(no subject)
Her name is Amber. She lives in Beachwood. Her name is Amber. She lives in Beachwood.
I'm with my friend and his friends up in Brentwood. We're hanging out around the bottom floor of my friend's apartment complex, which happens to house a very gaudy movie theater. As we walk past the pillars and movie posters, out on the street now, we come across a modest but interesting museum/art gallery. we stop inside to have a look.
I notice a girl with her friend browsing a different part of the gallery. She's blond and wears ear phones in her ears despite the fact that she's clearly talking with her friend. How odd.
Was she just looking at me?
I move on alone to a different part of the gallery. She approaches me, earphones still in her ears.
We hit it off, talking and laughing. She's amazing. Did she really notice me out of this group of guys? My friend and his friends give us the appropriate space, but we are technically still part of their "group."
We head back up to my friend's apartment. She and I lie down on his bed, our heads together and our legs pointing in opposite directions. The door to his room is open. My friend and his friends are in the next room watching a movie while we laugh and talk about music and about ourselves. Eventually we nod off to sleep.
A white room with bars...what a weird dream.
Some time later, days, I come back to the gallery. As I get off of my motorcycle, I pull out the mix CD I made for her. "Amber's Mix CD" is written on it. I don't even know why I brought it with me. I'll never be able to give it to her, but it brings back happy memories. I should've gotten her number, or her address. Something. We obviously adored one another. Stupid, stupid.
As I walk towards the gallery/museum, I spy Amber coming out down its short flight of stairs, earphones in her ears. I can't believe I get a second chance at this. She knows the mix CD is for her and accepts it affectionately.
I confess to her that I don't even know where she lives.
"What do you mean? You live in Brentwood and I live in Beachwood."
I neglect to tell her that my friend is the one who lives in Brentwood...I live in Fullerton. An easy mistake to make.
Something's wrong.
Amber?
I start to lose focus. Dammit, why can't I concentrate?
Amber starts fading away. I won't lose her again. If I could just collect my thoughts...
Groggy.
So groggy.
I'm lying down. Did I collapse? Where's Amber? I'm in a white room with bars, I can see now. A hospital? Did she take me to the hospital? People are screaming.
I sit up, and my thoughts start to come back into focus; the haze starts clearing. No, it isn't a hospital.
I hear men walking down the corridor. They're coming this way, I know.
Jaw-clenching terror floods over me when I see that they wear over-sized clown heads made of porcelain. Pressure builds in the back of my eyes and my face turns red as I try not to scream. Worse things happen when you react to them. I know that much, somehow.
Are they masks? All of the clown-heads are wearing white coats. One of them has a clipboard. I can hear him talking to one of the others as they stop in front of my room, but his milky, painted porcelain lips aren't moving.
A third clown-head steps into the room. He's bigger than the other two. He has a needle.
This time I can't help it. I let out a scream but quickly stifle it with my hands.
He holds me down and comes at me with the needle. I can't resist. Worse things happen when you resist.
He slowly brings the syringe up to my throat. Why not an arm or an ass-cheek?
"I'm going to PIN youuuuuuuu," he says as he stabs the needle into my trachea.
I wake up in time to hear the tail-end of a grunt from a voice that sounds like mine. God, what a nightmare, but I can't let myself forget...
Her name is Amber. She lives in Beachwood. Her name is Amber. She lives in Beachwood.
Maybe I will make a mix CD, I think to myself while searching Google Maps for a place called Beachwood.
I'm with my friend and his friends up in Brentwood. We're hanging out around the bottom floor of my friend's apartment complex, which happens to house a very gaudy movie theater. As we walk past the pillars and movie posters, out on the street now, we come across a modest but interesting museum/art gallery. we stop inside to have a look.
I notice a girl with her friend browsing a different part of the gallery. She's blond and wears ear phones in her ears despite the fact that she's clearly talking with her friend. How odd.
Was she just looking at me?
I move on alone to a different part of the gallery. She approaches me, earphones still in her ears.
We hit it off, talking and laughing. She's amazing. Did she really notice me out of this group of guys? My friend and his friends give us the appropriate space, but we are technically still part of their "group."
We head back up to my friend's apartment. She and I lie down on his bed, our heads together and our legs pointing in opposite directions. The door to his room is open. My friend and his friends are in the next room watching a movie while we laugh and talk about music and about ourselves. Eventually we nod off to sleep.
A white room with bars...what a weird dream.
Some time later, days, I come back to the gallery. As I get off of my motorcycle, I pull out the mix CD I made for her. "Amber's Mix CD" is written on it. I don't even know why I brought it with me. I'll never be able to give it to her, but it brings back happy memories. I should've gotten her number, or her address. Something. We obviously adored one another. Stupid, stupid.
As I walk towards the gallery/museum, I spy Amber coming out down its short flight of stairs, earphones in her ears. I can't believe I get a second chance at this. She knows the mix CD is for her and accepts it affectionately.
I confess to her that I don't even know where she lives.
"What do you mean? You live in Brentwood and I live in Beachwood."
I neglect to tell her that my friend is the one who lives in Brentwood...I live in Fullerton. An easy mistake to make.
Something's wrong.
Amber?
I start to lose focus. Dammit, why can't I concentrate?
Amber starts fading away. I won't lose her again. If I could just collect my thoughts...
Groggy.
So groggy.
I'm lying down. Did I collapse? Where's Amber? I'm in a white room with bars, I can see now. A hospital? Did she take me to the hospital? People are screaming.
I sit up, and my thoughts start to come back into focus; the haze starts clearing. No, it isn't a hospital.
I hear men walking down the corridor. They're coming this way, I know.
Jaw-clenching terror floods over me when I see that they wear over-sized clown heads made of porcelain. Pressure builds in the back of my eyes and my face turns red as I try not to scream. Worse things happen when you react to them. I know that much, somehow.
Are they masks? All of the clown-heads are wearing white coats. One of them has a clipboard. I can hear him talking to one of the others as they stop in front of my room, but his milky, painted porcelain lips aren't moving.
A third clown-head steps into the room. He's bigger than the other two. He has a needle.
This time I can't help it. I let out a scream but quickly stifle it with my hands.
He holds me down and comes at me with the needle. I can't resist. Worse things happen when you resist.
He slowly brings the syringe up to my throat. Why not an arm or an ass-cheek?
"I'm going to PIN youuuuuuuu," he says as he stabs the needle into my trachea.
I wake up in time to hear the tail-end of a grunt from a voice that sounds like mine. God, what a nightmare, but I can't let myself forget...
Her name is Amber. She lives in Beachwood. Her name is Amber. She lives in Beachwood.
Maybe I will make a mix CD, I think to myself while searching Google Maps for a place called Beachwood.