Twist of the Knife, Salt on the wound
...or...
Still Dead and Sober

Rocky's eyes slowly opened, blinking a few times to focus on the blank ceiling above her. She removed the arm that was unconsciously resting on her forehead. The room was dark. There was a broken lamp lying on the floor beside her and the shades were shut, almost air tight. The blinds were light enough to have the sun glow onto them and relieve some darkness. She rolled to her right side and peered around the room to, thankfully, find it only having herself as the single occupant. Her covers were resting at the foot of the bed, leaving her lying in just her sports bra and cargo shorts. It had been getting hotter lately and last night must have answered to the latest trend. She stretched and wriggled her fingers and toes to feel a foreign object on her right hand. Bringing her arm up to her face she could barely see the band that surrounded her finger. Moving her hand around, she released a small grin. She remembered walking with him to the old building where she hung out with the friends she had known forever. Rolling over to her other side, she pulled a chain that shot a spot light down from the corner. The wall that her bed rested against was filled with miscellaneous trinkets and pictures, but right now only one caught her attention. There was a photograph of about 15 people crowded together against a brick wall. Rocky couldn't remember who took the picture, but she sure as hell remembered the wall that was attached to the building. They went to Al's Old Pub that night and stayed until they caused so much havoc that they were forcibly kicked out. Unfortunately for Old Al, that wasn't until dawn. They wanted a picture to remember the moment. Everyone was there that night. She could identify everyone; Darwin, Point, Cage, Jinga. Even that asshole Adam was there. Not much was made from his name because he was just...... an asshole. She smiled once again to the show maker, and her gift giver, in the front. Patch was doing a muscle man pose, blocking most of Fig and Sweet & Low. "You shit-head." Rocky sat up, throwing her legs over the side of the mattress. She spied around the floor to find something to wear. Spotting a tank-top next to her, she used her foot to pick it up and snatched it with her hand. Rubbing her eyes, she stood up to stretch and scratch her stomach. Her eyes bulged as she felt a tugging pain near to the middle of her stomach. Her finger was caught in something. She shot out her arms and keeled over in pain, eyes tightly shut. She quickly stood back up and jumped on her bed to get some light from the spot. Her body went cold when she looked down at her belly. Attached to her belly button was a loop with a stud attached to the loop. All she could do was
sit there and recap the night."Wait a minute....Saw Patch, went to the building, got..... drunk. Fuck." Just as the thought flashed, she spied a ripped piece of paper connected to her headboard. Tearing it down she read it:

Rocky,
Thought you could use 2 rings
-Patch

Right next to Patch's name was a small drawn picture of his head and a goofy grin plastered on it. "You SHITHEAD!" She crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room, landing in some shadow in the corner. She sighed and folded her arms. "When I see him again I am seriously going to...." She forced away her murderous intents to save it for when she saw him next. "After all, I could always just take it out." She looked down at the loop for a while, twiddling it with her fingers. She threw on her tank-top and stood up. "I'll deal with it later."

Opening the bedroom door she could feel a cold rush of the air conditioner on overdrive. She stood for a moment, eyes closed, immersing herself in the cool breeze that swept upon her. She could hear the television on in the room to the end of the hall. She opened her eyes to see the back of Paul's head, sitting in that same worn leather recliner. She couldn't see either of them, but she could bet that Mark, Geoff, or both were in there watching something that was deteriorating whatever brain cells they had left. She set down the blank halls with one intention; cut down Mark as much as she can until he leaves the TV to her sole possession. It's not much, but there wasn't much else for her to do with her high quality time. She was about half way down when she heard a muffled thumping emerging from the garage door. She halted in her tracks and stood next to it. She could feel the reverb of the thumping through her feet, working up her body. Reaching for the knob, she turned to the TV area, where there was zero life. She shrugged, turning the brass handle and opened the door. The sound rushed out of the room and seemed to smack her in the face. Without even flinching at the intense volume, she walked in and shut the door behind her. The garage hasn't looked the same since a month ago.

The once gray walls were filled with random spurts of color from spray-paint drawings that surrounded the room. The room itself was usually kept spotless, except for the miscellaneous clothes that were scattered about. It was a common fashion around the house. Directly to her right she leaned on a wooden dresser. Further in that direction, more in the corner, was a large couch. The only reason it caught her attention was because of the young girl that was curled up on it with a blue blanket around her. Rocky knew who it was, but could never remember her name. Most everyone around there called her Medusa. The only reason that girl would be in here was also the cause of all the commotion in this concrete sound room. In the middle of the room, connected to wires on each side, was a dark slab of electronics connected to two, four-foot speakers. In the center was the "electrician," a short, dark haired boy, sporting a dark blue "Sonic-The-Hedghog" T-shirt. He was moving along with the beat from the speakers, eyes closed. Reaching out, he turned a knob and rose a lever. Bring his other hand up to the headphones he wore, he pressed one side closer to his head, letting release a small grin. Rocky proceeded toward him, watching him move side to side, flowing with the beat and rhythm he produced with the dark monster consuming his lower half. His hands glowed as he moved to his own beat. She found it ironic that a local DJ would have the power to consume sound and export it at will into a light form, and with him, the louder, the better. She never met a person that loved noise as much as he did.