Permanent Scars

Madness

October 31, Thursday. 8:12 p.m.

Nostalgic scents float on the cool autumn breeze, mingling with the heady scent of spray paint. Despite the fumes, the air is pure and sweet. The crowd is enormous, and a vibe of unity surrounds them. They have all gathered here for one purpose: to watch the Good-For-Nothings perform. I'm watching from the wings, with Davy. He's the sound guy and makes sure everything is tip-top. I'm just a backup. Adam says I don't always have to perform onstage to be a member of the band, but I do have to play at least once at every show, and I have to attend the band practices whenever my schedule permits.

   As is quickly becoming customary, I'm seated on a large crate, watching the show with rapt eyes. My chest swells with pride at having such talented friends, and my body has found rhythm in the music. Davy glances at me every now and then, smiling to himself. I bet I look a little silly, sedentarily dancing. But I don't care. This is fun. Loud, but fun.

   However, minuscule things here and there start getting to me. I keep thinking about yesterday, visiting Mama's grave. Mia's silhouette reminds me of Victoria for some reason. They're not even the same shape. I don't know. One of the fans in the crowd lets out a terrifying yell that sends shivers up my spine and panic tries to overtake me. Another group of devotees is whooping and cheering, throwing who knows what into the air, and it makes me think of the Vandals.

   The Vandals.

   I am not home, thus leaving the house unguarded.

Tonight is Halloween for those who celebrate.

   Certainly, the Vandals will take advantage of that.

This could be very, very bad.

Nah, it's fine. They haven't done anything the past few nights. You're overthinking it and getting freaked out for no reason. Enjoy the show, this is a treat. Calm down. Breathe.

And I do. I breathe. I breathe the fumes and the energy that make us high. And when the time comes, I accept Adam's guitar into my hands to play one of the searing solos.

11:57 p.m.

The ground beneath our feet is dry and littered with leaves as Adam and I tiredly carry our instruments to the Metro.

    We're a bit far from home. This concert was a little last-minute, held the next town over—apparently, they'd had this one booked long before Adam met me—and the quickest way to get here was to take the Metro. Dylan, knowing how insecure I was, offered to walk with me. So we started out before everyone else and walked to the venue. But now it's very late—or early, depending how you look at it—and it wouldn't make sense to walk all the way home. I figure if I'm with Adam, I'll be safe, so I've tagged along. The rest of the band either gone home, or staying the night with friends from the gig.

   "You warm enough?" Adam bounces on his toes, shifting his feet, readjusting his grip on the handle of his pedal case. I nod, watching his breath materialize briefly in the chilly air. He smirks at me, eyes bright in the glowing neon light streaming from the inside walls of the Metro station. "Your nose is so pink."

   I shrug. "Can't help it."

   Clad in black fingerless gloves, his right hand reaches out to lightly touch the tip of my nose. Booping me has become a new thing of his. "I don't think I'd want you to be able to help it. Your face isn't swollen anymore. That's good."

"Mhmm."

   "The bruises aren't very noticeable anymore, either. Still can't believe you got that from falling over. Hey, did you have fun tonight?"