Heartbeat | ✔️

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❝I've been spending my attention on you, on you.❞

♮ ♮ ♮ ♮ ♮

I think in numbers.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I hear half, eighth, sixteenth, and sixty-fourth beats.

One. Two. Three.

It comes naturally. Like running, I plunge forward.

One. Two.

Wrists loose and free. I let the rhythm take control. 

One.

Unlike certain people.

I get up from my swirly chair. I'm in the loft area, a.k.a "study room," where there's a twenty-year-old mahogany desk and Microsoft laptop on it. Free stickers that arrive in the mail with a promotion, decorate below my keyboard with my additional doodles and makeshift calligraphy. Stomping down two levels of stairs heading to the basement, I go towards the ungodly noise or as my brother states, "We're making music, Beats! You should know sis."

He's the only one who calls me Beats.

I wish others call me by this nickname, but only him. He is the one who remembers what I adore and how good I've become. Had, more like it.

The vibration comes from the basement, I feel the sound waves as I walk through the living room.

Twisting the basement doorknob, I pop my head through the threshold to look down. Small silver studs are pierce in my ears. Blonde wavy curls hit below my chin, I dislike long hair because it takes forever to dry and care of it. Too much maintenance. The unfinished steps are wooden, the cooler temperature hits my flush face.

"Stop!" I holler.

Of course. They can't hear me. What am I thinking?

The guitar solo squeaks and goes into a higher octave. Sixteenth notes sings, perfect wave going up and then trickles down whereas the drums.

Ugh, the dreadful drums.

I run downstairs and turn the corner. The second hand sofa and television soaks up little noise, blankets are thrown over the plush foam squares that cover the concrete floor. I receive the blast through the four speakers. I'm surprised there's only four – there should be six or more, two specific speakers for each instrument (yes, including vocals).

"Don't ask me to change. It's up to you!"

I roll my eyes.

Walk the Moon? Last week, they try playing Panic! At The Disco.

I guess they're finding out their "sound."

The boys ignore me. They are into the song, harmony, and notes. Bodies, arms, and legs help create the beautiful orchestrated piece.

Well. Let's say, I can get their attention pretty quickly.

Shrieking noise echoes off the cemented walls and awful orange-red pipes, the structure to keep the house from falling apart. I'm holding the sound cores in my hand. Speakers are no longer in use.

"What the hell, Beats!" my brother declares, holding his hands up from his guitar's neck.

"I was on a roll, man!!"

The last person who speaks is the drummer. The one person who doesn't know what his one job is. 

"No, you weren't on a roll, Girly," I say, taking his drumsticks from his hands.