered. They were all dead anyway. Their bodies just hadn’t realized it yet.
Her hand moved to her throat, soft fingers flickering over the unnatural smoothness of scar tissue. The touch tickled her throat, and she let out a series of weak, raspy coughs. Useless. She could barely talk, much less sing. She had loved singing. It was the only thing she was good at. The only thing…
Useless.
Her hand shifted to the base of the bottle, swishing the last mouthful of booze in the bottom, before pouring it off the edge of the bed, into the carpet. Cheers. She dropped the bottle, and it clattered to the floor alongside its half dozen brothers, useless and spent. Just like her.
Well, not quite. A bottle could at least be recycled, turned in for a few pennies. More than a siren with a broken voice. They could even sing better, all one had to do was blow, blow into the top at just the right angle. What could she do, to hold a candle to that?
An itch in her left arm made her twitch, and she idly scratched her wrist through the cloth bands hugging her forearm. The light from above drilled into her irises and she clenched her eyelids shut, focusing on the music pounding on her skull. Her wrist began to throb, begging for more than fingernails. Something more real, more tangible. She tried to put it out of her mind, blindly kicking at the bottles on the floor, aiming for the stereo across the room. In her mind, the bottle sailed through the air, reducing the music player to so much scrap and ending her torment. In reality, it rolled a couple of feet before hitting the foot of her dresser.
Aria scoffed.
Useless.
She tried to focus on another problem instead, the light overhead. The switch was over the mattress, almost in reach. She stretched out, extending her fingers toward the wall, but fell short. To reach it she’d have to sit up again, and that was impossible. Her head hurt too much for that.
Damnit, her arm hurt! She shot up, tearing the bands off her arm and glaring down at her wrist. Narrow lines seemed to dance across the skin, like… something. Metaphors were a bit too much to wrap her brain around at the moment. Idly she traced her fingers over the ridges, strangely entranced by the scars. She had done that, she had left a permanent mark, had affected that change on herself. It was intoxicating, a poor, valuable, worthless, priceless substitute for her singing.
She needed more. Now.
Bolting upright with sudden energy, she reached for her nightstand, scrabbling for the pocket knife she was sure was there. Nothing. She came up empty handed. Trying to wrack her brain for where she had left it proved fruitless and painful. No matter, she could improvise. Reaching down, she grabbed one of her discarded bottles before bringing it down on the edge of her nightstand in one smooth motion.
The cheap glass shattered with little resistance, leaving her with a jagged piece glinting in the overly bright light of her room. Gritting her teeth, she clenched her fist and slashed carelessly across her arm, barely feeling it as an angry red stripe formed across her violet skin. Yet another way an empty bottle was more useful than her.
“Son of a bitch!” Aria growled as her brain finally registered the pain, flashing through her arm and into the left side of her chest. First two, then three crimson beads formed across the wound, soon joined by more, combining to a long, narrow line. She stared down at the angry mark, clenching and unclenching her fist as the pain faded to a dull itch, and a single drop trailed down toward her elbow. That had been deep, deeper than she meant. It would definitely make one of the bigger scars, if she didn’t treat it soon.
But… what was the point? To deny what she had done, to hide her shame? She wasn’t ashamed, it was her choice, her mark! Her power over herself that allowed her to do it in the first place! Why should she be denied that!? It was hers, all hers!
“Fuck! Damnit!”
The pain was back, and this time it wasn’t going any time soon. At least it distracted from the music, and the light. Still, it hurt. And why? Why? Why should she deal with that? Why did she have to live with the consequences!?
…
Why indeed? She didn’t, did she? She could end it all, right then and there. Not just the pain, but the fear, the powerlessness, the self-doubt. It could all go away, it could all end, just like that, if she wanted. And why not? Where had living gotten her? Drunk, a shithole apartment, a migraine and a hangover for the road. Well, she could avoid one of those consequences, couldn’t she? All she had to do to avoid the hangover was… not wake up.
But how? The issue wasn’t lack of options, but an overabundance of them. It’s amazing how easily the mundane can become lethal when one puts her mind to it. The leather belt on the floor over there, that could do the trick. Crushing her useless throat would be an almost sweet irony, but she couldn’t trust the cheap lighting fixture in the ceiling to hold up its bargain and take her weight.
The window would be inelegant and awkward, and from only the second story the best she could guarantee would be a few broken bones. The roof would be better, but involved actually getting to the roof, and she just couldn’t bother. It was too far. She might change her mind.
Her gaze drifted to the cut in her arm. That was one way to go, and she’d almost consider it, but it was too hit or miss. A lot of people survived it, if the wound was bound in time. Too much room to back out. And besides, it hurt. She wanted to end the pain, not worsen it! If she had her knife, she might consider it, but the broken bottle was too jagged, too inelegant and imprecise. With a roar of frustration she hurled the remains at the wall, taking grim satisfaction in the way it shattered even further, dropping invisible slivers of glass in the carpet for someone else to deal with.
Her wrist throbbed, and for a moment her mind drifted to the bottle of painkillers in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. There were probably enough left to do the job. Maybe. But the bathroom seemed impossibly far away, and the idea of using pills was just so… sad. Pathetic. The coward’s way out, to just go to sleep, instead of looking her death in the face and pulling the trigger-
Of course. Anything could be made lethal, but why not use a tool that was made lethal. She snarled at herself for not thinking of it sooner, the revolver in the top drawer of her nightstand. She had bought it off the street for the purpose of self-defense. Well, the only thing she had to protect herself from was herself, so it was perfect. Overcome with a sudden manic energy, she levered herself out of bed, reveling in the sound of glass crunching under the heels of her boots. Two short steps carried her within reach and she threw the drawer open, plunging her hand inside and clasping the cold, black metal of the weapon, bringing it into the light to admire its sleek design.
It was perfect. Six chambers, and a barrel that promised a heavy payload, more than enough to turn her brain and skull to paste. No one could ever have any doubt about her intentions then. It could never be an accident. It was perfect.
The glint of her mirror caught her eye and she scowled. Eyes baggy, hair greasy and tangled. She obviously hadn’t showered since… sometime. She really couldn’t bother to remember when. It didn’t matter. There wouldn’t be much left in a minute for anyone to judge anyway. Nodding, she locked eyes with her reflection, staring herself down with defiance and derision as the lifted the firearm to her head, opening her mouth wide before placing the barrel against her bottom lip. Her finger stretched up to caress the trigger, and for a moment, her reflection almost smiled.
Click.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
And once more, just to be sure: Click.
Nothing. Nothing, damnit! After all that workup, all that suspense, and nothing! There were no bullets!? Useless!
What could have happened to them? She had had six, one for each chamber. She always kept it loaded, always within reach of the bed. But when she needed it most, there was nothing. Howling in primal rage, she hurled the useless revolver at the mirror, shattering it in a crash of glass that threw even more jagged slivers into the carpet, just daring anyone fool enough to tread with bare feet.
“Sonata…” The name came out as a furious hiss. “That little bitch!” She had ruined everything, again! Just like always, she foiled her plans! Well, it was for the last time! Kicking open her door, Aria stormed across the narrow hallway to the room of her so-called sister. That would end tonight as well, and good riddance to her! With an angry growl she threw the other door open, storming into the room.
“A-Aria!” Sonata gasped, leaping to her feet, “You’re out of your roo- gak!”
Her greeting was cut off in a strangled gasp as Aria grasped her collar and pulled her close. “Where are they?” The older siren growled menacingly, locking Sonata’s eyes into a bloodthirsty glare. “Where are my damn bullets, Sonata?”
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Sonata barely managed the words, struggling for breath as black spots danced at the edges of her vision.
“Don’t fuck with me, Sonata!” Aria screamed, shaking the blue skinned girl violently. “Give them back! Give them back, damnit!” She didn’t loosen her grip, even as Sonata began to cry, even as tears blurred her own vision for reasons beyond her grasp.
“No!” Sonata screamed, pulling herself free, “You can’t have them! You’re just gonna hurt yourself!”
“That,” Aria growled, “It the damn point! I’m done with this! I’m done with the pain, and the failure! And most of all, I’m done with you!” She shoved Sonata with all her considerable might, sending the younger girl stumbling back into her bed. Her eyes flickered across the barren room, looking for anywhere the idiot might have hidden her precious bullets. They had to be here, they had to! She couldn’t bear it if her sister had thrown them out.
There! Her eyes alighted on Sonata’s night stand, nearly identical to her own. In two short strides she was there, and she flung the drawer open to find several small brass cylinders lying amongst the clutter. Grinning madly, she snatched them up, missing two or three but it hardly mattered. She wouldn’t need more than one.
“No!” Sonata’s arm curled around her own, yanking her to a halt as she tried to leave the room. “I won’t let you do this!” Sonata cried, tears streaming down her face as she did her best to pry Aria’s fingers open.
Aria’s face twisted in rage, and she let out a primal howl as she drove her fist into her sister’s face with a sickening crack. Warm blood spattered across her fist, and she watched with grim satisfaction as Sonata fell on her ass, covering her nose with both hands and sobbing. With a sadistic snarl, she lashed out again, her foot connecting with the younger girl’s leg.
“Don’t fucking follow me,” She snapped, turning on her heel and slamming her bedroom door behind her, turning the lock and knocking down her nightstand in front of it for good measure. She froze for a moment, staring down at her discarded firearm and taking a deep, shaky breath. It was time. It was time to go. To end it all. She was ready. Stepping through the crunch of glass, she knelt down and grabbed the pistol from where it had fallen and made her way back to the bed.
The sound of frantic knocking rolled over the music still blaring from the stereo, along with Sonata’s desperate cries, begging her to stop, to open the door. Aria couldn’t even muster the energy to laugh as she popped open the cylinder and positioned her first bullet over the chamber.
It didn’t work. Instead of sliding in like the perfect fit it was meant to be, it got stuck in the entrance of the tube and went no further. “Oh what the hell,” Aris growled as she saw that each chamber had a small roll of paper stuffed inside. “This is really pathetic, Sonata, if you thought this could stop me.” She scoffed, using the nail of her pinkie finger to pry out the defiant slip of paper. She was just about to throw it away when she noticed the markings.
Rolling her eyes, she decided to indulge the idiot one last time. It was probably just the remains of some grocery list, but one must forgive a dying girl a final spark of curiosity. Setting the bullets on the bed, she uncrumpled the paper, rubbing it flat against her leg.
You are beautiful.
Aria’s breath caught in her throat as she choked back a gasp. What? “The fuck?”
Suddenly overwhelmed by curiosity, she frantically pried loose all the remaining slips, unrolling and flattening them against her thigh just like the first one.
Please don’t go.
You are smart.
You are talented.
You’re special to me.
I love you.
Her breath came out as stifled gasps as she read the little notes, written in Sonata’s shaky handwriting, in her favorite, sparkly blue pen. The tears that had been blurring her vision since the confrontation in Sonata’s bedroom spilled over, running down her cheeks. She looked down at herself in disgust, at the gun, her bloodied arm, and felt nothing but shame. She didn’t deserve to live. She didn’t deserve someone like Sonata in her life. She hurt her, she hurt herself, she hurt everyone around her. She didn’t deserve to live.
But she didn’t deserve to die.
Her hands felt cold and clammy. She barely noticed as the heavy lump of metal slipped from her grip and landed on the floor with a dull thud. The music on the stereo reached a temporary lull, only emphasizing the silence from her door. It seemed Sonata had given up. There was no more knocking.
But there was another sound. A soft, pitiful sobbing, from just outside the door. Aria swallowed, her throat like sandpaper, and stood on shaky legs. She… she had to make things right. She owed Sonata that much. She had fix things.
Practically stumbling to the door, it was much harder to move the nightstand out of the way than it had been to put it there. She turned the lock with a click, slowly, weakly letting the door swing open, to find Sonata sitting against the wall, hugging her knees. Her nose was stuffed with tissues, red stains slowly spreading, and still looking crooked and unnatural. Aria bit her cheek. She had broken it. There was no excuse, no argument. It was her fault, and hers alone.
“Hey,” She rasped, drawing Sonata’s attention. As she turned her head, Aria saw the yellow plastic first aid box, clutched desperately against her chest and adorned with cartoon pictured of kittens. Sonata gazed up at her, a hundred questions plain on her tear-streaked face. How? How long? Why? Questions Aria could never answer, even if she knew.
But, she didn’t need to talk. When she talked, she messed everything up. She hurt people. Best to just be quiet. There was nothing more to say. Leaning against the wall, she almost fell into it for support as she slid down to take a seat next to Sonata and offering her arm to the wounded girl. Sonata sniffed, a thick, pained sound past the bloody tissues in her nostrils, but she nodded dutifully and popped open the latch on the box.
Aria hissed as an alcohol pad was drawn across her stinging cut, nearly making her nauseous with pain. If only she had one of her other bottles to numb the pain, but no. That was what had gotten her so far into this mess in the first place. She didn’t need more of that. The hangover was going to be impressive enough as it was.
Aria blinked. She was actually thinking of the morning as if it was something that would actually come. Well, maybe it would. Maybe, with Sonata at her side, she would have the strength to go on.
Maybe she didn’t have to be useless.