Amber Arquilla
Badump, badump
Drumsticks fall, banging to the beat of my heart. They strike like whiskey bottles on skin,
smashing in a cacophony of pain and fury.
So the song begins.
The cymbals rattle, the drums snare, tension and fear building with each step he took
on that creaky old staircase, each drunken threat he hollered through ash-beaten lungs.
I can feel the beating, as the base kicks into gear, strumming to the tune of my wayward
strikes. It sounds like fear, like a balled-up child in a tiny closet, listening to footsteps on
the stairs. My rhythm increases, letting my heartbeat build with anticipation as the air
hums along to our song. That closet door opened, ripped off its hinges by drunken rage.
It’s time.
My drumsticks crash down, ricocheting with the force of knuckles on flesh, pounding
and breaking and taking and hurting. I’m in full swing, every beat hitting with the force of
a thunderclap, every strike stronger than the last.
The rush is intoxicating, a high I’ll never leave behind. So I keep going, keep hitting,
keep banging with years of pain and anger and fear, all trapped in that damn closet.
There’s singing in the background, electric piano and guitar, the bass still strumming its
steady tune. But none of that matters, not to me. All that matters is that I can slam a
little harder, bruise a little more, run a little faster, always run a little faster, just keep
running and running from that house and that bottle and that place and that man and…
The song slows, and I slow with it. The singer’s voice rings out a birdsong melody,
falling on my ears like raindrops on dew. The piano behind it drips each key, as I begin
to lightly rattle my cymbals, building speed in their thundering reverberations. I can still
imagine it, same as back then, the cold rain on my skin, soothing the bruises and cuts
on my bare, sprinting feet. The rain was so kind, cooling my pain and holding me close.
That gray and stormy day felt so…real, so much warmer than the artificial light of all
those fake smiles. So, I ran away, away from those swimsuits and sunglasses, from
those days spent burning in the harsh sunlight, with a smile plastered on my face. I
stopped pretending I was happy drowning in a house made of sand. I chose the rain,
running through the streets as it dripped down my skin, speeding up with the snare of
my cymbals. It fell in sheets, washing off blood and guilt, soaking my body in a cold
embrace.
The song finally builds again, taps turning to strikes as rain splashes to the beat of my
beatings. My hits land as his did, hard and fast, taking every piece of skin, every scrap
of noise. Cymbals crash like roars, screams of who I’m supposed to be, who he made
me, yelling and hurting until they become nothing but noise. They’re in the background
now, joining the birdsong melody, overpowered by the roar of my drumming. I have to
keep going, have to keep hitting, keep moving, keep running, keep fighting and fighting
and fighting until they’re finally gone and I’m finally free and it’s finally over and it’s
finally
Over.
The song’s over.
I feel my chest heaving, sticks falling from my grip. My bandmates have looks of
concern painting their faces, each drawn in its own unique way. Saori’s face is full of
sympathy, and more than a little worry, but she doesn’t approach to comfort me. She
can’t. Exes have their boundaries, after all. Sage’s hand is on my shoulder, I can tell
he’s asking if I’m ok. I don’t bother responding. Jeda’s face is practically emotionless, as
usual, but it’s forced this time, a mask atop a mask. Dave sets down his bass, and
tosses me a bottle of water from his fridge, wordless. His lack of humor says more than
any words could’ve.
There is a tense silence, in Dave’s garage, the humming of summer crickets only
serving to enhance the awkwardness. I chug the entire bottle. It tastes like rainwater.
“Let’s go again. The other one.”
There’s a spiritual nod as everyone resumes their positions. I pick up my drumsticks,
loosening my wrists once more, before flicking them against each other, releasing four
sharp taps.
Dun, dun, dun, dun
The moment the fourth beat hits, I feel the hum of electric guitar reverberate through my
chest, strumming along to the beat I’ve set. The song kicks into high gear, what once
was a birdsong turns to a lion’s roar, as the bass matches my beat. I’m in the
background, restrained, timing to the rhythm of the song. And yet, somehow, I’m not. I’m
not just a piece of the background. I’m a piece of the whole, of this whole, of a roaring
and beautiful piece of pure, unadulterated emotions. A piece of a whole, a member of a
home. Of a family, playing a song in the rain.
I remember the raindrops running across my skin. They’re calm, cooling my burning
anger and pooling in my hollow bones. The song slows, as the rain builds in speed and
intensity. I can feel the storm, roaring in my ears and crashing against my skin,
raindrops thumping against my drums and cymbals. The singer rings out, her voice
getting higher and higher, more and more powerful with every second, every cry. It feels
like pure, unbridled anticipation; building in every fiber of my being, every raindrop of my
storm. Her note reaches its pique, and it’s almost time. My hands lift, as she goes silent,
tension burning in the air, even the crickets quieting their little muses. It’s like rain,
floating in the air, waiting for my signal to fall.
With a breath, I let them, splashing into cymbals with the force of a tidal wave, bringing
the world back to life. I submerge in the moment, consumed by the beat of the music
and the rhythm of my soul, the dripping tune of raindrops flying off my instruments and
bouncing off my skin. Running and drumming, splashing, not punching, banging my
emotions into the dust with everything I have, everything I feel. It should be bloody,
scrappy, painful and hurting. A broken tooth and a curdled choke. Instead,
it’s…beautiful, water glowing in a kaleidoscopic array of vibrant and colorful sounds that
reverberates off my broken and bruised drumsticks, glowing brighter and brighter as I
drum faster and faster, running though the rain and drumming through the pain,
smashing cymbals and dodging shouts, tears in my eyes and pain in my chest, all
pushing me towards one, singular, infinite thing:
Freedom.
I let out one final swing, with everything I have, scattering noise, bloody and fractured
and painted every color.
I let the sticks drop, in Dave’s garage.
I take a breath, deep and ragged.
And I start talking.