Trashy Band Losers - Chap 1 - Accident Prone - Updated a lil

-Trashy Band Losers (╬)- (Year: 2004)

Chapter 1 (Accident Prone • Jawbreaker)

★ Keith ★

Dammit.

The busted asphalt shines with rain. There’s nothing around—just trees and muddy, grassy patches of ground. Even more trees line both sides of the empty road. Oh, well—except Keith’s totaled car—that’s here too.

It’s not lost on him that this is nothing like that night at seventeen—just a muddy ditch this time, no screeching sounds of metal, no raw, white-hot pain, or blinding red-and-white lights. Still, the memories flicker and jump, unwanted, in his head, old scars itching beneath his skin.

His Nokia’s cracked screen blinds him when it clicks on. His wallpaper—a tiny, washed-out picture of Blue and Reid—stares back: their faces smeared in gross green muck; Blue’s bubbly smile a blur, indigo bangs sticking to her facemask. Reid—wearing his usual cocky grin—had left a couple of clean spots for his piercings, leaving his facemask with a few scattered silver dots. His hazel eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement— like always. (Why hasn't he changed his wallpaper yet? Well, it did take forever to get it on his phone in the first place—passing it from Reid’s clunky camera to Blue’s computer, then onto his phone with that wonky cable.)

Over their heads, the phone reads 8:23 p.m. in bright, fluorescent white, the blocky digits flickering.

Great.

Crashing on your way to an AA meeting—an AA meeting that's four hours away from your apartment. Not because there aren’t any closer—there definitely are. But the idea of running into someone he knows feels worse than the drive itself.

Super great.

With one hand gripping his crutch, the other is shaky and antsy, fidgeting with the buttons on his collar. His fingers brushing over the rough skin at his jaw—an uneven patchwork of old burn scars he can never ignore. Limping over to the curb, he plops down lazily, one leg bent at the knee while his bad leg is stretched straight. His forearm crutch abandoned beside him in the muddy grass—a familiar companion.

“Who’d pick up the phone this late...” he mutters to himself under his breath as he clicks through the short list of contacts, thumb fidgeting with one of his lip piercings, the cold, black metal biting his skin.

Blue would pick up—but it's Saturday night; she's probably already at her parents' place, staying over to see her father preach the next morning.

Sam would want to know why he's this far out of town, this late. And letting your older brother know your “small weekend drinking” has gotten AA-bad? Not how Keith wants to spend an already miserable night.

His boss? No. That's stupid. But stupidity might be his only option—‘cause who else is there?

Reid? Absolutely not.

Keith doesn't hate the guy—okay? They have a—uh—usual, semi-friendly-rivalry thing going, ya know? Bandmate stuff. Just two guys, with a mutual dislike for each other, who are mature enough—some more than others—to look past all that muddy junk for the band.

(And, ya’ know— Blue getting onto them for turning every disagreement into a shouting match? That might've helped with their unspoken agreement.)

Keith’s thumb—chipped with black polish—hovers over “Reid-Loudmouth” in his contacts. He tells himself it’s just a habit now—muscle memory or whatever, too many midnight talks about gigs or setlists. It’s not. But it’s cold, dark, he’s in the middle of God knows where, and the cherry on top? His leg is starting to flare up, and his back is throbbing—a dull, achy reminder of crashing his car into a muddy ditch.

God, can he even afford to get the stupid thing fixed?

Jaw tight, he clicks it. The tacky button jams a bit as he does.

As he waits for Reid’s scratchy voice to come through the battered phone, Keith fidgets with the stickers stuck to the case—gifts from Blue and Reid—listening to the quiet hum of the ringing tone.

The road is empty. The phone keeps ringing.

The numbing, relentless cold gnaws at him.

“Come on, Reid,” he murmurs into the quiet night, nothing but the near-silent sound of rain and his own breathing to keep him company. “God, don’t make me call my boss.”

****