Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I'm so goddamn tired.

I must have slept funny on my wings because they’re still stiff. It feels like it’s been a hell of a day already, but it’s only just begun.

The small rock in my left boot is going to give me a blister if I don't stop to shake it loose, but if I miss the next 34 line then there's no way I'll make it to work on time.

Damned if I do, damned if I don't. 

Story of my fucked life. 

My late morning trudge carries me out of my apartment, under an overpass, and through a seedier corner of town to get to the bus stop. Little urchins hocking candy bars or ‘rock’, no doubt on behalf of a big brother hidden in an alleyway, some drunk schizo screaming about how the government man is burning holes in their teeth with lasers, and dozens of other deadite-stare saurians and humans alike stumbling through their drudgery are all daily sights for me.

At least most of them know to leave me alone now. A few vitriol-laced exchanges and near-fights tempered the regulars along my route. 

I swear this guitar keeps getting heavier. I'm not getting any younger, but it's not like I don't carry the damn thing almost every day for what feels like hours. I should not feel this way at 23. If my strength keeps decaying like this, I'll be dead before 30. 

Maybe that wouldn't be such an awful thing.

My head bobbles side to side, shaking the thought loose, and a phantom impact sends it careening into a nearby storm drain.

With the stop in sight but no bus on the horizon, I ease my marching pace to a slow saunter. The soul-sucking monochrome hue of everything created by overcast skies in Autumn is somewhat mitigated by the unseasonably warm temperatures. That being the case, there was no way in fuck I was getting caught in another unexpected cold snap without my winter coat. Accordingly, it covers my thin frame with its faux down filling and plastic outer shell. 

A facade covering an inner core of artificial lies. An apt metaphor for this god damn city, full of criminals, gangs, speciesists, bigots, and weeds. 

So many weeds.

An exasperated sigh escapes my mouth as I saddle up to the stop shelter, rest by guitar case on the plexiglass siding, and take a step back to stretch my arms and wings. 

Gaaahh… fuck that feels better. I hate having to keep them tucked so tightly against me, but with all the shifty-eyed bastards about the last thing I want to be is a bigger mark, literally.

Next is that stupid rock. Kneeling and unlacing my boot, I yank it off my foot and upend it, clomping it against the pavement several times. A bottle tab falls out, tinking lightly on the ground and falling into the street.

The hell did that get in there? Whatever. 

Shoving my foot back inside and lacing my stomper back up, I turn my head just in time to see the bus arrive. With a few light kicks against the ground to make sure it's on right and the offending object has indeed been removed, I nod approvingly to myself and let a little smirk grow on my face.

Alright. Two annoying things down. Only about a million more to go. 

Hefting my guitar case and quickly checking my pockets to make sure my phone and wallet are still there, I step onto the bus, tap my card, and take my seat. 

The short journey to Percival’s Tavern awaits. With a hiss and a lurch, the bus pulls back into the flow of traffic, the driver laying on his horn to signal that yes, dickhead trike on the motorcycle, you are supposed to yield to the big metal tube turning onto the road that would otherwise splatter you. Fucking moron.

With nothing more to do until we arrive, I opt to pop my earbuds in and pull up some music to get myself in the mood for the day.

What to listen to, what to listen to?

Lo-Fi? Nah I’m not trying to fall asleep, as much as I want to.

Depression warning playlist? Fuck—Raptor Jesus no.

BiglyDie? Not feeling it.

Ooh— I know!

Where is it… Ah, there we go, that’s the one.

High school me would call present-day me a sell-out poser bitch for my current tastes, but in spite of them I’ve been enjoying branching out a little more. As much as unintelligible angst backed with instrumentals reminiscent of a performance by a quadriplegic on anesthetics and a Parkinson’s patient still has its place in my rotation, sometimes it’s nice to listen to something a little more coherent.

The opening and chorus guitar bits always scratch my brain just right. Something about the jittery, staccato sound reminiscent of a helicopter that builds into the first chorus is intoxicating to me. I could listen to this on repeat for hours.

And recently, I have been. It’ll burn out and lose its charm eventually, but until then? I’m riding the joywave.

My eyes shut as the music takes over, tapping my boot in tempo and fretting my air guitar. Bobs and sways undulate through me as I’m transported to a stage in front of thousands, singing my heart out and playing alongside Thom Romello as he shreds. My lips mouth along, no doubt letting out a hushed version of the lyrics.

Fuck anyone around me who can’t handle a ptero jamming out on her morning commute. They’d all do the same if they had any soul left inside them.

Besides, I’m just tapping my foot and barely whispering words; not like we all haven’t had a ride with some dumb fucker yelling into his phone or some crazy tweaker fidgeting uncontrollably in his seat.

In comparison, I’m a damn beacon of righteousness and compassion. A defiant spirit, flying in the face of crushing banal mundanity that suppresses the thoughts of the masses and keeps them in line. A fire burning brightly to guide the lost away from the slaughter and towards freedom. 

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself I’d like to be. The gnawing pit that’s been growing in my stomach after every fiery outburst has got me thinking a lot in the quieter moments of my days. Those quieter moments are also coming more frequently with each ‘friendship’ broken, each bridge burned, and each weed plucked.

Sigh.

Thoughts to save for another time.

I can’t be doing this right now.

My stop is almost here, gotta put on the work face.

Tamp down the anger.

I have a good thing going here.

Don’t fucking sabotage yourself again you dumb cunt.

…

You can do this, Fang.

Fuck.

The energetic air guitar playing, boot tempo-tapping, and rhythmic swaying is suddenly replaced with uncomfortable, oppressive stillness as I fight to purge the thoughts. My free hand finds its way to the opposite arm, holding it tightly and rubbing the crook of my elbow with a thumb as my eyes clench tightly shut.

Don’t go there.

Don’t you fucking dare go there.

You’ve been doing so good.

I’m able to quash the emotions roiling inside my head and open my eyes just in time to see my stop flash up on the red-lettered display.

‘Next stop: Pine Fir Street’

Well, good thing I kept it together and didn’t miss that. Otherwise I might have actually lost my shit for real.

There’s two lights between us and the drop off, just enough time to finish out a second repeat of the song.

"Go on and save yourself,
And take it out on me!
Go on and save yourself,
And take it out on meeeee, yeaaah!"

Fuckin’ musical masterpiece.

_________________________________________________

Stepping inside the tavern I glance around, first to the near end of booth seats and then down the long run along the bar to the small stage at the other end. Nobody’s here, which means nobody is watching the front of the house right now. Pshht. Some carfehead could walk in here right now and start stealing the silverware and hot sauce. Eh, not my problem.

I begin to make my way to the back hallway to drop off my guitar. The owner’s office is this way and he lets me stash my guitar there during my shift; I don’t really have any other good option that wouldn’t result in it being stolen immediately.

Getting there requires me to cross through the kitchen, a task which this time of day is perfectly safe. During rush hours however it can be a borderline suicidal undertaking and often will result in being screamed at in a multitude of languages and dozens of colorful insults.

A few new faces I don’t recognize are busy doing prep work as I pass through; they’re probably illegal Rexicans who don’t speak a lick of English besides ‘Yes’, ‘No’, ‘Paycheck’, and ‘Fuck You’. I don’t bother acknowledging them. They’ll either learn the ropes and I’ll get to know ‘em better, or more likely they’ll wash out real fucking fast. I do give a little wave and nod to the red and crimson banded Bambiraptor who returns it in kind. Head Chef Lash is alright, if a bit of a prick sometimes. I suppose that’s what it takes to run a kitchen worth a damn in this part of town. Probably also single-handedly what elevates this place above the typical microwave-pizza glory-hole bathroom bar-fight-magnet shitholes that otherwise occupy Skin Row. Well, that and having an owner who actually gives more than a flying fuck about things. That helps too.

Exiting the kitchen and rounding the corner into the hallway I’m ambushed by a handlebar mustached face hovering in midair. Its long neck extends back to a body leaned against the doorway of Kim’s office.

“Fuck!” I squawk, backpaddling and nearly slamming into the wall behind me.

“Heya sweetheart!”

Doug lets out an amused snicker and shakes his head, cocking it slightly to the side and giving me a sassy look.

“Guess we’re working the opening shift together, eh?”

Shock and annoyance at the fright quickly turns into a burst of excitement that wells in my chest and manifests in a fist-pump and another shout from my beak.

“Seriously? Oh fuck yeah!”

“Hell yeah sister!”

Doug’s body catches up with his head and we exchange a high-five.

“I didn’t know you were on the schedule for today!”

“Well Fang if you actually read the damn thing instead of thinking about whatever cock-rock track you’re gonna perform at the strip joint or whatever the hell it is you do after work, you’d have known.”

The sudden burst of hostility catches me slightly off guard, but I’m able to recover and retaliate with a verbal jab of my own, though admittedly it's far less cutting.

“Jeez Doug, who the hell shat in your salad this morning?”

He playfully punches my shoulder, letting out another chuckle.

“Ah I’m just messin’ witcha’. You youngins are so easy to rile up.”

“Ah-ha-ha, geriatric jackass,” I mutter in reply, pushing past him to drop off my case. Once my face is hidden, I allow a smirk to grow on it. Saturday shifts suck ass as I quickly learned, especially during football season, but getting to work them with Doug always makes things go much smoother. If it wasn’t for our long conversations about his past work in the Army Corps of Engineers, I’d think the guy had been a professional bartender and shit-talker his whole life. Well, one of those I know for a fact is true.

Doug or not, anyone is better than that creepy trike fucker who steals every opportunity to stare at my ass. Not only is he shit at his job, but I’m genuinely afraid he’s going to corner me in an alley one of these days. I’ve told Kim about it multiple times and he keeps saying he’ll ‘look into it’, but nothing has happened yet. Maybe if I got Doug to vouch for me he’d actually do something. Old bastard has been here about as long as Kim’s owned the place, and I know his word is taken more seriously than mine.

Yet another problem for another time though. Stepping into the Baryonyx’s small office, I give a silent wave and set my guitar inside next to the filing cabinet. He waves a claw at me and lets out a low, rumbling bellow. A scowl threatens to form on my face.

“What? I do something already?” I say in a tone that’s just shy of snippy.

“Hm? Aw nah nah, not you Fang. It’s just, fuckin’ suppliers is all. Coordinating these jackasses to get anything resembling an on-time delivery is like herding slugs.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah that, uh, that sucks man.”

His golden-yellow eyes flick from me back to his computer screen and he shakes his head slightly.

Yeah, I don’t know what the fuck he just said, but it sounds annoying. To avoid the encounter growing any more awkward, I hurriedly head back out of the office, down the hallway, through the kitchen, and back out front to slip behind the bar where my long neck partner in crime has already begun unlocking the liquor cabinets. He’s humming some tune that I vaguely recognize; one of those overplayed boomer-ass songs that they always play over footage of the South Indotageous war.

“It ain’t me, it ain’t meeee oh, I ain’t no senator’s son, no no~”

“Watch out Doug, Indogators are hiding in the bathroom stalls.”

His head turns and glares at me for a moment, processes the drivel that just leaked out of my mouth. Then it begins snaking its way through the air right up to my face as his body follows behind, stopping a few feet back and sharply jabbing a finger at me.

“Hey now, don’tchu be makin’ fun of our nation’s veterans. They served, bled, and died so your boo-hoo sadgirl ass could live in peace.”

My eyes roll in their sockets like slots in a cheap casino.

“Doug, you worked on earthworks projects in the United Saurian Kingdom during peacetime. The biggest threat to your life was bureaucratic incompetence. Or maybe a backhoe.”

“That don’t give you no right to disparage those who served!”

I put up my hands in mock surrender.

“Fine, but I’ll call your ass out for stolen valor too.”

He scoffs.

“Stolen valor? Watch yourself, missy. That’s a hefty accusation.” His voice changes tone from mock anger to one more serious and subdued. “Seriously though, be careful. Don’t throw that term around with veterans. You can talk shit with me, but say that to the wrong person, whether it’s true or not? Best you’d expect from such a situation would be a screaming match, and worst case?”

He mimics drawing from a holster, pointing it at my face, and firing a round.

The sudden change in tone snaps me out of my playful mood and puts a damper on things. I silently nod in acknowledgement, accepting the crabby old timer’s bit of wisdom. He lets out a short hum and pulls his head back to his body. Together, they make their way to the other side of the bar and he continues his prep work. I walk over to the audio setup under the registers and begin to flick switches, bringing the tunes machine to life. Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I plug it in and start thumbing through my playlists.

Alright, what wouldn’t piss him off that’s also tolerable to me and our patrons?

…

Boomer Barbeque it is.

Hitting the shuffle icon and tapping play, an iconic guitar riff immediately fills the whole main area. I turn my head at the same time Doug glances over at me.

This time, a big, stupid, toothy grin is plastered across his face.

“Good choice. Now git over here and come help me tap the kegs. Expecting a big crowd today, gonna run through a lotta pints.”

“Sure thing hoss,” I chide back, following him into the keg room and quietly singing along as I do.

“Our hearts a-thumpin’ and you,

My brown-eyed girl…”

_________________________________________________

“Two creams, one G&T, and one JnC for the beaner ankylos at the short end.”

“Heard,” I yell back over the loud buzz of dozens of patrons chatting and laughing. Doug simply nods and moves his head back to the other end of the bar. It’s damn convenient working with a long neck during rush; he can collect orders all over, memorize them since he’s just a freak like that, divvy them up, and relay the cocktails to me while he pours from the taps.

It also means that with such prompt service, the tips flow freely. Our eye-catching duo of the old wise-cracking mustached necker veteran and the young shaved-head tattoo-covered thin-as-a-rail ptero certainly doesn’t hurt things; I think some take it to be some kind of circus act.

The freak-show is free; the drinks are the price of admission. Come one, come all. We certainly do judge, just not to your face.

Hell, I even had some suited stiff who looked like he wandered into the wrong part of town leave me a massive tip with a note wishing me the best in my recovery. Fucker probably thought I was going through chemo. Doug and I had a good laugh about that one.

The downside of it all was that it was absolutely exhausting to keep this pace and performance up for a long time. Especially with no liquid encouragement. Only thing that’s keeping me going after two hours of prep and four hours of near constant running back and forth mixing and delivering orders is my glass of sugar-free soda that magically keeps refilling itself. Sweet, sweet caffeinated processed chemical bullshit.

My feet are threatening to detach from my legs if I don’t get off of them soon. and there are still four more hours to go.

Fuck my life.

Finishing shaking and pouring the last of the order, I move them all onto the platter and run it over to the group of ankylosaurs huddled over a basket of veggie wings at the end of the bar.

“Alright, got your drinks here— two Irish Coffees, Gin & Tonic, and a Jack & Coke,” I say without so much as making incidental eye contact with any of them. My back is quickly spun as I rush back to make the next order.

“Hey, miss?” One of the guys calls out. My eyes wince shut for a brief moment, opening back up as I spin around and step back towards them.

“Mm? Yeah?”

“Wanted to offer to buy a drink for ya. You seem parched.”

I slowly draw in a breath, maintaining eye contact with the man. I slightly shake my head and wave on hand loosely in front of me.

“I’m good.”

“Nah, I insist. You really look like you need one.”

“I said I’m good,” this time the words come out with a slight grit of my teeth. He picks up on my disinterest and throws his hands up in mock surrender.

“Alright— hey, your loss.”

I spin on my heel and walk with purpose away from the group who seem to immediately lose interest in whatever lame attempt to hit on me that was. Assholes. Who the hell does he think he is trying to push a drink on me? Swear to fucking Raptor Jesus I’ll give him more than a piece of my fucking mind if he or his border-hopping friends pull that shit again.

My chest starts to tighten as my pulse picks up and my breathing becomes harder. I quickly steal my drink from beside the register and crouch down, pretending to fiddle with the audio setup to get a moment of reprieve. Sucking down half the glass with a long pull, I then reach into the audio cabinet and begin to squeeze a chunk of cardboard. My claws pierce the outer shell and puncture through the corrugated layers within with a satisfying series of pops and tears. I repeat this several more times, adjusting the target of my ire each time to get a fresh round of gouges and damage.

Satisfied with my crimes against paper-kind, I pull back from the cabinet and move to stand up, but a hand places itself on my shoulder. One that I immediately recognize. My movement stops as Doug’s head appears next to me under the bar.

“Hey. You good?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

I shut my eyes and swallow hard, taking a deep breath and nodding in the process.

“Yeah. Just, temptations. The four at the end of the bar.”

He nods, giving me a pat on the shoulder.

“I gottcha. Want me to take over for them?”

“Please.”

After another reassuring pat, his head disappears one direction as his body walks the other.

I reach into my left pocket and feel around for it. C’mon, please tell me I didn’t forget it at home.

Fuck, thank God there it is.

My thumb and forefinger trace the ridges and grooves of the coin.

3 months. 13 weeks. 91 days.

You got this.

You got this.

“You got this,” my lips mouth silently as I rise from my crouched position and move back to the liquor shelf, preparing to pour another round of shots for the rowdy bunch of skinnies cheering loudly at something happening on television.

_________________________________________________

The remainder of the shift stretches on eternally. My feet go through cycles of hurting, feeling better, hurting worse, then almost going numb, then feeling better again. I’m not sure if I’ll need them amputated by the end of today or not.

Maybe I really should listen to Doug when he talks about wearing comfortable shoes to work. Fucker is more than twice my age yet I’ve never heard him complain about his feet hurting. Or maybe he’s just on a copious dose of painkillers. Might explain why he seems mildly doped out all the time. Coin-flip odds really.

My head shakes at the thought.

He doesn’t deserve that kind of ridicule.

He’s the only person who’s ever cared about me.

Purge the thought.

Whatever sporting event was going on has since ended and the crowd has cleared to a manageable level, one where Doug and I are now able to speak to each other at a normal volume. During a particularly noticeable lull in demand, he sticks his head through the double doors to the kitchen. By the way his hands are drumming and motioning on the bar, he’s chatting with someone. Shortly after, his body starts to follow to the kitchen, motioning for me to follow.

Heading through the doors, I’m greeted with the sight of a stack of Moe’s pizza boxes and nearly the whole staff standing around, grabbing slices and shooting the shit; only one skinnie cook is still working the fry station, the remainder are resting.

“Holy shit!”

“Bird-brain! Bossman got us a few boxes of ‘za on his dime. Come grab a slice before it gets cold; rest of youse get your shit too, we’re back at it in 5,” Lash barks out in a commanding voice.

My eyes light up and my tail starts wagging with anticipation at the surprise gift. I’m more than happy to follow that order, grabbing two slices of fully-loaded meateor and popping a squat on an upended milk crate set up as a makeshift chair. I let out a loud, groaning sigh.

“Fuuucking finally.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, kiddo. We shouldn’t be back here too long either,” Doug comments.

“Shut up, resting,” I snip back, stuffing half a slice into my beak.

The hot aromas of mozzarella and parmesan cheese immediately smash into my tastebuds, followed closely after by pockets of oily pepperoni and Stivalian sausage. Bits of ham and anchovy squish between my teeth as I savor the sensation of chewing this little slice of heaven. The crust flavor begins to come through, a wheaty, slightly charred flavor that bolsters the whole experience and elevates it to the point of transcendentally good. Swallowing, the lingering fats and oil coat the inside of my mouth, residual heat from red pepper flakes giving a burning tingle that slowly abates.

I just want to stay right here, in this moment, right now. I don’t want to go back out there. I don’t even want to go to my gig later. I just want to eat pizza, just like this, forever.

But, after what feels like less than a minute, a hand on my shoulder snaps me out of my food-related trance. I swat it away with my free hand as the other shovels the remainder of the slice into my mouth.

“Mo. Fumck ompfh.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

I make a ‘yap yap yap’ motion with my free hand.

“I’ll head back out to tend, but you better get your ass back there soon too or I’ll come drag it out.”

 “Meil comh drahg it ohumt,” I obstinately mock. Doug shakes his head and walks back out the doors to the bar. Not wanting to burn through our good-will, I chomp down on the last piece in record time, tossing my plate into the sink and heading back to tend bar.

_________________________________________________

As the afternoon grows long into the early evening and the daytime crowd disperses further, the evening regulars start to filter in. Mostly vaguely familiar faces to me, but Doug seems to be very chummy with several of them.

Part of me wants to dismiss them as sentient waste, weeds growing in the gutter, but the mere idea of judging a friend of Doug’s like that unsettles me. I’m not sure why.

Eventually, he and I get back to chatting idly as demand hits a steady flow, with most of the bar occupied but most of the booth seating empty. That makes our jobs a hell of a lot easier. Our topics of conversation ebb and flow randomly, sometimes joining in on ones being had at the bar, though we mostly keep to ourselves.

“Well, have you ever considered dating again?” I question.

He shoots me one of his patented ‘seriously?’ glances.

“You find me a longneck sweetheart who’s willing to love my floppy old ass and I’ll tattoo her number on my forearm.”

“Douglass with a tattoo? That’ll be the day.”

“I’m not just gonna get something permanently inked on my scales without it meanin’ somethin’. I ain’t looking to become one of those clapped-out sailor-types.”

I set down the glass I was drying and shoot an equally incredulous look back at him.

“You’re what, 60?”

He shrugs.

“Something like that. Doesn’t mean I want to start destroying my body now.”

I can’t tell what level of irony the jackass is operating on right now. The conversation dies down for a moment before he pipes back up with a question of his own.

“Been meaning to ask, what’re your needle markings?”

Needle markings? He knows I’m not a carfehead, I only had a problem with—

–oh, tattoos. He means tattoos. God damnit Doug, you and your weird boomer-ass phrases.

I bump out my right shoulder and wiggle it slightly.

“This one’s a punk band. Anarchists in the UK. Surprised you never heard of them.”

He hums slightly.

“They were probably still shittin’ their pants when I was there, if not still a swimmer in a sack. Not a symbol you really want to be showing around too much, neh?”

I shrug.

“Nobody here knows what the fuck it is.”

“And the one on your hand?”

“That’s—"

“Hey, dickhead.”

We both turn to see a burly, towering simian man leaned over the bar. He’s glaring right at Doug.

“You’re the one who sees my beautiful head as a penis, so that’s on you brother. What’ll it be?” The sauropod replies in a flat tone.

“Gimmie a Grug Lite and watch your tone.”

“Just making conversation, no need to be hostile,” Doug says, seemingly attempting to defuse an unnecessarily escalating situation.

“Don’t be givin’ me no lip you hose-neck circumcised dong-dome. You don’t wanna know what happens to meteor-dodgers who do.”

Given that the clientele within earshot are predominantly simian or human, the slur doesn’t provoke much response besides a few nervous looks. Several patrons seem to turn away, pretending not to notice the escalating situation.

Doug very briefly shoots me a sideways glance that says ‘go’. I turn heel and head to the other end of the bar, pretending to look through the bottles for an unspecified liquor and making idle chatter with customers there. I try to hold myself back from getting involved as the desire to claw this furbag in the face starts to boil up inside me.

Who does this fucker think he is, coming in here and talking to us like that? Doug should just kick his ass out or maybe get Lash to scream at him. Make a point, take a stand. Don’t let this bastard walk all over you!

My glances back become more frequent, and the ptero I’m chatting with also starts to take more notice of the one-sided verbal sparring match taking place at the other end of the bar.

“What an ass,” the red-crested man mumbles into his glass just audible enough for me to hear. I shoot him a look of acknowledgement and turn to head for the kitchen doors. I’m gonna go get someone to back us up before this gets ugly.

Right before I reach the doors, Kim steps through them with fists balled up. He shoots me an intense glare and then looks down the bar. I’m not sure what my face says to him, but it’s clear he’s heard what’s going on. He leans in, quietly and calmly, and clearly annunciates his words.

“One of the newbies already came back and told me. Probably some new hot-shit gang wannabe. Violent asshole. Keep your head down and let me deal with this. Don’t get involved.”

I open my mouth to protest. No way I’m standing idly by.

“Kim, I’m not—”

“Shut the fuck up and listen to me: This. Is. Serious. Stay here. This isn’t a negotiation.”

He brushes past me, heading across the floor towards the problem patron, and takes the seat two spaces over. He turns his back to me and faces the ape.

My own fists ball up and I feel a sneer curling up on my lips. Closing my eyes however, I release the tension in my hands and let out a long, deep sigh.

He’s right.

I would only make things worse.

He could tear my wings off and beat me to death with them.

I can’t fight him.

I can’t fight this battle for Doug.

I need to stay here.

Burying the anger inside, I busy myself with menial tasks like wiping down unoccupied sections of the bar, collecting empty glasses, and trying everything else to divert my own attention. The tense situation at the other end seems to be resolving as Kim is now slowly walking the man towards the front door. Doug returns to pouring drinks, seemingly paying the ape no more mind. A few moments later, a shout breaks the otherwise calm atmosphere.

“Well fuck you then!”

With that, the front door is slammed open with a shove or kick and the unruly ape stomps out. Kim stands in a neutral pose before the entrance for a few seconds before shaking his head, turning around, and heading back towards the bar. He nods once and flashes us a thumbs up, heading back into the kitchen without saying a word.

I turn to see what my compatriot has to say on the matter. He’s already looking my way and worms his head over discuss.

“The fuck was that all about?” I ask in a hushed tone.

Several feet away, his shoulders give a small shrug and nearby his head lets out a small snort of indignation.

“More shittalk than a loquacious fertilizer salesman, that one.”

My brow furrows and I cock my head slightly. A small smile creeps onto the mustached face of his, obviously proud of his joke.

“No seriously, what the hell?”

He gives another shrug, his smile quickly fading.

“Some thug from a monkey gang. Probably a buncha simian supremacists, can’t say for sure. Came in here acting like hot shit, expecting us to bend over for him. Nothing new under the sun; he keeps running his mouth like that around these parts and he’ll be dead in a week.”

He takes in and lets out a long, whistling breath through his nostrils, causing his neck to writhe slightly as he does.

“You learn to pick your battles, kid. Not every slight is worth getting worked up fer’.”

With that being said, he ends the conversation by moving over to speak with someone who just walked up.

I’m left confused and annoyed by the way everything rapidly unfolded, blew up, and then just ended? Just like that? And the fucker gets to walk out the door unscathed? Maybe he’ll get what’s coming to him eventually, but it feels so unsatisfying to see him slip away.

Gah. Fuck it. Whatever.

I hope this shift just fucking ends soon.

_________________________________________________

A while later, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. Whipping it out to check, it’s a half-hour until showtime. The band and I are playing a small gig at some pizza joint down the road; I can’t for the life of me remember the name, but they’re the one with the big stupid pizza face sign out front.

Unfortunately, it’s also 15 minutes until my shift is scheduled to end. Fuck.

My brain quickly hatches a plan. I motion for Doug to come over. His moustache chrome-dome serpentines its way to me with an inquisitive look on it.

“Mm?”

“Hey Doug, uh I gotta get to a gig down the street that starts in 30 minutes. Could you uh, y’know,” I let the last syllable trail off, bouncing my eyes and nodding my head towards the front door.

He furrows his brow at me and remains silent.

“C’mon man. Just cover for me for the last 15? Keep this between you and me?”

“You damn privileged youth, thinking you can just leave your post early for a little jam session,” he grumbles out annoyedly.

Plan A is failing. Time to enact Plan S.

“When’s the next shift we work together?”

His gaze hardens on me.

“You tell me.”

“We established earlier that I’m a no-good-stupid-kid too busy being a rockstar to know.”

He groans.

“Alright, it's the Wednesday evening shift. What’s the bribe?”

I can never get one-over on this fucking fucker.

“Big salad, from your restaurant of choice in Lil’ Troo.”

His face remains stoic, unflinching at the bold-faced bribe. Every moment he stalls is another moment I’m losing and another he’s keeping me here. My claws began to tap on the metallic surface of the sink in front of me. Eventually he lifts a pudgy hand to his chin and strokes it as though he was feeling up the beard he was incapable of growing.

“I want a large Caesar salad from that Stivalian place near you.”

“Moe’s?”

“Nah not that saw-toothed mobster place, I’m thinking of the one owned by the old skinnie chick.”

I scowl, but don’t have time to bicker over his bigotry.

“You mean Claudiana’s?”

He snaps his fingers.

“That’s the one. And tell ‘em to put extra anchovies in the dressing. Love those salty little things.”

My mouth moves before I can stop it and I take an unnecessary jab.

“Sure, whatever. Why do you like that crap anyway? You’re a herbie.”

“I’m sorry, are you in a position to be asking?”

My beak lets out a scoff and my head shakes as my hands raise in defeat.

“Fine.”

I move to step past but he moves his neck to occupy space, blocking my access past him. He reaches out a hand.

“Shake on it.”

Begrudgingly, I quickly shake his hand, staring into those purply-crimson eyes of his as I do. With a look of smug satisfaction on his face at the successful shakedown, he removes his cervical roadblock and I dart into the kitchen, through the back hallway, and snag my guitar from its stowage place. Kim seems to be out at the moment, so it looks like I can slip out unnoticed by any other staff, or at least anyone who would rat me out.

Making my way back I throw my coat on, slink through the kitchen, and make a quick stop in the restroom. Gotta piss and throw on some lipstick for the crowd. Ugh. Fucking Pigs.

Finishing my last bits of prep, I head for the exit. A few paces from the door, a voice from high up shouts out.

“Go get’em songbird!”

Without breaking stride, I raise a single middle finger in the air in reply which is answered with a hearty chuckle from the prehistoric fart.

The outside world greets me with a blast of chilly air that ruffles my feathers and causes my muscles to tense up in a cringing sensation. The sun hangs low in the sky, painting everything in an amber glow. No matter what the bitch mother nature wants to throw at me, I press forward down the street. I can distantly see the sign of my destination already, the stupid neon pizza face with a cartoon hand pointing downwards. It’s no more than a few minutes’ walk.

My gut begins to knot up as the reality of the upcoming show dawns on me, small as it may be.

It’s just a stupid gig.

Not a huge deal.

Need to psych myself up, fuck.

I pop in a single earbud, keeping one unoccupied. Would be a stupid fucking way to get run up on if I didn’t keep my wits about me.

Not like I have any to spare, as the anxiety of the show wells inside me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Hitting shuffle on my underground shit playlist, a song I’ve never heard before starts playing.

Let’s fucking do this.

Chapter Text

“There you fucking are! Raptor Jesus Fang, you gonna make us set up by ourselves for every show!?”

The ptero-kronosaur hybrid who claimed her name was Taz may have a point, but that doesn't mean she gets to act like a cunt as soon as I step onto the stage. I roll my eyes as I walk past her and toss my coat onto a pile in the small area behind the curtain that constitutes ‘backstage’. Uncasing my guitar, I give it a quick once over before slinging it over my shoulder and rejoining my bandmates.

Our second guitarist and Taz’s ptero boyfriend Marcus silently and awkwardly avoids eye contact with me, pretending instead to fiddle with the pegs my– well, technically now his after I sold it to make rent a year ago, but my old– bass. I swear that damn thing has never actually been in tune. Maybe he’ll finally get it right for the first time tonight.

“Hey! Fang!” She snaps her fingers at me and I shoot her a glare.

“What? I'm here. Isn't that good enough for you?”

“This is the third time in a row this has happened!”

“I have a real fucking job, get over it. Besides, I'm still here early. What more do you want?”

I motion to Marcus who, much to the point I’m about to make, is sporting a tank-top.

“He’s strong; he can carry in your shit way better than I can.”

Marcus gently rubs his arms at the comment. I press my advantage, taking stock of the equipment already present.

“This place already has amps and cables. Drums aren't that heavy, and I brought my guitar with me.”

“That's easy for you to say. You don’t have to wheel around a keyboard, a whole set of snares and hi-hats, and--”

“Hey gu– uh, fellas, can we not fight right before the show? Please?”

Taz and I cease our bickering and both turn our heads to Marcus.

“It’s not a big deal, really, but yeah Fang it’d be cool if you could help out sometimes. Maybe stick around after and help us load the stuff up at least?”

With a huff I shrug my shoulders.

“If we do well enough, I’ll consider it.”

Marcus looks away. Taz is glaring a hole though me. She pinches the bridge of her snout and shakes her head.

“Whatever. Let’s just get ready. We start in five.”

Quite the fantastic start to the show. Not even into the beginning of our set Taz is already being a bitch and Marcus is playing peacekeeper in his trademark ineffectual way.

Taz was right about one thing, but whatever.

After a few more minutes of prep, both physical and mental, we’re ready to get this shit started.

Taz motions towards someone in the distance. I see the bartender move to a panel of switches behind the bar and adjust a knob, dimming all the lights except for the spotlights illuminating us.

Showtime.

I step forward, grab the microphone with both hands, and take a deep breath.

Rock Goddess

Ptero Queen of Punk

Songbird of Skin Row

Letting it out to the side, I open my mouth and shout into the microphone.

“What’s up fuckers!? That leatherwing bastard on bass is Marcus, the toothy bitch on drums is Taz, and I, your crested God of punk, am Fang– and we’re The Teros!”

Releasing my clutches from the mic and grasping the neck of my guitar, I begin strumming a chord as I count down.

“Let’s get this fuckin’ thing started with a little number we call ‘She Got What Was Coming To Her At The Taco Shell Drive-Thru’”

“ONE!”

“TWO!”

“THREE!”

“FOUR!”

My fretting hand furiously works its magic as I flawlessly pick out notes, shutting my eyes and letting my head whip back and forth. Marcus’ bass line sounds really fucking good tonight and Taz is a wizard on the drums as usual.

Re-centering myself, I begin to cry out the lyrics.

“I WAS DRIVING DOWN THE STREET.”

“ONE FINE SUMMER DA-A-AY.”

“WHEN A BITCH GOT PISTOL WHIPPED.”

“AT A SHITTY FAST-FOOD JOINT!”

The air around me is heady with energy; the world is abuzz. Slick sweat begins to bead on my forehead as my wings snap out both as an act of showmanship and help vent heat.

Intro into refrain, chorus into refrain, chorus into bridge; the moments pass in a blur of motion, melody, and ecstasy. My boots stomp around as I throw my entire being into the song.  

Soon enough we’re bringing it home, leading into the closing lines.

“SHE DON’T NEED NO SAUCE!”

“NO GUAC-A-MOLE-AY!”

“BECAUSE SHE GOT WHAT SHE HAD COMIN’ TO HER—”

I lean away from the microphone and throw my head back, joining my bandmates as we cry out the last words in unison.

“— AT THE TACO SHELL DRIVE-THRU!”

With one last chord from Marcus and myself, Taz hammers the outro and concludes with a crash of  cymbals.

As the reverberations of our final notes fade out, I lower my head and stare out into the crowd.

Nothing. Not a single damn response.

Then, a singular pair of hands clap a few times. As quickly as they start however, they fall silent. The awkwardness of the moment smashes into us. My eyes quickly spot the offending fan, their own gaze darting around as they realize their ‘mistake’. The lone bartender, a burly neanderthal man, is staring right at me and drying the inside of a glass. His head shakes and he turns away, having already lost interest in the spectacle before him.

My voice catches in my throat; the weight of my entire being seems to grow as each arduous moment ticks by while the murmur of the dozen patrons remains the only audible noise besides the blood rushing around inside my head. My right hand balls into a fist by my side and I can feel a sneer threatening to grow on my face.

What kind of a fucking lame-ass crowd is this?

Who the fuck booked this venue!?

I’m going to fucking scream.

“Fang.”

I bet it was Taz. Stupid dolphin-eater.

Probably thought this place was some club that happened to serve pizza or some stupid shit. 

Not a god-damn boozed-up Rex-E-Cheese!

“Fang.”

Should just fucking walk out of here.

I don’t need this lame shit right now.

I need to thrash my wings and scream at the top of my lungs.

Not whatever this lethargic lazy-ass shit is!

“Fang.”

Marcus’ monotone voice finally snaps me out of my stewing. My head twists around fast and my eyes level on his face with the rest of my body following suit. As if things weren’t already falling apart, the whip of my feathered limbs knocks the microphone stand over, sending it careening to the ground. Upon impact a piercing screech bursts out from the amps, causing the three of us to cover our ears in pain. I can hear a few grumbles and a chair scooch loudly behind me.

Shaking off the disturbing burst of noise, Marcus waves Taz and I into a huddle. He puts up a wing to shield our conversation.

“Wrong vibe. We need to tone it waaay down,” he states, pointing a finger towards and ground and letting it descend to make his point.

Taz lets out a huff and nods.

My eyes dart between the two of them.

“The fuck? Who the hell cares what those losers down there think? We’re getting paid all the same, right? Just play the fucking setlist as we planned.”

“You want to get invited back to this place?” Taz snaps back, pointing a drumstick at my face.

“Not if they can’t stand our style, hell no.”

Marcus has moved one hand to cup his face.

“Fang, we can’t burn another bridge. Taz and I need some reliable cash from our gigs. If we keep pissing off venues we’re gonna miss rent payments, and then we’ll have to go back to living out of our van again. Fuck— Fucking help us out here!”

His arm flexes hard and his body spasms slightly with a jolt as he spits out his words with an uncharacteristic anger. Taz’s gaze softens and she places a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re not gonna lose the apartment, babe. I won’t let that happen.”

Her emerald green eyes flash to me. Despite lacking a discernable expression, they carry an intensity in them that clearly conveys her message.

“We’ll make this place love us, and they’ll have us back for another show. Right, Fang?”

My eyes squeeze shut as a mixture of frustration, anger, and guilt swirl inside me.

I’m outvoted.

I’m wrong.

Swallow your pride.

Taz is right.

Learn to pick your battles.

My mind cycles between each emotion rapidly for several moments before I take a deep breath and give a small nod.

“Yeah. Fine. Ok.”

Taz hums.

“Good. Alright, so quickly let’s talk setlist changes. Throw out the angry shit and switch it to some more classic stuff. Pretty sure most of the skinnies here look like truckers and I’m positive those two triggers sitting at the bar were jackhammering the road outside our place this morning.”

A smile grows on her face.

“So— boomer jams?”

Marcus chuckles.

I force a small plastic smile onto mine as well.

“Boomer jams,” Marcus agrees. I silently nod my head again.

We rapid-fire through a few old rock songs and work out the new setlist in short order.

Taz claps her hands and bobs her head in affirmation.

“Cool cool! Let’s make it happen. Marcus, you and Fang switch for the next few songs. Male vocals and all that.”

Before I can protest, the huddle breaks, and we go back to our places. I swap guitars with Marcus and grab a stool from the side of the stage, dragging it back with me. I take up my perch on it and let my wings droop gently behind me.

Clearing my throat, I lean in and speak into the microphone.

“Alright, we decided that last one maybe that wasn’t the right vibe for this crowd. Much as I’d love to rupture some eardrums tonight, we also would like you to not throw shit at us. So we’re gonna chill things out for our next song and uh, go from there.”

This gets a few chuckles from the crowd and a stern-looking thumbs-up from the bartender.

“Next one is something you’re all probably more familiar with.”

I turn back and look at Taz and Marcus. Both of them give a single nod and ready themselves.

Spinning back to face the crowd, I slide the microphone stand over towards Marcus. My left hand slides up the neck of the guitar and frets the first chord.

Taz clacks her sticks, counting us down.

__________________________________________

Each song feels like it blurs into the next one; the heady excitement I felt coming in has been replaced with a burning disappointment that grows with each passing minute. I have no idea how well I’m playing right now, and frankly I don’t give a fuck. The audience isn’t going to give a rat’s ass as long as we don’t offend their delicate sensibilities.

Fucking weeds, all of them. Parasites feasting on the decaying carcass of this fucked up world, hopelessly seeking happiness at the bottom of a bottle. I’ve been there you idiots; there’s nothing for you but emptiness and headaches. You should all just pay your fucking tabs and leave. Maybe then I’d be able to play at least one more song that I actually give a shit about.

As our hastily modified set winds down, Taz shifts from drums to keyboard. The stage lights, all three of them, shut off and plunge us into a temporary darkness. Then, a singular light bursts back on, illuminating only her.

“We only got time for two more, so I’d like to play one of my favorites. I think you’ll all like it too,” she proclaims with practiced confidence.

Leaning back from the microphone, she begins to play the opening notes of that one song by the British guy. I forget his name. What I do remember is that there’s only one instrument in the song and only one vocalist too.

Which means for the next three or so minutes, I’m going to be sitting here doing absolutely nothing. Allowing my wings droop further and my back to slouch, I let out a forced sigh. If I’m just going to be sidelined and relegated to bass, why the fuck did I even bother coming here? Nothing that we’ve played has been interesting in the slightest and I feel like I’ve been strumming the same 4 stupid fucking chords all night. Should have just set up a track on Taz’s laptop to fill my spot and taken the night off.

Might as well replace me while they’re at it. Just kick me out of the band and keep all the money for themselves.

Worthless piece of shit.

Come in all piss and vinegar and freak out when things go wrong.

No wonder everyone hates you.

No wonder Dad kicked you out.

The cycle repeats.

I clench my jaw at the thoughts and shut my eyes tightly. My fretting hand grasps the neck hard as I struggle to keep it together.

The inevitable freakout can come later; for now, you need to not fuck up for once in your life, you stupid bitch. They’re all looking at me. They can see me freaking out. I bet they’re all silently laughing at me. Drink it in, you bastards.

In the midst of my storming, clapping rings out from several patrons along with a shrill whistle. Opening my eyes, looking at them, and then to Taz, she’s finished the song. Must have done a good job. Well woo-hoo for her.

“Thank you, thank you. As much as we’d love to keep playing all night, the bartender told us if we don’t get our asses off the stage by 9:15 sharp that he’d withhold our free beers, so this next one will be our last.” That gets a few more chuckles and a distant groan. Don’t quit your day job Taz, if you ever get one that lasts.

Alright, time for the final song. Maybe it’ll be something energetic, maybe Taz and Marcus will do one of those rock ballad duets, maybe—

“Fang, you wanna take the lead on the closer?” Marcus propositions while sliding the mic over to me.

“What? Me? Why?” His question catches me off guard and my hasty reply scatters all over the place.

“Cause you’re a part of this band, and we’ve been picking shit all night. It’s your turn,” Taz chimes in with a hint of snark.

“Yeah. Uh, sure. Gimmie a sec.”

What the hell am I supposed to do? I feel like shit, I don’t want to be here, and nothing that I’m thinking of would appeal to this worthless crowd. They’re going to hate whatever I choose.

It doesn’t matter.

None of this matters.

Just like everything else.

…

I know what to play.

__________________________________________

The opening notes immediately dredge up a slew of long-dead memories as Taz starts us off. Marcus plucks out his notes, their electric twang forcing its way into my mind. I realize too late that bass isn’t even the right fucking instrument, but I improvise and pick up my part anyway.

My eyes grow heavy once more, though this time with a welling sorrow as the weight of the evening comes crashing down on me. In their half-veiled state, I must look comatose. A clapped-out loser slumped on a stool like a nodding carfe fiend. I can almost feel myself drawing up the needle and finding a vein to make all the pain go away. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

Low notes vibrate out and meld with a gentle piano melody and sharp guitar lead. Their plodding path lays out a story told without words. A story that I’ve dreamed of for years. A story that ends with me atop a stage in front of the world. A story that tells of who I am destined to be.

Or, at least that’s what it should be. Instead, it’s a story of who I’ve actually become. A sorrowful ballad that reflects my life’s journey. It methodically and wordlessly cries out aching and silent suffering. My mind begins to disconnect from where I am and becomes numb to the room around me. Freed from any other duties, my eyes cast a sweeping glance across the venue, taking in all that’s before me.     

A sea of weeds and detritus flowing in from the street comes and goes as it pleases. Some of them stuff their faces with cardboard pizza while others guzzle however much beer it takes to shut their minds up. The answer is a lot, retards.

They’re all here to see the show. They’re here to gawk at the freaks on stage, to sate their desire to see someone else suffer for their entertainment, and then to leave. They’ll forget about me just as I’ll forget about them. Just like everyone always does.

My glancing around passes over a figure by the door. Clothed in black and wearing a matching skullcap, their darkened form makes its way over to the bar. Lowering my gaze, it fixates on an empty table right in front of the stage. At least a dozen empty bottles lay messily arranged on its tattered and scarred surface. The thoughts in my head slow as time itself seems to dissipate. All that exists now is what I can see, what I can feel, and what I can hear.

Empty, empty, empty.

Strings slice scale. Stinging pain.

Back hurts. Feet sore.

Chest tight. Tears welling. Rolling down my face.

Fingers wet. Slick. Blood?

Claws ache to tear a hole. Release the hurt.

Wrap it up, lay down, and die.

Or maybe just sleep.

My head lifts itself up, bringing the tip of my snout right to the microphone. I begin to harmonize with the tune, cooing and humming along as the agony of emotions pour out of me. My eyes stay firmly clenched shut to hold back the waterworks for a while, but as we reach the midway point, they open to a world full of shapes, colors, and blurs. Heavy tears seem to well all over and collect in the corners, pouring out in slick warm streams that cool as they reach my chin and drop into my lap.

As my part in the melody fades, so does the last of my spirit. My snout drops away from the microphone,lips still matching the tune but their sound no longer picked up. My fretting hand slides down and overlays itself with the other on the body of the guitar. My eyes fixate back on the empty table.

What the fuck am I even doing here?

This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

I was supposed to do so much more.

I was supposed to be so much more.

The keys on Taz’s board fall silent after she strikes the last note. A reverberation echoes for several moments before even the lingering tail falls below the ambient hum of existence.

Then, there’s silence. Judging eyes staring wordlessly at the broken form before them, no doubt.

A pair of hands begins to clap. Then a whistle rings out from the far corner, my head snapping up to spot its owner. A burly simian man hoots and hollers as the dozen or so members of the ‘crowd’ clap and whistle. A breath of disbelief huffs out from me as the corners of my mouth tug upwards involuntarily. I blink away several tears and wipe the rest with the back of my hand as the applause dies down.

Lifting my head, I give some parting words to the crowd.

“Uh, thanks everyone. That’s all we got for you. Once again, we’re The Teros, and uh, don’t forget to tip your waitress.”

The joke doesn’t garner any reply except an additional “Whoop!” from the bartender, but it hardly matters at this point. I let my gaze fall back to some point in the middle distance again as ime passes slowly around me, my mind still in a slight daze from it all.

Well, at least they liked it.

 __________________________________________

One perk of having a barebones set of equipment is that teardown and pack-out isn’t that horrible. Taz and Marcus were able to take care of the drums and keyboard, and I pitched in by hauling my old bass to their van in the back lot. While they were doing a final check, I slid back inside to get our pay for the gig. After consulting with someone in the back of the house, the bartender came back and handed me an envelope. I snatched it from his mitts and began to make my way back to the others.

On the way, I slice the packet open with a claw. Rifling through the contents, a low growl escapes me.

Three-hundred-fucking bucks. $100 per person. Shithole pay from a shithole place. At least they had the courtesy to dole it out in $20 bills. The thought flashes through my mind to slip a few extra into my pocket. Taz and Marcus would never know. We get fucked in the ass every time we play anyway, so what’s the difference between $80 and $100?

I split off two bills and slide them deep into my pocket. Exiting the back door into a cold autumn night, I remove the rest of the cash and toss the crumpled envelope into a dumpster. Marcus shoves something into the back of their van and slams the door as I approach. Taz seems to be acting as the foreman and takes a draw from her cigarette as she watches him. Her eyes flick to me.

“What’s the haul?”

“$240 total, $80 each,” I flatly answer as I rifle through the wad and split off their cut.

Taz sneers and shakes her head but wordlessly holds out her palm. Handing over the cash, she pockets the whole thing and takes another deep inhale. She exhales through her nostrils, sending two streams of smoke shooting outwards from her snout.

“Whatever. We’ve gotten worse from worse places.”

“Maybe if we get booked for another night here, we could try and negotiate a better cut?” Marcus optimistically posits. Taz snorts.

“Best we don’t push our luck. These places hardly seem to put up with us as-is. They’d sooner book some other losers to undercut us if we start getting big heads.”

All I give in reply is a singular nod. She takes a last draw and crushes the butt under her bootheel.

“Well, probably should hide this under the mattress before we get any funny ideas to blow it on something stupid. Wasn’t a half bad show, all things considered. Setup was pretty good.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“The acoustics of that place weren’t half bad either, as far as bars go,” Marcus chimes in from his seat on the back bumper.

“It’s no Carnegie Hall, but it’s also a far cry from that basement gig we played a few months back,” I quip back.

Taz chuckles.

“Barbados, oh God that place. Fang, I’m still pissed at you for getting us kicked out of several places, but that one?” She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “They deserved it.”

A small smirk finds its way onto my face. “That bouncer got what was coming to him.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t rip your wings off,” Marcus says under his breath.

“And that’s all thanks to the big, strong male component of our gender-diverse gaggle of misfits,” Taz sarcastically beams as she slides over and taps him on the head. He bats her off and looks away with indignation.

“You’re both welcome.”

A stiff gust whips through the narrow alley lot, causing the three of us to cringe at the same time.

“Shit. We should get going, no sense in freezing our asses off waiting around to get robbed.”

Taz turns back to me.

“You want a lift home?”

I contemplate the offer for a brief moment, then remember the pilfered cash lying in my possession. The thought of them somehow finding out sends a jolt of fear through me, and I shake my head.

“Think I’m gonna hang out here for a bit and take the bus later.”

She cocks an eyebrow at me.

“I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

“I don’t.”

Her eyes stay fixed on me for a moment before she shrugs.

“Suit yourself. Just stay safe Fang.”

“Yeah. See you two later.”

The leatherwing wordlessly gives me a small wave of his hand as I turn to head back inside.

“Fang, wait,” Taz calls out. I stop and look back.

“You sure?”

“Sure about what?” I question.

She stares at me silently again, this time her eyes seem to flick ever so slightly around my face.

“That you’ll be ok.” Her voice takes on a much gentler tone. Great, she’s doing the motherly thing again.

“I’ll be fine. I just want some time to myself. I’m not going to do anything too stupid.”

“You better fucking not.” She walks over to me and pulls me into a tight hug. I let out a grunt as she crushes my ribs with the squeezing embrace.

“Grrrn—Taz—Let—Go—”

“You got my number if anything goes wrong. Ok?”

“I know—just let—” I manage to pry her off myself and she takes a step back.

“Gotta watch out for my sister, y’know how it is.”

“I’m still enby, you fuck.”

She shrugs.

“Questioning nonbinary or not, you’re still my sister. Text me when you get home, otherwise I’m gonna be at your door first thing in the morning pounding on it to do a wellness check.”

“That’s implying you’re not too worn out from Marcus fucking your fishy brains out all night.”

The ptero turns his head further from the conversation, raising a wing slightly to block us out further. Taz half-jokingly points an accusatory finger my way.

“Hey, don’t project your sexual frustrations onto me.” She closes her eyes and takes a breath. “But seriously, text me. Ok?”

I give her a thumbs up. With that, she turns and says something to Marcus, and the two of them hop into the van. The engine rumbles to life as I head back inside, stepping into the dank warmth and closing the door to the cold world behind me. Lingering just inside the dark threshold, I lean back against the rough brick wall and let out a long sigh.

‘Don’t project your sexual frustrations onto me.’

Bitch. I could get some tail if I wanted to.

There’s just nobody good in this rotten fucking city.

But then how did she find Marcus?

…

God damnit now I’m thinking about them fucking.

My hands clench into fists and my claws dig into my palms. I firmly bump my crest into the wall a few times to eject the thought of those two going at it. I feel disgusted at the mere thought that I’m even thinking about it. To further quell the grotesque mental images, my hands pat my pants in search of my smokes. Finding the crushed carton in a back pocket and withdrawing one of two remaining gnarled sticks, I spark up and take a long, deep draw. My heart thumps in my ears as I hold my breath for a while, then I exhale sharply. My eyes stare at the scribbles, scrawls, half-torn pieces of paper, and other build-up of detritus from countless years of neglect on the wall opposite me.

Bits of old delivery schedules, ancient posters, “escort girls available”, and a litany of other unsavory services are just a few of the decipherable things. Shutting my eyes and taking another deep lungful, I try to think of something, anything to settle the spin in my head.

The moustache-faced longneck comes to mind in all his unflattering glory. He starts talking about his bitch of an ex-wife, the one that keyed his sports car back when he was fresh out of the service. An amused snort escapes my nostrils as a smirk tugs hard at the corners of my mouth.

There’s a dude who knows how to be single and happy. Snarky, dickish, doesn’t take shit from anyone. Knows exactly who he is and his place in this world. And he’s content with it.

My smirk begins to fade as another past exchange with the sauropod starts to replay. One that was had after some good-natured ribbing went a little far on my end.    

‘Relationships are a two-way street, missy. None of that Prince Charming comin’ to sweep you off your feet bullshit. That ain’t real. Same goes for regular friendships. Both sides need to put in what they expect to get out. Otherwise, shit just won’t work. If you want to actually want people to stay around you, they need to see an effort from you. Sometimes, you’ll never know what the other side is willing to do unless you make the first move.’

Doug’s words echo through my mind like the reverberations of a guitar. The bluntness and candidness of the words carried a weight like I’d never heard before. The fucker has been through the wringer. He’s endured so much pain and carries it with him every day, yet he seems better put together than almost anyone else I know. How the fuck does he do that?

“Hey, smokestack. Take it outside,” a rumbling voice calls out from down the hall. Cracking an eye open and glancing over, the burly bartender stands at the other end. His silhouette is backlit by the glow of a red light, giving him an imposing and hellish appearance. Not being in the mood to argue, I put out the ember on the brick wall and crush the remainder under my foot.

“You do that in your own home? C’mon.”

“Ugh, fine,” I grumble.

I bend down, grab the remains of my cigarette, and flick it into a trash can.

“Thank you. I’s hoping I wouldn’t have to elaborate.”

My hand waves dismissively as my eyes fixate back on the opposite wall.

“Pretty good show tonight, youse three. I was gonna offer a drink to ya, but it seems the other two have scattered. You want anything to wet your whistle?”

My chest tightens slightly as the temptation of a cold draft slowly worms its tendrils into my mind. Just one beer wouldn’t hurt. I can control it. I’ll be fine.

No, you stupid bitch. That’s retarded.

Taz would never let you hear the end of it.

Imagine what Doug would say to you.

Imagine how disappointed he would be.

And you know he cares about you.

Be accountable. Nobody is here to save you.

Gently scraping a claw against the brick wall, I ponder my options. As I do, my stomach growls slightly, and I’m very quickly reminded that I haven’t eaten since work.

“You guys have any dino nuggets?” I ask half-sarcastically.

“Like the kid stuff? Uh lady, this is a shitty bar.”

I don’t care to argue with any of that, so I rephrase my question.

“Do you have anything other than pizza?”

He puts a hand to his face and thinks for a moment.

“We do got chicken fingers if you want some. Kitchen isn’t closed yet. I can put in an order for ya. Beer would cost extra then. We liked ya, but not that much.”

I snort in amusement. “Just the chicken and a water is good. Oh and gimmie barbecue sauce with that.”

“Can do. Take a seat at the bar, I’ll get that out for ya shortly.”

Fuck yeah.

Chapter Text

After my victorious meal and a moment of respite, the length of my day finally caught up with me. Bundling up and grabbing my guitar, I exit the bar and head for the nearest bus stop to catch the 34 line home. I pass by Percival’s Tavern on my way and hear the familiar shouts of a certain Bambiraptor through an open door in the side alley. Seems things are still hopping in there. Glad I don’t have the late shift, fuck that. The walk takes me just a little further down the street before I reach the shelter. It’ll be another few minutes before the next bus gets here, so I light up my last smoke and get as comfortable as one can on a shitty station bench.  

As much as I love the Fall, these frigid, damp days can eat my entire ass. The cigarette hanging from my lips provides little comfort from the freezing gusts that keep blowing through, but I puff away regardless. A deep drag brings the sweet, cooling, stinging flavor of menthol and tobacco through my mouth and into my lungs. My head leans back against the bus stop shelter as I force a cloud out through my nostrils, savoring the scent and letting it linger longer on my pallet. No sooner have I done so that another round of whipping winds blast their way down the street causing piles of leaves to dance and swirl, dumpster lids to flap and rattle, and some idiot’s dangling bike lock to clang loudly against its shackled post.

My wings move to cover my front, providing a smidge more warmth than my coat alone. Even with them adding another layer to buffer the wind still cuts right through and chills me to the bone. The bus can’t get here soon enough.

Grumbling about public transit’s impeccable ability to not keep their timetables almost causes me to miss the stegosaur woman who slips into the stop shelter and takes a seat at the far end of the bench. She’s holding a little poofy bundle of clothes and fuzz in her arms with a tiny beak protruding out of a raised hood. Stubby arms cling to her shoulder and short legs wrap around her midsection. She’s trying to pay me no mind, and I wish I could say the same for myself, but the display of motherly compassion for her child tweaks something in my brain. I can’t stop stealing glances over at the little tyke. Eventually their head turns and I’m able to get a good look at them.

Chubby cheeks are painted a rosy-red, no doubt from the cold and wind. Little crystal blue eyes adorn his—her? beaked face. They stare at me with a curious intent, only breaking contact to blink or shield themselves from a sudden breeze. Their lips are pursed shut, but it’s clear to see the gears turning in their head.

I lift the cigarette stub from my mouth and toss it onto the pavement before me, crushing it out with the toe of my boot. Their eyes track the activity, glancing between the ground and my face as if to ask me ‘what’s that?’ 

While mom is fidgeting with something in her purse, I steal the opportunity to do something. Turning my head more to face the child fully, I cross my eyes and stick my tongue out, gently rocking my head side to side. Their little beak opens and their cheeks pull up, revealing a nearly toothless smile. I turn away before mom can see what the creep across from her is doing, but the smile remains on the baby’s face for a while.

Eventually, the bus arrives before we all die of exposure and the three of us take our seats. I position myself two rows behind the mother and her child.

Luckily for me, the little doober is propped up on mom’s shoulder with their little beak and eyes pointed right at me.

It’s a fun ride home. 

I almost miss my stop.   

___________________________________________________________

Despite having lived here for almost three months now, I still struggle to find the damn lights as I enter. After feeling up the wall for a moment like a hot piece of ass, my hand brushes over the switch and I flick it on, illuminating my humble abode.

Correction: Our humble abode. It doesn’t seem like my roommate is here; she’s probably just holed up in her room like usual watching Furopean cartoons or doing something else stupid.

First leaning my guitar against the wall, I then stroll over to the kitchen counter and pick up a piece of paper that’s clearly been left for me to see.

Going to the Hyperpunch concert w/Thomas & staying at his place tonight. 

Back in the morning.

-  Lily

Well, make that a correction to the correction: Tonight, it is just my humble abode. Seems Lily is too busy with an evening of raging then canoodling with her boy toy to enjoy the luxury accommodations of our two-bedroom, one-bath apartment in scenic Lil’ Troo. 

Did she really have to leave a paper note, though? We both have phones. A text would have been better. I let out a low sigh and shake my head.

I live with a weirdo. A harmless, shy, and quiet Troodon weirdo who cleans obsessively, thrashes at death metal concerts like once a month, and pays her half of the rent on time. 

She’s the perfect roommate.

Well, it’s not going to be that much quieter than usual with her gone. For what it’s worth, I’m gonna enjoy it. Let’s me not have to give even the slightest fuck about how I look or how loud I am. Accordingly, my hands reach for opposite hips, each grabbing a hold of the hem of my shirt, and in one swift motion I whip it up and over my head and wings. Cheap ass shirts don’t have snaps like the nicer ones do. Whatever. I remove the accursed bit of wire and elastic that binds my feminine features as I plod towards my room, tossing both it and the shirt into the ever-growing heap of clothes on the floor.

“Freedom! Fuck you!” I loudly and triumphantly declare to nobody.

God that feels so good. Fucking hate having to wear those things. Stupid patriarchy.

‘HE can take HIS shirt off and it’s TOTALLY fine, but nooo you have to cover those up!’ Fuck off. 

Next up are these damn boots. I swear I’ve got to have a dozen blisters on each foot. Plopping myself onto the floor, I begin to unlace them, one after the other. Much to my surprise, releasing my lower limbs from their leather and string bound prisons and feeling around yields no evidence of sores. Well, they sure as fuck are both sore, but no open wounds or blisters. Another small victory. I toss them aside against Lily’s room door. I’ll pick them up later. Right now, it’s time to relax.

Strolling over to the fridge, I grab myself a diet soda, crack it open, and proceed to plant my ass firmly on the couch. I wish this thing didn’t smell like an old person’s house, but it’s not like either of us could’ve afforded anything this nice otherwise. So, thanks Lily’s grandma, or whoever it was.

Then, the scrolling commences; my thumb swipes through an endless feed of tattoo ideas, guitars, hot celebrities, and other miscellaneous shit to help numb my mind. Thinking for the day has ceased.

After a few minutes of mindless gawking at things that I’ll never have, I tap over to my messages.

Nothing. Per usual.

Not like there’s many people who’d be texting me this late on a Friday anyway. Not even sure why I checked—

I forgot to message Taz. Shit.

My thumbs hammer out a half-assed message, letting her know I got back to my place and fire it off. Hopefully I was still fast enough that she won’t give me lip about it.

The thought of her angrily clacking her thin snoot at me while her hands gesticulate reminds me of the contents of my back pocket. Retrieving the crumpled bills, I unfurl them and stare at them and then glance back at my screen. My eyes repeat this back and forth motion a few times.

Fucking hell, why did I have to grow a conscience? Ugh. I know I should give it back to them, but they’ll never know if I don’t. If I fess up, they’d be rightfully pissed at me. If I keep it, I’m hurting some of the only people who give a fuck about me. A frown tugs at the corners of my mouth as my brow furrows.

I’ll just slip it back into our next gig earnings. Or maybe I’ll buy them something? Either way, they don’t need to know. I’ll just keep this slip-up to myself, and they’ll be none the wiser. Satisfied enough with the plan, I tuck the cash back into my pocket and let out a heavy sigh.

Fun Friday night, huh? Sitting alone in a quiet, mediocre apartment, drinking not-a-beer, passing the time doing fuck-all. The silence and loneliness don’t bother me as much as they used to. I guess I’ve just gotten used to them. Gotten used to spending most of my time alone, with people coming into and going leaving my life in a few months, if not weeks.

Thinking about that some more though, the majority of this year has been a strange change of pace. I’ve known Doug for what, half a year? And Lily for four months? Me, Taz, and Marcus have been playing together for five or six months.

Fuck me, maybe everyone else doesn’t suck as much as I used to think they did. I mean most people still are assholes, but there’s a few good ones out there. The reflection on my year gets an amused huff out of me as I shake my head.

Growing up sucks. Working sucks. Life sucks. People suck. But at least those ones don’t suck as badly.

I run a hand over the stubble on my head as the pleasant revelation of not everything being shit dawns on me. Unfortunately the moment is interrupted as my fingers pick up a slightly oily and sticky residue from the action. My lip curls back on one side as I sneer at the sensation. Gross. 

I should wash up before I settle down for the evening too hard. If I’m not going out, I might as well get cozier.

And a hot bath sounds lovely right about now.

____________________________________________________________________

Most of the appliances in this dump are barely functional, and the standing bath tub is no exception. It’s one of those old-timey ones, like you’d see in a cartoon. Whatever idiot tried to convert it into a shower fucked it up horribly, and now there’s an ugly pipe sticking out of a cracked wall tile for the head and a shitty curtian that’s either piled up in a corner growing mold or pulled closed like a poorly fitting raincoat. Every time I use it, without fail, we end up with water pooling in the bathroom. No fucking clue how Lily manages to not get it everywhere.

The bright side is that at least the tub part still works like a bathtub. Not being crammed into a small space with walls on 3 sides also gives me the pleasure of hanging my wings over the back so they don’t get wet. If I ever escape this fucking town and get my own place, I’m buying one of these. I never knew what I was missing growing up. Kinda surprised thinking about it that mom never thought of this, or at least mentioned it. Then again, she certainly wasn’t the most observant parent ever. 

Bleh. Whatever. Enough thinking about her. It’s time for some me-time.

With the water level right where I want it, the temperature exactly at that sweet spot of just-not-quite-scale-scaldingly hot, and a few cups of mint & flower bath salts poured in, I flick the tap off and carefully step one foot in after the other. Grasping either side for support, I gently start to lower myself. A sharp stinging shoots up through my body as my sensitive parts make contact with the surface. 

Ok, maybe it’s a little too hot. Better than too cold.

After a few more dips to acclimate myself, I go for it and plunge the rest of my body into the water’s steaming embrace. My ass hits the sloped part and I feel myself getting rotated backwards, but manage to stop the spin with my wings anchored over the side.

Raptor Jesus I’m retarded sometimes. 

Having avoided death by what would have probably been the stupidest fucking way to go, I settle in, lean my head back, and shut my eyes. 

Aaahhhh… This feels so good. Fuck I needed this.    

The heat enveloping me soaks into my muscles and bones, dismissing all my aches and pains and unwinding lingering tension. Gently moving my fingers, toes, arms, and legs provides a burst of additional warmth as they move through the water. Letting my arms go limp, they slowly float up to the surface, and then I pull them back under. No, too cold up there. 

The smell of menthol and lilac fills the air, radiating up from the water’s surface. Each slow, deep breath I draw in fills my nose with their heavenly scent. 

My relaxation deepens as the moments pass. I tuck my hands between my thighs and let my head lull to one side as my mind wanders away from my body. 

This must be what being dead feels like. Kinda nice. Unless I think about it, I don’t even feel like I’m here right now.

No, I’m in a huge warm bed right now. A huge warm bed that I can sleep in forever and never have to leave. And I’m sleeping next to someone. Someone who loves me. Someone who listens to me. Someone who understands me.

Someone who makes me feel like the luckiest ptero in the world.

My hands slide closer to my body.

Someone who makes me feel good.

And everything is ok. Nobody is yelling at me, nobody is asking me stupid questions, nobody is demanding payment– it’s all just perfect. The perfect life. 

A pressure wells up from deep inside me, one that's been lingering all day. My heart begins to beat faster. 

It's just me and that perfect someone, all alone, together…

…

I wish I could always feel like this.

…

Then, it was like the bottom dropped out of my mood.

My brain feels like it shat itself afterwards. A few moments of bliss, and then reality burst through, crashing me right the fuck back down.

It's like I'm not allowed to have anything good in this world for long. Moments after I came, memories of the past invaded the little bit of peace and warm feelings I’d built up and razed them to the ground. 

For that brief moment in the afterglow, I felt like there was hope. There might be someone out there who understands me. That things might be ok. That I might get out of this place someday.

I was just deluding myself. Now, one shower to rinse the bathwater later, I'm standing here in front of the bathroom mirror, hands braced against the sink, gazing at one ugly looking bitch.

Amber eyes motionlessly stare back at me. Her once distinct silver hair is now gone, shaved to a stubble to maintain androgyny. The word ‘gaunt’ comes to my mind as I glance down at her body. Ribs poke from beneath scales, and unkempt body feathers jut every which way. Scars from battles past are scattered all over; some are healed and faded, others still sport their red tinge. Her wings are gnarled and matted, feathers bent and missing everywhere. Just enough are left to fill out her wings, but it's only a matter of time before they start to look like skeletal limbs at this rate. 

She doesn't look like a confident non-binary rockstar. She hardly looks stable at all. Looks more like a used up whore. A crazed junkie, days late for her fix. Just another piece of trash. 

Just another weed.

"YOU DON’T EVEN MAKE A PASSABLE FAGGOT!"

I grit my teeth and hiss through them as the vile memory shoots through my mind.

Those words still sting deep all these years later. I can still hear it in his voice, the frustration and anger clear in his shout.

The smell of booze hot on his breath. That siren scent of cheap, macrobrew pisswater. It showed who he really was. Showed how little he actually cared about me. It all had been a sham, orchestrated by the coral cunt and he just went along with it. Thinking I needed to be ‘fixed’. He didn’t even have the spine to try and talk afterwards. No calls, not even a fucking text. I shoved him into that water and he disappeared from my life.

It was for the best. He was just another weed.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if it really was all his fault. 

Maybe it's not totally his fault for not accepting you. Maybe it’s not the world’s fault you’re seen as an outcast freak. 

Maybe the real cause of the problem is staring me right in my dark-circle rung eyes. 

You fucking cunt. Psycho bitch. Worthless pile of shit. Can't figure anything out, just keep staggering around in life and hoping that everything is going to work out. Thought playing music in a shithole with your ‘friends’ would lead you anywhere good. How far up your own ass were you to think this was a good idea?

My hands grip the sink tighter and I sneer at the figure in the mirror. She returns the gesture.

Look at you. Fucking hideous. Who the fuck wants you? Flat-chested basketcase tramp. Go suck some cocks behind a dumpster, that's all you're good for. That's the only way you'll ever get anyone to love for even a god damn minute.

My hand shoots to the opposite elbow and violently plucks the first feather it can find. The jolt of pain shoots through my arm and I suck in air through my teeth. The lingering sting distracts me for long enough to escape the harsh words of the woman in front of me.

Hurting yourself for attention, but nobody is watching. Nobody cares. All that blood, all those plucked feathers, all those torn scales, and for what? 

Because it makes me feel something. Makes me feel more alive than I've felt in years. Gives me complete control. That's why. 

Tears begin to well in her eyes.

One second you're on top of the world, dreaming of being ravished by some muscly ptero, and the next you're standing cold and nude in a dirty bathroom, bleeding and talking to yourself in your head while staring into the mirror.

You really are something, aren't you?

Maybe I can find a way to make my mind shut up, to make all the noise stop. Used to be able to just drink until it all went dark, but I can't do that anymore.

I grab a disposable razor from the mess of hair and makeup products. Wetting my hand , I run it through the stubble on my skull. Pulling my scalp taught, the razor guided by my hand starts to make hard-pressed passes, shaving the stubble back down to bare scale. This is probably the tenth time I’ve used this fucking thing, and I suffer for it. Several knicks send unexpected shocks of pain and cause small pools of blood to well. A few even trickle down my face and I’m forced to wipe them off so I can keep focusing on the task at hand. 

A few moments later, the deed is done. Splashing my head and face with some more water, I stare back at the thing in the mirror. A few spots still leek red atop her skull.

Fucking kill yourself.

Would if I could. I’m too much of a bitch to go through with it. Fuck knows I’ve tried. I cry myself to sleep before I do enough damage to not wake up the next day. My reward is blood-soaked bedsheets and a headache like a motherfucker. Then I bandage up my arms and pretend like nothing happened. Glare daggers at anyone stupid enough to gawk or ask questions.

Fuck, tonight was supposed to be a good night, but now I just want to crawl into bed and sleep. 

Letting out a deep sigh, I decide that's the best idea I've had since coming home. 

Clicking the lights off in the bathroom and the rest of the apartment, I don't even bother putting clothes on before crawling under the pile of assorted blankets and sheets sprawled over a mattress that I call my bed. It takes me a few moments to get comfortable and fold my wings under, but soon I'm tucked in and back to being stuck with nothing to distract me from my worst enemy.

She keeps recounting my failings, reminding me of the worst days of my life. 

It's my fault he has a crippled wing. 

It's my fault dad kicked me out.

It’s my fault mom calls me every month and leaves pleading voicemails for me to talk to her.

I keep doing these things, even though they ruin me. Why the fuck can't I just stop? What the fuck is wrong with me? 

Clawed hands slowly work their way to my shoulders. My knees pull up and my head tucks down towards my chest.

I can't do this anymore. I can't. I just can't. I'm so tired.

I've tried to get better. To do better. I got off the booze and got a real fucking job. I don't live in a real shithole anymore. Why the fuck am I not happy? 

Is this really all there is to life? Work, cry, worry, feel alone, then die? Fuck, just let me skip to the end. I want off this stupid ride.

If I'm gonna feel like this, I want it to hurt really fucking bad. I pull up my sad shit playlist and select the one song that really fucks me up good.

An acoustic guitar and words start to sing out through the half-broken speaker. The somber melody breaks whatever strength I have left, and the crying begins. My eyelids hang loosely closed, letting a heavy stream of tears leak from them. I don't sob this time, but my throat feels tight all the same.

Nothing has felt right in forever. Everything has been screwed up ever since that day at the bluffs. The day I fucked everything up my family. I destroyed his wing. I crippled him. I deserve the same. 

Maybe I could break one of my own wings.

But I know I’m too much of a coward to do it, even though I deserve it and worse. Can’t work up the courage to do what’s right, yet I’m endlessly tormented by the thought.

Can’t muster up the effort to finally off myself; can’t bother getting a gun and blowing my brains out or overdosing on some hard shit. But I find myself here too often, wishing for death all the same.

What the fuck is wrong with this world? Everything used to make more sense when I was little. Lucy went to school, got good grades, played with her friends, and that was it. I wanted to be a teacher back then. My third grade teacher Mrs. Kamarata used to be my idol. 

God, I can’t believe how stupid that was. Aspiring to some dead-end teaching job, making barely above minimum wage to deal with temperamental little shits.

But is that worse than this? Is having a stable, safe job worse than this?

Maybe in another life, Lucy followed that path. Didn’t hurt her brother, didn’t give up her desire to be a teacher to pursue the glamor of being a rockstar, didn’t end up losing all her friends, and didn’t end up having to find a different warm place to sleep each night during the winter after everything else fell apart.

Lucy could be living in a nice apartment or even a house. Maybe she has a better job. Maybe she doesn’t have a mother and brother she constantly has to avoid contact with and a father who kicked her out of the house. Maybe she even has someone who loves her.

Maybe she’s happier than me.

But that’s never going to happen now. I’ve fucked up too many times, and now I’ve landed myself here.

Here, which is at least better than where I was a year ago.

I don’t deserve what happened to me. Doug should have just left me to rot. Maybe then I’d already be dead.

Dead. No more pain. No more worry. No more craving things that make me feel like shit. No more running from people. No more guilt. No more anxiety. 

Just eternal rest. 

But something in me time and time again doesn’t let that happen. Some stupid fucking part of my brain makes me pussy out every time I get close. 

And so, I’m stuck. It feels like I’m just going in circles. Something good happens, I get better, things are fine, then something bad happens, and I’m back here. My life is an endless spiral of misery with no bottom.

Fuck.  

I just want to be held. That's all I want right now.

I grab my pillow and pull it further down to support both my neck and head. Taking hold of the innermost blanket of the pile, I shuffle and writhe around to wind it around my entire self as tightly as possible. My limbs tuck back as tightly as they can against my body, and my claws find their inevitable outlet once more.

It’s just me. It’s still only me.

Nobody is coming to save me. Nobody ever will. I've been here so many times before, something inside me crying out for a miracle that never comes.

Another night of blood-stained scales and wings lies ahead of me. It’s the only thing that stops all these thoughts and lets me get to sleep.

Reaching one hand over to snap a feather off, my mind drifts back to the times I spent on the roof in high school. Those days when I'd escape there and be alone. Sometimes it'd just be tears, and sometimes–

With a violent jerk, I free the flight from its holder. It crunches under my closed fist, bristles bending and fraying as the shaft flexes and snaps in the middle. 

–sometimes it'd be this.

The relief is immediate as a sharp jolt of pain subsides and gives way to a duller, aching throb. Feeling over the follicle, it’s begun to well up with wetness.

The dark crimson liquid I know flows from the fresh wound represents the sweet release I so desperately need.

Memories of those days on the roof dredge his face back up. God damnit, not now. Go the fuck away.

Try as I might though, I can’t ward them off.  

I start to think of the time Anon found me up there. Tried to open up to him. He just talked over me and said some stupid shit. Still latched onto him anyways, fell right into his arms. 

Asshole. He played with my heart. Made me fall for him. Made it seem like he really wanted me. And God I did want him at the time. Some parts of me still do.

Good thing he showed his true colors before we went too far, though. Bigoted skinnie doing the bidding of the cream colored bitch.

Thinking of her and Naser causes my hands to clench more tightly. Imaging them happy together, that plastic smile hiding her sinister core. I hope she chokes to death on a carrot, fucking fake whore.

I’ll never have that. Never be happy. Never be anything but worthless, fucking–

Sharp points start to dig into the gnarled, scarred scales on my shoulders. The old familiar sting of puncturing flesh soon follows. It hurts so much more than just feathers, but it shuts everything up. Lets me focus on something that’s here, something that’s real, and something that I control.

I’m pathetic. Talk such a big game, act like such a cocky bitch in life, and then cry in my room alone. The thought makes me feel so small, so weak, so worthless. Worthless. That’s all I am now. 

Worthless. 

Worthless.

Worthless.

As the song fades out, so do the worst of my tears subside. There's a moment of silence, and then some song I've never heard before starts playing. 

It's some piano piece. A soft melody punctuated with sharp single notes and an incredibly varied intensity and tone. It reminds me of when I used to play back when I was little. 

When little Lucy used to play the piano at Moe's.

That causes something to lurch inside of me and the tears start again. God damnit. My chest spasms a few times as the first sobs silently rack through my body.

I never wanted things to be this way. I just wanted to do what I wanted to, and look where that got me. If I could go back, I'd kick my own ass and tell her how stupid she was. Tell her to follow that passion and become a teacher or whatever, anything other than this. Tell her the band is a stupid fucking idea. Tell her to avoid that asshole human. Tell her to find someone who’s actually worth her while, someone who actually cares about her. 

As each section of the song comes and goes, so do waves of intense sorrow. A swelling crescendo grabs my attention, breaking me out of my mind for a moment.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it fades away. Just like everyone in my life does. They all go away eventually.

It's replaced by softer, higher notes. Frigid sounds like icicles on a frozen winter day ring out, their delicate and plodding tone somehow making me feel even more worthless. Like they're reminding me that this is my life now. Nothing can change that. I’m trapped. 

This is all that I’ll ever be. 

After every great peak comes the valley, and fuck if I'm not at the bottom of it right now. As the last notes of the song fade, I reach over and shut the music off. 

No more.

Returning to my fetal position, a sense of calm starts to wash over me, smothering the gnawing twist in my guts and the burning in my head. I've cried out all my tears; there’s nothing left to give. Now, it just feels like emptiness. Not happy, not sad, just… me. Haunting thoughts of the past can't hurt me more than I've already torn myself up.

The emotional numbness sets in. Blissful, dull, and grey. Better than losing my shit.  

My hands hold each other tightly against my chest, each preventing the other from causing more damage. One thumb rubs idly back and forth against my scales. The lack of a continued emotional hell helps me get myself under control.

You’re ok. 

You’re ok.

The spiral has ended. Here I lay, at the bottom. All alone.

I’m here with me. 

You’re ok.

My breathing feels lighter as the tension leaves my chest.

You just need some sleep. 

Just a bad day, not a bad life.

You’re ok.

As the banal, delicate, thoughtless silence continues, a single memory manages to burst through the wave of calm. Thankfully, this one is less unpleasant. 

A conversation with the old fart from a few weeks ago plays in my head. I can hear his voice clearly.

“Well y'know Fang, relationships are a two-way street. Both sides need to put in what they expect to get out. If one side don't carry their weight, then things ain't gonna work. Trust me on that. Doesn't mean you should try though, if you think it's worth it. Hell, sometimes, you’ll never know what someone else thinks of you unless you make the first move.”

Doug’s words and a few other sayings of his play over in my mind. His bluntness in all of them sticks out. He carries so much pain with him every day, and yet he seems better put together than almost anyone else I know. 

There's a lot I can learn from him.

At least he cares. And I guess that's not a bad thing. I don't think I could push him away if I tried.

The thought puts a smirk on my face. Fucking smart-ass Douglass.

The conversation sparks the thought to reach back out to someone. 

Maybe Trish, maybe Reed, if he’s not dead, maybe Naser, or maybe mom?

Not dad, no fucking way.

What about reaching out to… me? Myself? Strange as it may be, it sounds kinda right.

But how would I even do that?

It’s not something I want to dwell on tonight. God forbid I send myself over the edge again. 

I've already had enough of today.

Breaking their embrace, I cautiously allow my hands to return to my shoulders, if only to survey the damage. As they do, the results of another bout of gouging graces them. Divots and open wounds dot the areas, all covered in a thickening, still-wet film. 

At least the active bleeding has stopped. Something else to deal with later. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow. Another day. At least I don't work.

I'm gonna need a day to un-fuck myself after tonight. 

Maybe I should see if Taz wants to hang out. Yeah, that sounds good.

I’ve been a shit friend to her and Marcus. Need to do better. Just like getting off the sauce. Gotta take that first step, except this time I’m gonna take the first step myself. 

The change of thinking and emotional exhaustion makes things feel just a little better. 

You’re not a complete fuck-up. 

You still have time. 

You can still do better. 

One day at a time.

The tight ball I’d curled into loosens just enough to make me more comfortable. My wings find a better spot folded behind me as I flop over on to my stomach. Adjusting my pillow once more, I find a comfortable position for my head and settle in.

Absent the sound of ruffling blankets and sheets, the silence now occupying the room is more comforting than earlier. I take a deep breath, and focus on trying to get to sleep.

Fuck.

I'm so goddamn tired.