Allenia has a minion!

Ezra the Muse

The meeting with the band had been brief: we met, I gave them a cassette tape of me playing the drums, and I left. When I gave the handsome guitarist the tape he had held it like some sort of precious artifact and the girl looked like she had no idea what it was; the barest of smiles crept onto the edges of my cheeks as I remembered it, quickly smoothed away with a twitch of my lip. The choice was with them now: they'd listen to it and decide whether or not they really wanted me there. I was fine either way.

The heels of my shoes clicked quietly against the concrete as I walked, without urgency, back toward the train yard. A slight breeze had come up, fluttering the edges of the slip around my thighs; it felt insistent, like small hands tugging at my hem to get my attention. The air was getting crisper now, leading into autumn, but for that moment, the cold just felt good. The wind was blowing right through me, past my bones where it left the chill like a gift, a lightness. I could feel the waning sunlight on my throat and the shadows beginning to nestle into my elbows.

I crossed the empty street midblock and started into the train yard; the bassist was still behind me, though he thought he was being sneaky. I couldn't decide whether or not his presence bothered me: it was a subtle nagging, the existence of another brain whirring away in the vicinity, but it was also vaguely amusing. There was nothing about him that was intimidating or frightening. In several ways it felt a little like being followed into your house by a moth; something small and flighty, more likely to irritate than harm.

Instead of immediately going into my home, an old building right next to the tracks, I sat down on the stoop. My apartment, really a decommissioned rail building from back in the day, stood apart from the other buildings, the bare brickwork speaking of another era. Nobody else wanted to live this close to the trains, and the rent was dirt cheap. Of course, that was because it was pretty much a deathtrap, but it suited me. I stretched out my legs, enjoying the evening and waiting for the moth-man to screw up his courage.

It took him several minutes, but once he realized that I knew he was there he came out, looking just the tiniest bit sheepish. He covered it well, but I could see it in the way his shoulders hunched and his hands hung. He came to a stop next to me, his light brown hair in his eyes and a grey scarf tucked inside his leather jacket. Neither of us spoke for a long minute, just regarded the other with firmly blank faces. After long enough he looked away, and I stood. He glanced back, startled.

I jerked my thumb toward my door. "Would you like to come in? Its getting a little cold." He blinked and shrugged, as though the sound of my voice perturbed him somehow. I didn't wait for a more definitive answer and turned to the door, which I pushed open easily and stepped inside. He made as if to follow me, but stopped with one foot in and one foot out and stared.

I lived next to the train lines because I liked noise. I liked the squealing of the wheels and the horn you could hear all the way across town. The building itself was covered in graffiti on the inside but I'd hung old teacups from the ceiling on strings; when the trains went by they rattled against each other, like a discordant wind chime. I think most people hate the sound of china on china, but I loved it. Amongst the teacups were old porcelain dolls heads and glass bottles, anything that would make a loud, bright sound when struck. There were shards on the floor, sure, but I usually swept them up.

For safety reasons I only really lived on the first floor, which was one big room. Everything on the ceiling hung down to about my shoulder height, so I could hit them as I walked past. I could tell from his face that Sabbas wasn't sure if he was fascinated or horrified. My furniture was nothing special, just an old couch and an older bed. The kitchen area was tiny but perfectly functional and all my clothes were on their hangers, hung on rope that was strung in a zigzag fashion above our heads. It worked for me.

Sabbas closed the door behind himself and edged past one of the dolls heads, careful not to touch it. I filled the kettle at the sink and set it on the stove, waiting for him to say something, but when he spoke it wasn't what I expected.

"You... should probably lock your door. I mean, don't all sorts of people live around here?"

By all sorts, I knew exactly what he meant, but shrugged. "The people around here know me; even if they come in while I'm not here, nobody takes anything." I took two mismatched but uncracked teacups from the cupboard and set them down. "No one gives me any trouble. They think I'm some sort of spirit." I meant to say it with a little humor in my voice, but it came out flat, like a statement of absolute truth instead of a gentle, teasing remark.

I could feel Sabbas's clear grey eyes on me as I finished making the tea, and turned to hand him his cup. For once his face was completely unreadable to me. He took a sip, then, "Look, I'm sorry about earlier. I just... I'm still really hoping that we can get our old drummer back, because he's a really good friend of mine. It�s nothing personal or anything." The steam rose up between us, drifting toward the shattered windows as we looked at each other, each trying to decide what the other was thinking. I nodded in acceptance of his apology. "I understand."

After a moment he made an uncomfortable sound. "Um, I know its probably personal, but I was wondering about... about all this." He brought his free hand up to gesture vaguely at his hair. I finished my tea and set down the cup with a clink.

"It�s... a bit of long story, and yeah, its... personal." I looked at him for a moment, calculating. This was one of those moments that either both of you remembered for the rest of your lives, or was so awkward you forgot it immediately. "I'll give you the bare bones: I was in love." I stopped there; I had to stop, just for a moment. Even the shortened, glossed-over version made me sad and anxious. "I was in love, but he died. We got several wonderful years together, but he died anyway. Afterward I spent a lot of time underground, metaphorically, physically, whatever you choose to believe. Its quiet, underground, silent and stifling but sometimes... necessary. I was... I was waiting, I suppose, but I didn't realize it." I could feel my brows knit together as I thought about it; I had been waiting, hadn't I? Its funny how sometimes you don't realize something is true until you say it out loud. "I couldn't feel anything, just this, well, stillness inside of me. It�s difficult to explain unless you've felt it too. But one day I woke up, like from a spell, and I realized I didn't know where I was or what I was really doing there. So I left. But things like that mark you, they don't let you forget." I stopped there, partially because there wasn't much more to say, and partially because what I was saying seemed to make minimal sense.

But he nodded, his face thoughtful. "So, that's why you play drums. And, um, it explains the teacups and stuff, 'cause they all make noise, right? Is it because silence reminds you of that place?"

I paused, pursed my lips, and nodded. "Yeah, I suppose so." It was true, after all, but not entirely. When all you want to hear is one sound, one voice but you can't and never will, I'd rather hear everything else instead of just wading through the silence. But that felt like the sort of thought that isn't meant to be said aloud, but cherished quietly, instead.

He set down his teacup and leaned against the counter. There was something different about his face to me now, something more open and a little sad, but almost affectionate. "You know, there's this look to you, it reminds me of Leland." That was the guitarist, but I was pretty sure we looked nothing alike. "This sort of... I don't know, like your soul is right under your skin. Like a person could just... reach out and touch it. Does that make sense? Anyway, whatever, don't answer that. Now I'm embarrassed." He shoved his hands into his pockets, his ears beginning to turn red. "But, um, I think you should really consider the band, and stuff. We're pretty good." His voice was gruff.

I felt a faint warmth in my chest, a tiny flicker of gratitude for the understanding he seemed to have. "Thanks, I will." I nodded toward the drum set in the corner. "Do you want to hear me play?" He nodded back, his eyes still downcast. I motioned for him to sit on the couch and took my place behind the drums. After a moment to focus myself in, I raised my arms and crashed down with everything I had inside me. Cold, loud, and discordant, but now with just the barest hint of heat.