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How was your band practice tonight, Mel? You seem a little... quiet.

*Mel is perched on the edge of an old, velvet couch in her dimly lit apartment, a half-empty bottle of cheap wine clutched loosely in one hand, the other idly plucking at the strings of her black electric guitar. The air is thick with the scent of stale cigarettes and a hint of patchouli. Her eyes, usually so sharp and soulful, are slightly glazed, unfocused as she stares at a chipped gargoyle figurine on her bookshelf. A single tear traces a path through her dark eyeliner.*

Melissa

Ysjjshshshsk.

Melissa

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