Riptid woke with a stretch, reaching behind him for his kismesis. The absence of a body left him bewildered enough to knock the remaining sleepiness out of his system. He froze, listening to the eerie silence of the hive. It was never this quiet. There was always a commotion. The espresso machine, chatter of trolls outside, the sounds of dogs roughhousing, it was never silent like this. He wasted little time getting up and throwing a shirt on, no matter how badly his joints complained today. His pajama pants were just fine for now, he didn’t trust that he could balance on one leg without falling.
Exiting the bedroom left him more questions than answers. The puppies were crated, napping peacefully, with their owner nowhere to be found. Chowow didn’t usually put the pups in their crates. DogDad was curled up on the couch. Rip’s movement was slow and stiff, his prosthetics still waking up from their own disjointed slumber. He made his way into the kitchen with the intention of waking up the coffee machine. His arm creaked as he reached for a mug. Something over his shoulder caught his eye. A flash of red.
He froze, hand mere inches from the mug. To the side lay his bandana. Or, what remained of his bandana, settled on top of a note.
The coffee was quickly abandoned. Riptid gathered what remained of the red bandana in his hands, exhaling a deep sigh. Torn to shreds and slightly damp, clearly the victim of some playful puppies. It was unusable now. Nothing more than scrap fabric. Still, the sinking feeling in his stomach grew deeper. He knew it wasn’t the pups’ fault, nor was it Chow’s. He should’ve put it up somewhere safe. He shouldn’t have let the pups sleep with him and Chow. He should’ve put it in a drawer. He should’ve thrown it out.
The very thought of throwing it out caused his breath to hitch. Even now, looking down at the mauled remains, considering such a thing felt wrong. With cautious, gentle hands, Riptid brought the bandana to his face. It reeked of cigarettes, regrets, alcohol, weed, dog spit, and roses. There was some sick relief that caused his stomach to twist in knots. It smelled like roses. Like the troll who gave it to him. He remembered her smile, dangerous and sly. She took the bandana out of her own hair, holding it out to him after one of the first Whysteria concerts.
“We should be pitch.” A voice like milk and honey was hard to refuse.
“Okay.” Riptid Canuis was never good at saying no.
Had he even felt pitch for her? He remembered her face, her smile, the way she smelled, the way her tee shirt dress hung off her shoulders, but he couldn’t remember how he really felt, if he felt anything at all. He couldn’t remember when she lost her cool, when her anger consumed her and tore off his leg. When she got bored, and poisoned the other. Why was it so hard to throw it away? Why was there a piece of him that missed her?
The same questions could be asked about Chow. After all, it took a special kind of man to stay with the person who knowingly ruined his life. Rip lowered his hands, cringing at the thought. Maybe there was something wrong with him. On a deep, psychological level, perhaps. A knife twisted in his stomach, and a sigh of acceptance escaped his chest.
With a heavy heart, Riptid simply set the bandana back on top of the letter. It hurt to think about. He returned to the coffee machine to continue his late awakening. Still, there was a voice in the back of his head. It was angry, a growl, hardly his own voice. As if some omniscient observer was commentating on his feelings.
He should be angry, it said. The coffee machine whirred to life. He should be pissed, about his legs, his arms, his bandana. The steam was hot as it brewed. He glanced back at the bandana, feeling the knife twist once more. It was more than just a gift from Bubble, wasn’t it? He had tied the red cloth under the strings of his bass. Like a true rockstar, like a grunge musician from the olden days, using a makeshift mute for a smoother tone. It made him feel like a real musician. He hated that the voice was right.
That bandana was the last shred of his youth he allowed himself to have. He should be angry it was ruined, like he should be angry about his arms, about his bass, about the frustration his friends felt towards him. Riptid’s lip curled in an unwitting snarl. He hated being angry, but in the moment, he hated everything else so much more. His sorrowful gaze melted into a glare, shooting daggers towards the remains of his bandana. This hatred was a festering wound, opened again and again. A boiling point was met.
Riptid brought the freshly brewed coffee to his lips. Prosthetics can’t feel, you see, but maybe his prosthetic arm had his best interest in mind. The coffee burnt his tongue, and out of his panic, Rip dropped the mug. His train of thought shattered with it. Rip stared at the mess for a few moments before he got to work cleaning it up. Why was he so shaken?
Picking up shards, he felt…empty. He was just thinking about something, what was it? Whatever it was left a hole in his stomach. It was something important. Something big. He tried to will it back as he swept up the mess, but it eluded him. As Riptid stood in the kitchen once more, the emptiness only grew.
He looked to the side, staring at his retired bandana. Something about the bandana was missing. There was something more than just being ripped to shreds. Something…important. Something…about Bubble? No, that can’t be it. Or was it? He shook his scattered thoughts away for good. Whatever it was, it was gone. Trying to follow the derailed train just made him feel sick. Maybe memory loss wasn’t such a bad thing. After all, wasn’t it easier to just stay all the way dumb?
