[8/17/461 AC, 6:38 PM]

  “Three reminders Starshine.” I recognize the nickname, dull light flickering through my eyelids. A crisp smile and denim jacket. Or. Auntie O. Only a decade older than me. My mother’s kid sis. A sort of “cool aunt”. Red motorcycle and collection of occult tchotchkes. The kind of aunt who is really more of an older sister, than a real authority figure. But sometimes, that's for the best. I think. “One drink. No hookups. Call or text if you need anything.”

  She worries too much.

  But . . . then again, I’m definitely wasted.

  Laying on my side, I feel the cold floor on my face. My nerves prickle with sensation. Senses fuzzy. Like river water in a midwinter. Biting cold, and half numb. Or’s voice fading to a steady dripping of water. Her auburn curls and hazel eyes, melting to amber blobs. Dancing on my eyelids, like st night’s sunset.

  * * *

  “You’re an ass Corri.” I sort of ugh, sort of groan. Running cherry red nails through my tousled hair. Corralling the rust colored ringlets. Again. They only snicker in that way only they can. Half teeth, all annoyance.

  “I do have quite the nice derriere.” Corri spins on their heels with a concrete click. “I appreciate the compliment, Meadows.” Green vest,the same mossy tone as my irises, and poof of bck hair. Stark against the orange dusk. They sling their sticker spttered guitar case over their shoulder. One for each pce Thalia had been.

  Nearly whacking her square in the face.

  “Watch it!” Thalia’s head snaps back, sharp eyes bearing through her gsses at her accidental assaint. “Maybe Annie is right. Coriander.” They fain offense at their full name. As they tend to do, scoffing, hand pressed to their chest.

  All for which, with her work boots, she kicks them in the shin.

  I turn to my left, using my worn fnnel to muffle the well of giggles and snorts escaping my crooked lips. “Don’t know why I hangout with y'all.” I smile back at the air fighting pair. Pying out a scene from an old action movie in Thalia’s collection. Named something stupid, like Master of the Fallen Sword III or Atutomoton Cop VII: Reloaded. The kind of movie my mom liked.

  Something twists in my chest for a moment, as I swallow down a bitter thought. How a yea—

  An arm wraps around my shoulder.

  Her arm wraps around my shoulder.

  Half bleached strands of dirty blonde, and nose broken by a rogue baseball in eighth grade. “Because.” Bea clicks her tongue. “You love us.” A thin warmth creeps over my freckles, blurring them more than my fading sunburn.

  “Come on.” Thalia clicks her cellphone shut. “We’re gonna be te.”

  Corri straightens their vest. “Fair enough.”

  “Late for what?” I ask.

  “It's a surprise,” Lacing her fingers into mine, Bea pulls me forward. “A little San Toros tradition.” The brickwalled street seems to come alive around her, as the rhythm of her breath melts with swelling music and whooping calls down the block.

  A summer party.

  “Better be killer”

  * * *

  My sense of taste wakes up. And so do I, a little. Fuck this one sucks. Maybe Auntie O was right. Big city drinking is clearly not for me.

  A spoon? My tongue flinches at the metallic taste. Trying to spit out the metal object. Only to feel a half congealed liquid sticking to my teeth and tongue, dribbling out in globs. The fuck?

  Where am I?

  * * *

  “Where are we?”

  I'm surrounded by a blur of pastel as we enter a massive room. I can hardly hear myself over the bass, as another chord strikes. A mosaic of partygoers, punks, and musicians. Bodies pressing aginst me, I feel like I'm going to be swept away. Drowned in the cacophony. I catch a gaze from the balcony, bck lips and a lilting ugh cutting through the noise.

  Until Bea squeezed my hand. Steady, she pulls me closer. Fingers through my hair, gently, almost nervous, resting on my bare shoulder. My eyes widen. All I can see is her dimpled grin, irises gleaming blue in the neon haze.

  “The start of something awesome.” She leads me to a table away from the crowd. An angled yet clear view of the stage. The room grows quiet as the current band finishes their set. “Wait, and watch.”

  Corri and Thalia are on stage.

  “Hello San Toros! Hope all of you sorry sods are having a wonderful evening.” Corri shouts over the microphone, their guitar an electric yellow, resonating low. “They were good, I’ll give them that. But I think it's time for some HIGH STAKES.” Thalia mutters ba-dum-tss from behind the drumset. Circus striped bandana tying back her hair.

  As Bea Baker, wearing a cannabis print shirt, jumps on stage, and flicks the mystwork keyboard on. Canisters glowing with aetheric light. And within a single verse, I melt into her music. Like a martyr in the myst.

  * * *

  Eyes snap open, pupils diting in the flickering dim. Darting between off-white tiles, a rusted basin, and red smeared shards. Lights buzzing. Head thrumming, as I y crumpled against the floor. Damn. . . really hope those PSA’s in high school weren’t right. My mind racing between ruffies and drugs, effects half remembered, as my neurons clunker.

  Everything still cold, my nerves raw, like the time I went skinny dipping for Bea’s birthday, the week before she moved. This. Is worse. Putride scents burn my nose: Urine, feces, and what I hope to gods above and below, is not my own blood.

  I can smell blood?

  * * *

  Blood dribbles from soft bck lips. Breathing hitches. A thin stream of deep red. Leaking from a pulsating warmth, where my shoulder meets my neck. Staining my finger torn shirt, the red on white now unreadable. Fingers encircling through my hair and digging into my thigh.

  I flinch.

  I try to move away, but in the blur of stinging pain, pulling hair, fluttering numbness, I'm locked in pce. She blurs around me, solid pits of teeth and watching ink, as I sink inward. Pale skin tearing. Mors crunching. Panic stifled as her sharp tongue ps the jagged wound. Pulse thrumming in my ears. The echo of music is long gone.

  I try to scream. But no sound escapes me.

  All I can see is the deep scarlet of my blood muddling with the rust of my hair. As something cracks, and everything . . .

  The world.

  Me.

  My memories.

  Mom.

  Or.

  Corri

  Thalia.

  Bea.

  Everything, melts away.

  Everything.

  Except her teeth.

  * * *

  I have zero clue where I am. Well, except a public restroom. I quip unhelpfully. This is the st time we go out on a Friday night . . . or go somewhere “private” with a random girl. I groan. My mind lingers on the rose of her dark lips, and her sharp teeth at my neck. In a haze, I try to right myself. Joints stiff and sore. Strainighing as my pale fingers push off the dark spttered grout.

  Crack.

  Something tears. A muscle or ligament, something, in my arm screams. I gasp, only a squeak, as water trickles from pipes like iron beads. I lie, almost still, before gritting my teeth, as joints crack with every leaden movement. Slowly, I stumble to the sink. I hardly notice my phone cracking underfoot. Colpsing against the sink as it bends and whines in protest. I whine louder. My hand presses to my chest, as I feel my heartbea— I don't feel anything.

  * * *

  I feel everything.

  Blue.

  Red.

  Hot.

  Cold.

  Agony.

  Euphoria.

  Every vein itches with hollowing hunger.

  My stomach twists.

  My heart spasms

  A final jolt.

  A misfiring synapse.

  Adrenaline.

  A death wail of a dying body.

  A dirge.

  A final note.

  An obituary.

  A scream.

  That goes on.

  And on.

  And on.

  And on.

  * * *

  I’m not breathing. I suck in a frantic breath. “I’m not breathing!” A scream rasps my throat, as I stare into the grimy and cracked mirror. Teeth bare, crusted with ruddy bck. A pair of lightless eyes, watching behind a mop of matted curls, and the thready remains of a red fnnel and bck skirt.

  The face isn't mine. It's wrong.

  Prickling at my neck as it stares from beyond the blurry gss. I don’t see the twenty one year old English major, the part time thrift store cashier, and short sighted flirt. I don't even see the transfer student, all but lost in a new city.

  I see a corpse.

  I feel sick.

  “Annie Lee Meadows, happy birthday. Also—” A sudden twist in my stomach forces up a noxious torrent of pink vodka and half-dissolved birthday cake, burning my throat. Into the bloody sink. “We’re so fucked.”