It was the usual casual chaos in Michelle's shoe-box apartment, Slipknot blaring at a soothing billion-and-a-half decibels from a pair of surprisingly powerful external speakers. Ancient things by now, they were some of Michelle's most prized possessions--she fell in love with them at Value Village a little after realizing the speakers weren't actually blown out and bought them on the spot for $10 a pair. They weren't much good for hauling around, but they were big enough and bad enough to fill her apartment with enough noise to drown out the rusty-bed fucking or bad-relationship grudge matches that seemed to plague the rest of the semi-transient members of her apartment building. It was exactly that kind of thing that set her teeth on edge and exactly that kind of thing that kept her rent as fucking pathetic as it was, so the ability to counter it all with a wall of anarchic rage was highly valued. If [i]Before I Forget[/i] couldn't kick the shit out of whatever noise was going on, not much else would. Michelle's den needed a biblical kind of cleaning, and she was half tempted to build herself an ark, turn on the water and let the flood wash it all out to...well, more Utah. Not exactly a lot of sea around. Her den--she couldn't keep herself from calling it that--was dark and warm and cluttered, the living room really just a place for a couch outside of the kitchen and bedroom-bathroom. A few years ago Michelle would have been surprised that people paid money for a place like this--the drain in the kitchen sink didn't work and it had been a week since the last maintenance submission, the wallpaper smelled like cigarettes and the walls underneath it were paper thin. It was, as her friend described it, [i]The kind of shit-hole roach motel that doesn't ask questions and takes cash. So, you know. Perfect for you.[/i] "Fucker." She commented idly at the thought, looking to the cherry of her dying spliff before stubbing it out on her overflowing ash-tray. A spliff is a half-joint, half-cigarette abomination that Marko had recently turned her on to, and she had to admit she was fan. It helped maintain an upkeep level of inebriation, the sort of functional high that junkies talk about needing to get through the day. At the same time, most junkies didn't have a half ton of slavering monster trying to crawl its way through your skin and eat your next door neighbor, so they could go to rehab and she could try and keep her fucking blood down, thank-you-very-much. Besides, today had been a good day--she'd booked through more patient files than she thought she would, she hadn't blown out her speakers turning them up over Punch and Judy down the hall, and when she checked her account she'd gotten paid. And she hadn't felt Big Bad--as she called him-it-her in her head--rumbling for a little while now through the haze, which meant life was about as good as it was going to get. She was, she decided, even going to risk going out. Flicking through her widely varied selection of heavy black hoodies, she threw on one of her favorites, slipped on a pair of tights and stuck her feet into some heavy boots on her way for the door. It wasn't that she cared didn't care that she looked like some highschool emo-goth poser so much as she didn't fucking care what she looked like anymore [i]period[/i]. What was she going to do, go out and meet someone? [i]Hi, my name is Michelle, let's grab some coffee and hope I don't eat you sometime[/i]? She barked a laugh tussled what was left of her hair for kicks on her way out the door. ...aaand almost ran into Mr. Schumaker, who was about to pound on her door. One fist raised in the air, mouth open to shout, they both of them stared at each other for a moment. All the blaring rock in the world couldn't have broken the white noise that went on in Michelle's brain for a second, that instant of something unexpected and unpleasant enough to skyrocket her pulse. Her fingers started twitching, the nails starting to itch, but thank God the elderly immigrant took a step back and coughed into his raised fist. Either he'd seen something in the way she ground to a halt or he wasn't quite as willing to shout at her face the way he was through her floor, because he just jerked towards the apartment on he inside. "Music." "What?" "Your music. Turn it off, when you leave. It keeps up my dog." "You don't have a--" "Turn music off!" "Okay! Okay! Turn music off!" She muttered, throwing her hands up, stomping back into her apartment to flick the laptop shut and close her eyes. She breathed, heavily, trying to focus on that pleasant marijuana-tingling-fog instead of the heartbeat that felt like it would punch through her ribcage and tell Mr. Shchumaker where exactly he could put his invisible dog. A year ago she'd have kicked his ass for talking to her like that, and she'd have had-- No. This was better. Keep your head down. Focus. Swallow. Breathe. Good night. The music cut off a second later as the laptop went to sleep and she made her way for the door, plastering on some pretty-in-pink smile that didn't reach her eyes as she closed the door shut behind her and locked its trio of locks. The old kraut watched her the whole time, sweat-stained wife-beater clinging to later-sixties flab and sweatpants while his beady little eyes burned holes in her back. She turned and started down the hallway for the door with a little wave over her shoulder, trying to ignore the way the muscles in her hands were starting to cramp, new strands visible crawling up towards her knuckles and fingers. "Music off! Go away, Mr. Schmucker!" She called over her shoulder without looking, heading down the stairs in a rapid descent before gulping in the warm night air, swallowing new scents and fresh breeze down to try and get the smell of stale sweat and age out of her nose. She could practically [i]taste[/i] him, and she had no interest in making it literally as she tried to reinforce her flagging good mood and head down the road. Thank God it was walking distance. ----- The trick to sneaking into bars when you're underage is knowing how to abuse liquor laws. As long as you've got a drink in your hand once the server shows up, it's in their best interest [i]not[/i] to card you in case they gave it to you. And since almost every bar served Coors Light, and on the rare occasions she had company over she had them bring her some, she just made sure she stashed one in her kangaroo pocket and slipped in the back past the kitchen and off she was, partying in adult-land. It was a rare excursion for her but she'd done it more than once--some of the servers were starting to know her enough to be conversant, and she hoped that one of these days she wouldn't have to trick them like this just to get a damn beer that wasn't yellow and fizzy. But either way, as she settled herself in a booth in the corner and watched the band start to set up on stage and sipped her body-heat Coors with distaste, she could feel herself starting to wind down. She might want another cigarette, and she might remember a moment where she had almost taken off Mr. Schumacker's jaw, but she was having a beer in a bar like a normal girl and even starting to relax a bit. Maybe nothing more would go wrong tonight. After all, what was the worst that could happen.