The September heat filled the 14x16 building in which our band called a studio. The sun’s unrelenting scorn barked orders at the pores of our skin to the point that we had no other option but to rest and rehydrate or face what could’ve been utter disaster.
“Have you seen this?” questioned Kellis while holding up his iPhone for all to see. “These bastards are shooting their own people.”
I leaned over the cymbals in front of his drum set so that I could see the AP report pulled up on his Twitter account. My eyes widened.
“Three men over the age of 65, seven women, and four children under the age of 16,” I read aloud. “This world is going to hell.”
I grabbed the half-empty bottle of Bacardi resting on my amplifier. We purchased the poison a couple hours beforehand in hopes that Dylan could forget his lack of employment, Wes and I could forget our lack of girlfriends, and Sam could forget his name. I unscrewed the cap and took a long drink.
An hour of boozed playing and slurred words convinced Kellis that our practice was over, and being the only person capable of operating a vehicle, he headed home. Wes and I stayed behind in the building. The “light-weights” were outside behind separate bushes wishing they had not ingested so much of the vile drink, and we were left to our self-pitying conversation.
“It seems like everyone is working against me, man” I managed through the alcohol. “I can’t pay for my next semester of college, I can’t find a job to get me out of my parent’s house, and I’m seriously tired of being lonely.”
“You’re tired of being lonely?” slurred Wes. The disgust showed apparent in his tone, “I haven’t been laid since January, dude. You’re girl just broke up with you a couple months ago.”
A Syrian bullet cuts through a child’s chest.
“I just don’t see how the government can make it so damn difficult for a superior honor graduate to get a college education, or why it’s so hard for guys like us to find a chick that’s not psychotic.”
The rest of the night is a mystery to me. By my appearance the next morning (including a black eye, a small carpet burn above my right eye, and an insane bump on my forehead) I’m left to assume it involved another bottle of Bacardi and one hell of a trip to the floor while walking inside. After a quick glance at my three companions and the bucket next to the couch and chair, it was evident that my night had been a lot easier than theirs.
“Band life,” I said to myself while shaking my head at the sight before me. I staggered through the living room towards the kitchen. I was deprived of all liquid in my body. I needed water. I needed food.
The CNN report from the previous night flashed across the screen. Fourteen Syrian civilians lie dead, and I remembered all my problems. I was dealing with a headache, and they were dealing with bullet wounds. My government wouldn’t send to college for free, and theirs wanted them dead. I couldn’t find a girl to make me happy. Maybe they would live long enough to know what love truly meant.