“Andromeda!” the woman in the white dress snapped. “What’s the point in paying for lessons if you can’t learn your damn chords?” With a huff, she pulled you from the piano bench by the collar. “If you’re going to embarrass me in front of your tutor again, I’ll–” She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. A hollow smile crossed her face. “You don’t want to upset me, do you, my dove?”

“No, mama.”

“Good.” She let go and interlocked her fingers. “Go to your room, alright? I need time to myself, and you need to rethink some things.”

 

The girl in the mirror stared at you, dark ringlets like a waterfall over her tiny, brown frame. Her round glasses were the same as yours, as was the mole below her eye. Still, something about her had always bothered you. She was too perfect, too fake. She was…

Smiling.

That upset you, so you turned away.

You looked down, and your hands were red.

And everything was red.

Red, and sticky, and wet, and, and, and–

“Andy?”

You jolted awake to find a woman staring at you. Not your mother, of course (she’d rather die than set foot in a café populated by ‘delinquents’ like the ones here). No, this was someone exponentially better.

“Francisca,” you breathed, hardly believing your eyes. Was this still a dream? “You look…” Stunning? Perfect? Angelic? “Good.” 

“You too.” She brushed a few lime green locs out of her eyes. In the best way possible, she looked radioactive. The collection of old posters and mismatched furniture decorating the café served as a wonderful backdrop for the radiant punk. “D’you mind if I sit down?”

“Please, do!” You brushed the pages strewn across the table into your bag; for years, you’d fantasized about seeing her again. Generally, it was more romantic than her finding you passed out atop several study guides. “Might I… buy you anything? I need another latte, and you don’t appear to have ordered anything.”

“Oh.” She smiled but shook her head. “It’s okay, really, you don’t have to do that. I can buy myself–”

“It’s not my money,” you interjected. “So, you don’t have to feel bad.”

“It’s hers?”

“It’s hers.”

After a brief pause to consider this, she changed her tune. “Yeah, fuck it. Get me whatever’s most expensive.”

You grinned and rose from your seat, all too eager to please. “You still like raspberries, right?”

“Fuckin’ love ‘em,” she replied with a crooked smile and a twinkle in her onyx eyes. You could’ve kissed her. You didn’t, but you could’ve.

 

As you sat back down with your spoils, it struck you how odd of a couple (not a couple, not a couple) you made. You, barely five feet tall with heels, never seen without a three piece suit, hair not allowed past your chin. Her, well over six feet tall, donned in studded leather and heavy makeup, hair piled on top of her head to show the shaved sides. A long, jagged scar cut from the corner of her left eye and past the top of her ear. You tried your best not to look at it.

“One expensive panini,” you announced, setting down her meal with a flourish and a bow. “And, of course, a raspberry tea latte with whipped cream.”

“What a gentleman!” She clapped at your performance. “You remembered!”

“How could I forget?” You sat down with your own latte. “What do you take me for, some sort of monster who forgets their best–” You cringed as you caught yourself. You don’t get to call her that anymore. With a clear of your throat, you immediately shifted the subject. “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, um.” She sipped her beverage, not looking at you. Moron. “I-I’m in a band. I play drums.”

You nodded, increasingly aware of the valley between you. “I’m glad you’ve kept up with music.”

“I am too. It’s good for me, I think.” After a long moment, she asked, “Have you?”

“Too busy.” It wasn’t a lie, but you didn’t want to admit the real reason you’d stopped playing piano. “Having to maintain a 4.000 GPA is enough for me, thank you very much.”

“Oh, fuck off.” She squinted. “That’s just straight up impossible.”

“Ah, but my dear, you forget!” You adjusted your glasses with a smirk. The gesture was meant to emulate that of an archetypal clever anime character, but, given that you were, in fact, a real person and not animated, it absolutely did not come across that way. “I’m Android Andy, the world’s dorkiest robot!”

She snorted and held a napkin up to her mouth. “Stop, we were nine, don’t remind me!”

“A robot never forgets, mi cuervo!” You could barely stifle your own giggles. “I can still list every ridiculous nickname you ever gave me!”

“I’m leaving. I’m going to leave.”

“Nooooo, lo sientooooo…”

Grinning back at you, she flicked your forehead with her sharp black nails. “Actually, though, I do have to leave.” She wrapped her panini in a napkin and hoisted a worn tote bag over her shoulder. “My boyfriend is waiting for me.” With furrowed brows, she took a bite of the sandwich. After swallowing, she hesitated. Then, “D’you… D’you want to meet up this weekend? We could, like, actually get dinner together.”

Your face went hot. “I–Yes. I’d like that very much!” You scrambled for a pen and blank notecard, nearly spilling your coffee in the process. “What might your number be, these days?”

 

“What were you doing with that boy, Andromeda?” the woman with the cold eyes hissed as you walked into the kitchen. “I saw you outside, galavanting around.”

“Frankie’s my friend,” you told her. “We were playing.”

“You’re not supposed to make friends with people like that,” she snarled, chop-chop-chopping up vegetables as she spoke. “You’re not a ruffian, you’re a lady, my dove! You shouldn’t be… playing!” She sat the knife down, scowling and shaking her head. “You’ve gotten grass stains all over your uniform. You’re a wreck!”

“It’s not that bad!” You attempted to brush the stains away but were unsuccessful. “I-I’ll scrub it out myself! I promise!”

“You’re right. You will.” She sighed and rubbed her temples. “Go. Clean yourself up. I can’t look at you.”

 

You were only going to see a movie and get pizza, but you knew that you had to dress nicely for your date (not a date, not a date) with Francisca. Just a bit of teal eyeshadow, some subtle eyeliner, crystal studs. You always dressed nicely, so you could say that it was just normal. You didn’t want her to think you were…

You met outside the theater and were stunned to find her in a long, plaid coat and lovely purple dress. Maybe she dressed like this, normally, but her smile was so wide as she waved from across the street that you thought maybe, just maybe, she might’ve dressed up especially for you.

The movie was moronic, but you were the only ones in the theater; you could laugh all you wanted at the disaster on screen. Suddenly, you were kids again. At one point, she put her arm around you, and you could’ve fainted. It felt right. 

After the film, you bathed in buzzing, dingy lights whilst consuming your weight in pizza and fountain soda. Nobody was at the pizzeria save a few tired employees, and you left them a generous tip for putting up with your banter. When they finally kicked you out, you didn’t want to go home. For two more hours, you sat at the park watching ducks and discussing life. You wanted to kiss her. You didn’t, but you wanted to.

 

“That was wonderful,” she said as you found yourself outside her apartment. “I’ve… missed you, y’know?”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I’ve missed you too.”

For a moment, time froze. You took her hands in yours to give them a firm squeeze, but something caught your eye. Her sleeves had shifted, and you spotted a nasty bruise on her left arm.

“Shit!” You looked up. “Did that happen tonight?”

She pulled away, grimacing. “Oh.” As she pulled her sleeve down, she didn’t even look at the injury. “That was from a show. We were setting up, and, well…” She shoved her hands into her pockets and looked up at the sky. “... We should do this again.”

Despite your concerns, you didn’t press the matter. “I’d really like that.”

You almost kissed her. You didn’t, but you almost did.

 

“Andromeda!” the woman with the knife gasped. “You–You wretched little whore!” Disbelief and rage filled her tone as she gaped from your doorway.

“M-Ma’am, it’s not–” Francisca started, jumping off your bed and holding her hands up. “W-We weren’t, we’re just–”

The woman turned her fiery eyes on the disheveled teen, taking in her unbuttoned dress and smudged lipstick with unmatched fury. “Stay away from my daughter, you transvestite freak!” 

She stomped across the room as Francisca stammered frantic apologies, and you… hid, beneath the covers, like a coward. You couldn’t bear to see the red, red, red.

 

You weren’t one for attending parties–they were full of frat boys who looked at you with disgusting eyes. Still, it was a long weekend, and a friend had begged you to come. Naturally, they’d texted you to say that something came up, and they wouldn’t get there for another half hour.

Jesus Christ.

You planted yourself in a marginally quieter corner, nursing a can of beer that tasted like mud and constantly watching your texts.

 

“God-damn!” A voice pulled you back into your surroundings. “Andromeda Reyes Vargas, at a party?” The handsome, curly-haired host smiled down at you. “Am I dreaming?”

“Simon Novak,” you deadpanned, wearing an expression that might make a child cry. “At his own party? What a shock.”

He squatted down to examine you, strangely clinical for someone so upbeat. “You don’t seem to be enjoying it here.”

“What gives you that impression? My aura of misery?”

“Well, yeah.” He offered you a hand, apparently not put off by what you’d hoped was an obvious cue to leave you alone. “You look kinda ashy. You doin’ okay?”

“I’m fine.” Somehow, you doubted that he was going to accept this response. 

“At least let me get you some water.” He straightened back up, still seeming hesitant. “If you need space, my room’s always locked, and the walls are pretty thick. You can chill in there for a while, if you need. I’d just, y’know, have to unlock it.”

You sat in silence for a moment. He wasn’t going to accept that you were okay, and the prospect of a quiet room really was enticing. “Okay.”

He offered you his hand, and you took it without any more hesitation.

 

Simon was only a classmate, so you had no idea what his room would be like. You wouldn’t have guessed that he was a musician, but he had four different guitars, a keyboard, and a drumset wedged into one little room. 

“I guess it’s nice you’ve got thick walls,” you said, nodding at the drumset as you stood in the center of the room.

“Oh, for sure.” He shut the door behind him, drowning out most of the sound below, save for the thudding of heavy bass. “My housemates would much rather hear muffled guitar than, well, extremely loud guitar.” He chuckled. “Feel free to sit down; the bed’s memory foam.”

You did. It was quite comfortable. “Thank you, I appreciate this.”

“Don’t mention it!” He leaned back against the door. “But, hey, d’you mind if I talk to you about something, while we’re here?”

“If it’s about the criminology exam, I’m not prepared either.” 

“No, not that…” 

The lock clicked into place as his expression darkened.

“Andromeda. Are you fucking my girlfriend?”

You stared at him blankly. “What?” This felt like some sort of practical joke. A very disturbing one, but a joke nonetheless. You didn’t even know who–

“Francisca. My girlfriend.” He stepped towards you, and you only now processed how imposing he was.

“Jesus, Simon.” You held up your hands and leaned back to show submission. “We’re just friends.”

He grabbed your shoulder and pulled your face closer to his. “Yeah, you two sure looked awfully friendly with each other last weekend.”

“We’re just–You’re acting ridiculous.”

He shoved you away. “That’s what they always say. ‘We’re just friends!’ or ‘Nothing happened!’ or ‘He kissed me!’” His voice dripped with disgust. “What, I bet you’re too good to fuck a tranny, yeah?”

“Don’t call her that,” you hissed, tensing up at the sound of the word. “You pig.” 

He gripped your collar with both hands. “I’ll respect her when she respects me. Do you even know her, or is Miss Perfect just some little whore?”

“She’s a better person than you.” Even with his claws at your throat, you wouldn’t let him talk that way about your friend.

“Shut up, bitch,” he snarled, fists tightening. 

Before you could process what was happening, he had shoved you facedown into the bed. A weight pressed onto your back, making it distinctly hard to breathe. Blood rushed in your ears as you clawed desperately for freedom. At the very least, you needed to get your face up.

Something cold traced your back, and you could breathe again. It took until he was wrenching your arms from your sleeves for you to process he’d cut off your shirt.

“How self obsessed do you have to be to get angel wing tattoos,” he muttered, discarding the remains of your shirt before again pinning you down. “I wonder what Frankie saw in you, angel?” If you weren’t half-suffocated, you’d have told him to die.

Dim light assaulted your eyes as he flipped you over. His left hand crushed your throat as his right fumbled with the buttons to your slacks. The pocketknife that he’d used to cut off your shirt was between his lips, and you could feel his eyes crawling across your skin. You watched as his fly caught, and your knee struck him between his legs. He spat out a string of words you’d been called countless times before.

Hacking out your lungs, you rolled up from your would-be-deathbed. You didn’t have the capacity to think over the sound of bass thud-thud-thudding. You didn’t know what was happening as he swung his knife at your head. You didn’t process anything going on as you barely avoided losing an eye, just like her. You didn’t realize what you were doing as you grasped for anything small and heavy. You didn’t hesitate as you smash-smash-smashed the paperweight into his skull. You didn’t stop when everything was red, red, red. You didn’t stop when his face was unrecognizable. You didn’t stop until your arms felt like they were falling off.

You looked down, and your hands were red.

And everything was red.

Red, and sticky, and wet, and, and, and–

Over.

You smiled.