Page 34 of Shades of Silver City

"To my Fantastic Fantasia: Allow this journal to serve as your intellectual compass. May the essence of my spirit resonate within these written words, never leaving you solitary…”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

CHAPTER 8

FANTASIA

The days pass as the Phantom’s offer lingers in the back of my mind. I’ve returned to my normal life, my normal routine. After one particularly shitty night at work, I’m dragging myself up to the third floor of my apartment building, only to be greeted by the faint pounding of electronic music and the shrill tone of excited, overlapping voices.

I groan, begging under my breath, “Sirius, please.”

When the entrance to my apartment comes into sight—one of four identical metal storm doors, differentiated by the decaying 3663 identifier and a raggedy, faded WIPE YOUR PAWS welcome mat—I can see my prayers have gone unheeded.

The building’s chipped plaster walls are like lungs expanding, each pulsing beat of music a violent inhale. Light seeps from beneath the door’s crack.

I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my forehead, as if I can will it all away with mental fortitude. But the party isn’t going anywhere. Giving up on delaying the inevitable, I twist the doorknob. The knob rattles as it spins, but it’s unlocked. I shove my shoulder into the heavy door, unsticking it with a sharp jolt. The door flies open, and I almost lose my balance.

Damn latch.

“Great,” I mutter as I slam the door behind me.

My entrance is muffled by the blasting music. This place reeks just like the bar.

I count to five before spinning around and elbowing my way through a small throng of people I don’t recognize. My shoulders tighten and my teeth clench as I move through the living room. I’m careful to keep my eyes locked on the refrigerator across the apartment. I pass the tattered, vomit-green sofa and the rickety table currently missing its three chairs. Writhing bodies knock and jar me about, but I choose to ignore them, as if my lack of eye contact means they’re nonexistent.

The rhythmic bass thumps at an unholy level, and my head pounds back in response.

With two closet-sized bedrooms and an open living space that combines a tiny living room and a galley kitchen so narrow that the oven won’t open fully, the apartment barely fits the three of us who live here, let alone a dozen drunk assholes.

My two roommates—Stace and Alisha—share the slightly larger bedroom. They’ve been friends their entire life. I found them a few years back through an ad. When I left my foster home at eighteen, I needed a place to stay. Although I had some silvers saved up from working at The Rising Star since I was fifteen, it wasn’t much. Most of my labor was paid under the table by Jeremiah, since I wasn’t of legal serving age for those first three years. He jipped me, took advantage of me, but it wasn’t like I had any other options. It’s a damn blessing he even took a chance on me. I wasn’t in a position to complain about unfair wages.

Fairness is a myth, anyway.

A private, furnished bedroom in my price range wasn’t something I was poised to turn down.

Stace screeches my name when she spots me entering the kitchen, then throws her arm around my shoulders. I almost topple beneath the unexpected weight of her lean, muscular build. She’s a dancer, but in her current drunken state, she’s less graceful than normal.

“Please, Stace, get off me.” I shove her sticky skin away, frowning at her.

She hovers a few fingers over me, one of the few girls I know that is taller than me. Her soul-shade is bright orange, vibrant, almost blinding to look at. It contrasts with her dark hair. I close my eyes and rub them, willing myself to stay focused and ignore her aura.

When I reopen my eyes, the color still grabs my attention—it’s almost as annoying as the girl herself—but I focus on her face, choosing to pay no extra attention to it.

She fake pouts, her smudged eyeliner making her look comical. “Fine. Be that way.”

Alisha appears, a cup in her hand, brown eyes glazed over. A soft yellow aura wafts from her body. Her curls are held out of her face by a pink floral headband that perfectly matches her dress. It hugs her curves in all the right places. She designed the outfit herself, and it’s impressive.

“Get off me,” Alisha mimics in a nasally voice, reminding me of why I don’t ever compliment her to her face. “Always a bitch, Tasia.”

“Takes one to know one.” I roll my eyes and nudge my way past them, refusing to look at them any longer. I yank open a cupboard next to the fridge and snag a box of medicinal tea.

Lemon-echinacea flavor.

There’s a niggling ache in the back of my throat. I hope it’s from exhaustion and not a sign of an impending cold. Missing work is extremely unaffordable.

My mind briefly drifts to the Phantom’s offer.

I fill the kettle with water and stick it on the stove to boil, then search the kitchen for my favorite mug—the one that says “Life is Ruff” with a large paw print on the side.

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