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@rebelflames
Hey. The names Melody Hayes, and I figured I’d come on here and make a blog to talk about my life and stuff, maybe make friends, maybe not, who knows.
I’m in a band with a few dweeby guys. We call our band Anarchy Angels. Or, more like they do. I never got a say in the name, even though it’s fucking stupid.
Anyways, the ask box is open. Don’t ask stupid questions, I’ll fuckin’ rip your teeth out.
DOOMSDAY, DECEMBER 31ST, 1989.
Melody Hayes is sixteen years old. She is the cheerleader captain. She's in a band. She has a mommy, a daddy, and two little sisters. Today is a day plucked directly outside of a storybook, or perhaps a bible verse. Melody has a sickness deep within her chest, a sort of rot that taints everything she touches. Yet, the shiny ceramic exterior shuts everybody away from seeing the qualmish interior beneath the porcelain. Every girl in school wants to be Melody, and every boy at school wants to be with Melody. Some mix and match, and some want to be both. Bathing in Melody's afterglow means bathing in the limelight, centerstage alongside the star of New York City. Mythologizing, and fantasizing about Melody, many wonder what the sing-songy paramount thinks about herself. What is there, for God herself to think about? What is there, for God herself to ponder? Plenty. Melody's throat is raw from screaming at her parents from inside the diner. Her chest is uncomfortably tight with emotion. Anger like bile bubbles up inside of her throat, acid scratching her gullet red and raw, Melody's left hand trembles on her lighter, holding the small roll of tobacco in her right hand. Her fingers curl around the gasper, squeezing it in her skinny digits. Melody's dead eyes glance out towards the street, feet sinking deep into a puddle of water and gas. The liquid reflects rainbow, refracting the light as the diner's lights bounce off the plash of rainwater. She flicks her finger along the lighter, waiting for the spark to appear. Flick. Flick. Flick.
The lighter doesn't spark. Not once. Melody has never needed smoke to enter her lungs more in her life. The desperation to feel the sweet nicotine trickle down her throat as if it is pure ambrosia overrules logical thinking, as she drops the plastic lighter, watching the barrel be washed away through the puddle, and down a rusted over drain. Melody's fingers grasp needily in the pocket of her leather jacket, nails scraping against the fabric as air falls like water through her fingers. But, then, she feels it. A matchbook. Her fingers scrape over the sandpaper-like fire starter on the side of the worn and yellow box of matches, and her chest feels less sickeningly tightened once she finds the matches. She pulls the matchbook out of her pocket, and gets ready to scrape the match against the striking strip, but a voice cuts through her mindless actions amidst the garbage noise circulating around in her head.
“Melody!” Phoebe called out, her normally steady voice trembled, and her normally stoic face bore an expression of pure, unadulterated, terror. Her body heaved with desperate breaths, jacket thrown haphazardly over a dirty flightsuit, boots slick and pant cuffs darkened by rain water - she ran here.
Her blue gaze darkened as she spotted the little yellow matchbook, such a small unassuming thing, that could uproot a life within an instant.
“Mel, I'm going to sound insane, but I need you to leave that match unlit.” She rasps, voice uncharacteristically frantic, begging. “I know how this ends, and I know you feel like smoking could fix everything right now, but I-”
Blue flames lap at her mind, and tears lap at her eyelashes.
“I first knew you as a ghost.” She spills her guts, messy, all for Melody to see. “And you were… everything.” She rubs a fraying sleeve over her eyes. “We met in the summer, you beat me at chess, and you were the only person who's ever truly understood me.” She fumbles with a pocket on her chest. “When you left, you gave me this.”
A little yellow matchbox, identical in nearly every way to the one in Melody's hand - every crease, every tear, was the same.
The difference?
It was empty.
“The last match ruined your life, and you used it again to save mine.”
Melody's head swivels around, and she paints a crooked grin on her face to offer Phoebe, as she leans her back against the building. She holds it between her shaking fingers, "No need to yell at me like I'm going anywhere!" Melody retorts to Phoebe's panic, hoping to get her to smile, too. Melody's exhausted eyes squint at Phoebe, looking at the way water paints her legs and boots. Mud cakes the edges of her boots, and her curls are damp and slick with rain. Melody's face drops as Phoebe starts to speak, her perfect expression drawn in ink starting to smear with the rain beating down her face, and with the weight of Phoebe's words. Melody likes to pretend she isn't smart. Feigning an exasperated sigh as she throws her head down against a desk at school, rolling her eyes as she exclaims that she simply doesn't understand a concept she gets in mere seconds of it being explained. Right now, though? Melody's face twists in real, unbridled confusion, and then, disgust. Her head spins, and her gut twists. She uses her elbows for balance, as Phoebe's words drift in one ear and out the other. Melody swallows the sickly bile that rises in her throat, and, in one swift motion, strikes the match against the striking strip. She presses it against the cigarette, and inhales the smoke, bloodshot eyes fluttering in relief as the smoke hits her lungs. Melody coughs a little, letting the smoke out of her mouth and scoffing, "You-- sound batshit fucking insane, Bee. What kind of sick joke are you playing on me?" Melody interrogates, the world shifting in and out of periphery as her body wobbles, leg that was once propped up against the drywall now on the floor in attempts to steady her swaying form. She wheezes out another weak noise, that may have very well been an attempt at a laugh, before anger rises in her chest like fire, as she dangles the match up. "S--so, what? You only became my-- friend because you met me as a ghost? You only started--" Melody trails off, looking down before her eyes snap back up wildly, pinching the match between skinny fingers. "You think this match kills me? Because you emptied out a stupid matchbook from eating here so damn much? I- You're just obsessed with me!- You visit me during work-- So of course you ended up getting one of those at some point!" Melody raises the match higher up, like something precious she needs to protect as she takes another shaky drag of her cigarette. "You have a disgusting sense of humor sometimes, Bee. Just- go home!- We can hang out after my shift."
Phoebe's expression of terror twists into a mix of heartbreak and frustration. “You- you really think I would lie about something like this?” She laughs out, humorlessly.
She runs a scarred, shaking hand through her damp curls, tugging - a bad self-soothing habit she's never been quite able to shake, pain was a way she distracted herself from crying.
She stands still for a moment, body still wracked with subtle tremors, hand over her mouth as she thinks.
Her fingers twitch.
Fire dances in the edges of her vision.
And a switch goes off.
Her body is moving, and she's almost helpless to stop it as her arm reaches for the match.
Melody drops the match.
Melody panicked. She was trying to jerk her arm away, but her skinny digits accidentally let go. Her stomach drops, as the match crackles against the ground. Like something sick, ash spits up as if the match itself is coughing. Then, in an instant, the two are simply both powerless to stop it. Pyre swipes forward, through the water, splashing up on Melody's shoes before rising to gluttonously devour. It catches the oil stirring with the puddles first, and then, the air. The doe-eyed-dead-eyed blonde does not step away nearly far enough. The sea of pyre catches trash, consuming. As if by positive phototaxis, Melody watches as the exit of the alleyway gets sealed off by the raging element, crashing upward. This doesn't scare Melody, not at first. There's smoke rising into her lungs, and hardly a cough. For a girl whose bite is worse than her bark, she looks an awful lot like a deer, caught in the headlights. Flames flicker in her vision lighting up her eyes like lamps, and she sucks in a stuttering breath. She coughs as she exhales, before turning towards Phoebe, with shaking shoulders. Melody's legs lock up, and she opens her mouth to speak, yet nothing comes out. The light in her eyes around Phoebe is never manufactured. The way she smiles, and the sound of her laugh... It's all real, when it's her. But, right now, the lack of light in her wet eyes makes her look like a doll, or maybe a corpse. Her chest rises and falls, in tandem with the fire, and she opens her mouth to speak, but what comes out is just air. A exhale, that sounds choked. Smoke swirls around her, as her eyes widen and she tries to speak again, and, distressed, she whispers- "Wh-whhat did I do?-.."
Phoebe feels similarly paralyzed, her breath rattles in her smoke-filled chest as she meets Melody’s empty, lantern-like eyes. “It’s-” She starts, a cough cutting her off. “It's not your fault.” Maybe I never could've stopped this. The thought threatened to consume her, to burn her up and spit her out, but it also fed her urge to fight. She shrugged off her jacket and unzipped the top half of her flightsuit, tying both around her waist as she scanned the rest of the alleyway. The bright yellow light above the backdoor to the diner flickered in the edge of her vision - she knew that the door locked itself when closed, but she also knew that it opened inwards. “Let's try that.” She rasped, throat thick with ash. She put herself between Melody and the fire, and dug her heels into the ground. She drove her shoulder into the steel door, hissing at the heat that met her, burning her skin. But she kept going.
The fire threatens to consume them both, and it's beautiful. Frozen in place, Melody watches as red hot fire barks like a mad dog, inching closer and closer. Melody knows that she did this. Melody feels rain shower down on her, wheezing as it feels as if Heaven itself is kissing her, beckoning her forward. ..But, why?
God stands before her, thrusting Herself against a boiling hot door, skin foraged from stars and CDs searing and sizzling. Sheesh, Melody thinks to herself, this is such a terrible rescue mission. Not because she thinks Phoebe is unsuccessful, God no. She simply is able to catch a glimpse at herself in a puddle, and gets to look at herself- really look at herself.
Au fond, Melody is a desperate fawn in cheetah's clothes. It's a jest, a joke, a fake-out, all pretend and next to no teeth at all. Melody is dangerously thin, and her eyes are dangerously sunken inward-- she's one foot in the grave. Dead doe-like eyes look back up at her, as water catches in her lashes. Bang.
Bang.
BANG! Phoebe succeeds to get the door open, and Melody watches as it flies open from the inside, as fire alarms blare from the interior. Wooden pillars are burning, crumbling and falling. At first, Melody can't bring her rotten legs to move a single inch forward. But, just as she thinks about laying down and letting this all happen, Melody hears it. Crying. Pitchy, hiccupy crying. Something in Melody's chest tightens as she stands there frozen, before jerking her legs up from the awful tar-like hold pavement had against her shoes. She throws her jacket off, over her shoulders, "HARMONY--" A cough forces itself from her throat, causing her to hack and wheeze on nothing but air dancing with ashes. "LL-" Another cough, as she grabs a hair tie off of her wrist and yanks it up with her teeth, bringing bony fingers up, and hooking it around the tie, before sliding it over her hair. Haphazardly done, "LYRIC! I'M-- C--" Her eyes feel hazy and her shoulder slump as she turns to Phoebe. "Fire extinguisher in the k--" cough- "kitchen-... Put the fire out." Before Phoebe can question it, Melody runs off towards the sound.
DOOMSDAY, DECEMBER 31ST, 1989.
Melody Hayes is sixteen years old. She is the cheerleader captain. She's in a band. She has a mommy, a daddy, and two little sisters. Today is a day plucked directly outside of a storybook, or perhaps a bible verse. Melody has a sickness deep within her chest, a sort of rot that taints everything she touches. Yet, the shiny ceramic exterior shuts everybody away from seeing the qualmish interior beneath the porcelain. Every girl in school wants to be Melody, and every boy at school wants to be with Melody. Some mix and match, and some want to be both. Bathing in Melody's afterglow means bathing in the limelight, centerstage alongside the star of New York City. Mythologizing, and fantasizing about Melody, many wonder what the sing-songy paramount thinks about herself. What is there, for God herself to think about? What is there, for God herself to ponder? Plenty. Melody's throat is raw from screaming at her parents from inside the diner. Her chest is uncomfortably tight with emotion. Anger like bile bubbles up inside of her throat, acid scratching her gullet red and raw, Melody's left hand trembles on her lighter, holding the small roll of tobacco in her right hand. Her fingers curl around the gasper, squeezing it in her skinny digits. Melody's dead eyes glance out towards the street, feet sinking deep into a puddle of water and gas. The liquid reflects rainbow, refracting the light as the diner's lights bounce off the plash of rainwater. She flicks her finger along the lighter, waiting for the spark to appear. Flick. Flick. Flick.
The lighter doesn't spark. Not once. Melody has never needed smoke to enter her lungs more in her life. The desperation to feel the sweet nicotine trickle down her throat as if it is pure ambrosia overrules logical thinking, as she drops the plastic lighter, watching the barrel be washed away through the puddle, and down a rusted over drain. Melody's fingers grasp needily in the pocket of her leather jacket, nails scraping against the fabric as air falls like water through her fingers. But, then, she feels it. A matchbook. Her fingers scrape over the sandpaper-like fire starter on the side of the worn and yellow box of matches, and her chest feels less sickeningly tightened once she finds the matches. She pulls the matchbook out of her pocket, and gets ready to scrape the match against the striking strip, but a voice cuts through her mindless actions amidst the garbage noise circulating around in her head.
“Melody!” Phoebe called out, her normally steady voice trembled, and her normally stoic face bore an expression of pure, unadulterated, terror. Her body heaved with desperate breaths, jacket thrown haphazardly over a dirty flightsuit, boots slick and pant cuffs darkened by rain water - she ran here.
Her blue gaze darkened as she spotted the little yellow matchbook, such a small unassuming thing, that could uproot a life within an instant.
“Mel, I'm going to sound insane, but I need you to leave that match unlit.” She rasps, voice uncharacteristically frantic, begging. “I know how this ends, and I know you feel like smoking could fix everything right now, but I-”
Blue flames lap at her mind, and tears lap at her eyelashes.
“I first knew you as a ghost.” She spills her guts, messy, all for Melody to see. “And you were… everything.” She rubs a fraying sleeve over her eyes. “We met in the summer, you beat me at chess, and you were the only person who's ever truly understood me.” She fumbles with a pocket on her chest. “When you left, you gave me this.”
A little yellow matchbox, identical in nearly every way to the one in Melody's hand - every crease, every tear, was the same.
The difference?
It was empty.
“The last match ruined your life, and you used it again to save mine.”
Melody's head swivels around, and she paints a crooked grin on her face to offer Phoebe, as she leans her back against the building. She holds it between her shaking fingers, "No need to yell at me like I'm going anywhere!" Melody retorts to Phoebe's panic, hoping to get her to smile, too. Melody's exhausted eyes squint at Phoebe, looking at the way water paints her legs and boots. Mud cakes the edges of her boots, and her curls are damp and slick with rain. Melody's face drops as Phoebe starts to speak, her perfect expression drawn in ink starting to smear with the rain beating down her face, and with the weight of Phoebe's words. Melody likes to pretend she isn't smart. Feigning an exasperated sigh as she throws her head down against a desk at school, rolling her eyes as she exclaims that she simply doesn't understand a concept she gets in mere seconds of it being explained. Right now, though? Melody's face twists in real, unbridled confusion, and then, disgust. Her head spins, and her gut twists. She uses her elbows for balance, as Phoebe's words drift in one ear and out the other. Melody swallows the sickly bile that rises in her throat, and, in one swift motion, strikes the match against the striking strip. She presses it against the cigarette, and inhales the smoke, bloodshot eyes fluttering in relief as the smoke hits her lungs. Melody coughs a little, letting the smoke out of her mouth and scoffing, "You-- sound batshit fucking insane, Bee. What kind of sick joke are you playing on me?" Melody interrogates, the world shifting in and out of periphery as her body wobbles, leg that was once propped up against the drywall now on the floor in attempts to steady her swaying form. She wheezes out another weak noise, that may have very well been an attempt at a laugh, before anger rises in her chest like fire, as she dangles the match up. "S--so, what? You only became my-- friend because you met me as a ghost? You only started--" Melody trails off, looking down before her eyes snap back up wildly, pinching the match between skinny fingers. "You think this match kills me? Because you emptied out a stupid matchbook from eating here so damn much? I- You're just obsessed with me!- You visit me during work-- So of course you ended up getting one of those at some point!" Melody raises the match higher up, like something precious she needs to protect as she takes another shaky drag of her cigarette. "You have a disgusting sense of humor sometimes, Bee. Just- go home!- We can hang out after my shift."
Phoebe's expression of terror twists into a mix of heartbreak and frustration. “You- you really think I would lie about something like this?” She laughs out, humorlessly.
She runs a scarred, shaking hand through her damp curls, tugging - a bad self-soothing habit she's never been quite able to shake, pain was a way she distracted herself from crying.
She stands still for a moment, body still wracked with subtle tremors, hand over her mouth as she thinks.
Her fingers twitch.
Fire dances in the edges of her vision.
And a switch goes off.
Her body is moving, and she's almost helpless to stop it as her arm reaches for the match.
Melody drops the match.
Melody panicked. She was trying to jerk her arm away, but her skinny digits accidentally let go. Her stomach drops, as the match crackles against the ground. Like something sick, ash spits up as if the match itself is coughing. Then, in an instant, the two are simply both powerless to stop it. Pyre swipes forward, through the water, splashing up on Melody's shoes before rising to gluttonously devour. It catches the oil stirring with the puddles first, and then, the air. The doe-eyed-dead-eyed blonde does not step away nearly far enough. The sea of pyre catches trash, consuming. As if by positive phototaxis, Melody watches as the exit of the alleyway gets sealed off by the raging element, crashing upward. This doesn't scare Melody, not at first. There's smoke rising into her lungs, and hardly a cough. For a girl whose bite is worse than her bark, she looks an awful lot like a deer, caught in the headlights. Flames flicker in her vision lighting up her eyes like lamps, and she sucks in a stuttering breath. She coughs as she exhales, before turning towards Phoebe, with shaking shoulders. Melody's legs lock up, and she opens her mouth to speak, yet nothing comes out. The light in her eyes around Phoebe is never manufactured. The way she smiles, and the sound of her laugh... It's all real, when it's her. But, right now, the lack of light in her wet eyes makes her look like a doll, or maybe a corpse. Her chest rises and falls, in tandem with the fire, and she opens her mouth to speak, but what comes out is just air. A exhale, that sounds choked. Smoke swirls around her, as her eyes widen and she tries to speak again, and, distressed, she whispers- "Wh-whhat did I do?-.."
DOOMSDAY, DECEMBER 31ST, 1989.
Melody Hayes is sixteen years old. She is the cheerleader captain. She's in a band. She has a mommy, a daddy, and two little sisters. Today is a day plucked directly outside of a storybook, or perhaps a bible verse. Melody has a sickness deep within her chest, a sort of rot that taints everything she touches. Yet, the shiny ceramic exterior shuts everybody away from seeing the qualmish interior beneath the porcelain. Every girl in school wants to be Melody, and every boy at school wants to be with Melody. Some mix and match, and some want to be both. Bathing in Melody's afterglow means bathing in the limelight, centerstage alongside the star of New York City. Mythologizing, and fantasizing about Melody, many wonder what the sing-songy paramount thinks about herself. What is there, for God herself to think about? What is there, for God herself to ponder? Plenty. Melody's throat is raw from screaming at her parents from inside the diner. Her chest is uncomfortably tight with emotion. Anger like bile bubbles up inside of her throat, acid scratching her gullet red and raw, Melody's left hand trembles on her lighter, holding the small roll of tobacco in her right hand. Her fingers curl around the gasper, squeezing it in her skinny digits. Melody's dead eyes glance out towards the street, feet sinking deep into a puddle of water and gas. The liquid reflects rainbow, refracting the light as the diner's lights bounce off the plash of rainwater. She flicks her finger along the lighter, waiting for the spark to appear. Flick. Flick. Flick.
The lighter doesn't spark. Not once. Melody has never needed smoke to enter her lungs more in her life. The desperation to feel the sweet nicotine trickle down her throat as if it is pure ambrosia overrules logical thinking, as she drops the plastic lighter, watching the barrel be washed away through the puddle, and down a rusted over drain. Melody's fingers grasp needily in the pocket of her leather jacket, nails scraping against the fabric as air falls like water through her fingers. But, then, she feels it. A matchbook. Her fingers scrape over the sandpaper-like fire starter on the side of the worn and yellow box of matches, and her chest feels less sickeningly tightened once she finds the matches. She pulls the matchbook out of her pocket, and gets ready to scrape the match against the striking strip, but a voice cuts through her mindless actions amidst the garbage noise circulating around in her head.
“Melody!” Phoebe called out, her normally steady voice trembled, and her normally stoic face bore an expression of pure, unadulterated, terror. Her body heaved with desperate breaths, jacket thrown haphazardly over a dirty flightsuit, boots slick and pant cuffs darkened by rain water - she ran here.
Her blue gaze darkened as she spotted the little yellow matchbook, such a small unassuming thing, that could uproot a life within an instant.
“Mel, I'm going to sound insane, but I need you to leave that match unlit.” She rasps, voice uncharacteristically frantic, begging. “I know how this ends, and I know you feel like smoking could fix everything right now, but I-”
Blue flames lap at her mind, and tears lap at her eyelashes.
“I first knew you as a ghost.” She spills her guts, messy, all for Melody to see. “And you were… everything.” She rubs a fraying sleeve over her eyes. “We met in the summer, you beat me at chess, and you were the only person who's ever truly understood me.” She fumbles with a pocket on her chest. “When you left, you gave me this.”
A little yellow matchbox, identical in nearly every way to the one in Melody's hand - every crease, every tear, was the same.
The difference?
It was empty.
“The last match ruined your life, and you used it again to save mine.”
Melody's head swivels around, and she paints a crooked grin on her face to offer Phoebe, as she leans her back against the building. She holds it between her shaking fingers, "No need to yell at me like I'm going anywhere!" Melody retorts to Phoebe's panic, hoping to get her to smile, too. Melody's exhausted eyes squint at Phoebe, looking at the way water paints her legs and boots. Mud cakes the edges of her boots, and her curls are damp and slick with rain. Melody's face drops as Phoebe starts to speak, her perfect expression drawn in ink starting to smear with the rain beating down her face, and with the weight of Phoebe's words. Melody likes to pretend she isn't smart. Feigning an exasperated sigh as she throws her head down against a desk at school, rolling her eyes as she exclaims that she simply doesn't understand a concept she gets in mere seconds of it being explained. Right now, though? Melody's face twists in real, unbridled confusion, and then, disgust. Her head spins, and her gut twists. She uses her elbows for balance, as Phoebe's words drift in one ear and out the other. Melody swallows the sickly bile that rises in her throat, and, in one swift motion, strikes the match against the striking strip. She presses it against the cigarette, and inhales the smoke, bloodshot eyes fluttering in relief as the smoke hits her lungs. Melody coughs a little, letting the smoke out of her mouth and scoffing, "You-- sound batshit fucking insane, Bee. What kind of sick joke are you playing on me?" Melody interrogates, the world shifting in and out of periphery as her body wobbles, leg that was once propped up against the drywall now on the floor in attempts to steady her swaying form. She wheezes out another weak noise, that may have very well been an attempt at a laugh, before anger rises in her chest like fire, as she dangles the match up. "S--so, what? You only became my-- friend because you met me as a ghost? You only started--" Melody trails off, looking down before her eyes snap back up wildly, pinching the match between skinny fingers. "You think this match kills me? Because you emptied out a stupid matchbook from eating here so damn much? I- You're just obsessed with me!- You visit me during work-- So of course you ended up getting one of those at some point!" Melody raises the match higher up, like something precious she needs to protect as she takes another shaky drag of her cigarette. "You have a disgusting sense of humor sometimes, Bee. Just- go home!- We can hang out after my shift."
Phoebe's expression of terror twists into a mix of heartbreak and frustration. “You- you really think I would lie about something like this?” She laughs out, humorlessly.
She runs a scarred, shaking hand through her damp curls, tugging - a bad self-soothing habit she's never been quite able to shake, pain was a way she distracted herself from crying.
She stands still for a moment, body still wracked with subtle tremors, hand over her mouth as she thinks.
Her fingers twitch.
Fire dances in the edges of her vision.
And a switch goes off.
Her body is moving, and she's almost helpless to stop it as her arm reaches for the match.
Melody drops the match.
DOOMSDAY, DECEMBER 31ST, 1989.
Melody Hayes is sixteen years old. She is the cheerleader captain. She's in a band. She has a mommy, a daddy, and two little sisters. Today is a day plucked directly outside of a storybook, or perhaps a bible verse. Melody has a sickness deep within her chest, a sort of rot that taints everything she touches. Yet, the shiny ceramic exterior shuts everybody away from seeing the qualmish interior beneath the porcelain. Every girl in school wants to be Melody, and every boy at school wants to be with Melody. Some mix and match, and some want to be both. Bathing in Melody's afterglow means bathing in the limelight, centerstage alongside the star of New York City. Mythologizing, and fantasizing about Melody, many wonder what the sing-songy paramount thinks about herself. What is there, for God herself to think about? What is there, for God herself to ponder? Plenty. Melody's throat is raw from screaming at her parents from inside the diner. Her chest is uncomfortably tight with emotion. Anger like bile bubbles up inside of her throat, acid scratching her gullet red and raw, Melody's left hand trembles on her lighter, holding the small roll of tobacco in her right hand. Her fingers curl around the gasper, squeezing it in her skinny digits. Melody's dead eyes glance out towards the street, feet sinking deep into a puddle of water and gas. The liquid reflects rainbow, refracting the light as the diner's lights bounce off the plash of rainwater. She flicks her finger along the lighter, waiting for the spark to appear. Flick. Flick. Flick.
The lighter doesn't spark. Not once. Melody has never needed smoke to enter her lungs more in her life. The desperation to feel the sweet nicotine trickle down her throat as if it is pure ambrosia overrules logical thinking, as she drops the plastic lighter, watching the barrel be washed away through the puddle, and down a rusted over drain. Melody's fingers grasp needily in the pocket of her leather jacket, nails scraping against the fabric as air falls like water through her fingers. But, then, she feels it. A matchbook. Her fingers scrape over the sandpaper-like fire starter on the side of the worn and yellow box of matches, and her chest feels less sickeningly tightened once she finds the matches. She pulls the matchbook out of her pocket, and gets ready to scrape the match against the striking strip, but a voice cuts through her mindless actions amidst the garbage noise circulating around in her head.
“Melody!” Phoebe called out, her normally steady voice trembled, and her normally stoic face bore an expression of pure, unadulterated, terror. Her body heaved with desperate breaths, jacket thrown haphazardly over a dirty flightsuit, boots slick and pant cuffs darkened by rain water - she ran here.
Her blue gaze darkened as she spotted the little yellow matchbook, such a small unassuming thing, that could uproot a life within an instant.
“Mel, I'm going to sound insane, but I need you to leave that match unlit.” She rasps, voice uncharacteristically frantic, begging. “I know how this ends, and I know you feel like smoking could fix everything right now, but I-”
Blue flames lap at her mind, and tears lap at her eyelashes.
“I first knew you as a ghost.” She spills her guts, messy, all for Melody to see. “And you were… everything.” She rubs a fraying sleeve over her eyes. “We met in the summer, you beat me at chess, and you were the only person who's ever truly understood me.” She fumbles with a pocket on her chest. “When you left, you gave me this.”
A little yellow matchbox, identical in nearly every way to the one in Melody's hand - every crease, every tear, was the same.
The difference?
It was empty.
“The last match ruined your life, and you used it again to save mine.”
Melody's head swivels around, and she paints a crooked grin on her face to offer Phoebe, as she leans her back against the building. She holds it between her shaking fingers, "No need to yell at me like I'm going anywhere!" Melody retorts to Phoebe's panic, hoping to get her to smile, too. Melody's exhausted eyes squint at Phoebe, looking at the way water paints her legs and boots. Mud cakes the edges of her boots, and her curls are damp and slick with rain. Melody's face drops as Phoebe starts to speak, her perfect expression drawn in ink starting to smear with the rain beating down her face, and with the weight of Phoebe's words. Melody likes to pretend she isn't smart. Feigning an exasperated sigh as she throws her head down against a desk at school, rolling her eyes as she exclaims that she simply doesn't understand a concept she gets in mere seconds of it being explained. Right now, though? Melody's face twists in real, unbridled confusion, and then, disgust. Her head spins, and her gut twists. She uses her elbows for balance, as Phoebe's words drift in one ear and out the other. Melody swallows the sickly bile that rises in her throat, and, in one swift motion, strikes the match against the striking strip. She presses it against the cigarette, and inhales the smoke, bloodshot eyes fluttering in relief as the smoke hits her lungs. Melody coughs a little, letting the smoke out of her mouth and scoffing, "You-- sound batshit fucking insane, Bee. What kind of sick joke are you playing on me?" Melody interrogates, the world shifting in and out of periphery as her body wobbles, leg that was once propped up against the drywall now on the floor in attempts to steady her swaying form. She wheezes out another weak noise, that may have very well been an attempt at a laugh, before anger rises in her chest like fire, as she dangles the match up. "S--so, what? You only became my-- friend because you met me as a ghost? You only started--" Melody trails off, looking down before her eyes snap back up wildly, pinching the match between skinny fingers. "You think this match kills me? Because you emptied out a stupid matchbook from eating here so damn much? I- You're just obsessed with me!- You visit me during work-- So of course you ended up getting one of those at some point!" Melody raises the match higher up, like something precious she needs to protect as she takes another shaky drag of her cigarette. "You have a disgusting sense of humor sometimes, Bee. Just- go home!- We can hang out after my shift."
DOOMSDAY, DECEMBER 31ST, 1989.
Melody Hayes is sixteen years old. She is the cheerleader captain. She's in a band. She has a mommy, a daddy, and two little sisters. Today is a day plucked directly outside of a storybook, or perhaps a bible verse. Melody has a sickness deep within her chest, a sort of rot that taints everything she touches. Yet, the shiny ceramic exterior shuts everybody away from seeing the qualmish interior beneath the porcelain. Every girl in school wants to be Melody, and every boy at school wants to be with Melody. Some mix and match, and some want to be both. Bathing in Melody's afterglow means bathing in the limelight, centerstage alongside the star of New York City. Mythologizing, and fantasizing about Melody, many wonder what the sing-songy paramount thinks about herself. What is there, for God herself to think about? What is there, for God herself to ponder? Plenty. Melody's throat is raw from screaming at her parents from inside the diner. Her chest is uncomfortably tight with emotion. Anger like bile bubbles up inside of her throat, acid scratching her gullet red and raw, Melody's left hand trembles on her lighter, holding the small roll of tobacco in her right hand. Her fingers curl around the gasper, squeezing it in her skinny digits. Melody's dead eyes glance out towards the street, feet sinking deep into a puddle of water and gas. The liquid reflects rainbow, refracting the light as the diner's lights bounce off the plash of rainwater. She flicks her finger along the lighter, waiting for the spark to appear. Flick. Flick. Flick.
The lighter doesn't spark. Not once. Melody has never needed smoke to enter her lungs more in her life. The desperation to feel the sweet nicotine trickle down her throat as if it is pure ambrosia overrules logical thinking, as she drops the plastic lighter, watching the barrel be washed away through the puddle, and down a rusted over drain. Melody's fingers grasp needily in the pocket of her leather jacket, nails scraping against the fabric as air falls like water through her fingers. But, then, she feels it. A matchbook. Her fingers scrape over the sandpaper-like fire starter on the side of the worn and yellow box of matches, and her chest feels less sickeningly tightened once she finds the matches. She pulls the matchbook out of her pocket, and gets ready to scrape the match against the striking strip, but a voice cuts through her mindless actions amidst the garbage noise circulating around in her head.
DOOMSDAY, DECEMBER 31ST, 1989.
hello everybody following the ait80’s au! I have made a doomsday timeline , so everybody knows where we are in the story
( @gh0stofchicago youshouldtotallyreblogthistoo)
HAHAHAGAGHAGAHAHA
I didn't see her with the others.
Okay, good. God, damn it. I'd call if I wasn't unsure about the phone situation being all doinked up. I'll just drive by after work.
I heard there's something odd going on with the Ghostbusters tonight? Like... They got arrested, and now there's ghosts everywhere.
Is Phoebe okay?
what did phoebe get you for christmas?
Guitar pick with my initial. I carved hers behind mine. Other shit, too. But that's mine to keep, and not yours.
what's phoebe like when she's drunk? is she clingy?
Hella clingy. Hella honest, too. But I am too, so who am I to judge?
Maybe Phoebe will stop by tonight!
Eeeh, I doubt it. The mood slime situation might keep 'er.
Maybe you and Phoebe can have a New Year’s party after
Wait, aw. That's cute. I like that idea. Maybe I should get party hats and stupid favors before my shift. And booze, hehe. I might as well exercise that fake ID.
will your band do anything for new years?
We always get together and have a few drinks. I just can't make it, this time.
what will your cheer squad think?
What they always think. That I'm not good enough.
Aw, man. It sucks you have to work New Years
It's fucking stupid! I'm so pissed.
