Things were going great
As I rode up the hill in harmony
Things were going great
Until the bitch came back at me

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I was riding the high of my freedom, of my good life. We had off for the rest of the summer, until mid November. That was an amazing break.

Every part of my existance, at that point, counted on Nikki. Just being around her made everything that much better. I was just...happier.

Yet, something didn't seem right. And I didn't want to know what. Not when things were going so good.

("I was a bad, bad, man," he says, "I was very bad.")

I reached out to wrap my hand around the drumsticks resting on the snare. It was a beaten up drum, as were most of my drum items. Every cymbal, every tom, every foot pedal, the stool I sat on.

It was loved. I loved it the way I could love the very woman I lived with.

("It was love," he sobs, "It was an act of courage.")

But, I didn't quite have the motivation to work quite yet. So I set the drum sticks down.

I heard the front door slam from the office/studio. I cocked my head and scurried out into the living room, to find nothing but the remnants of Nikki's perfume in the air. And a note on the front door.

Out with Spanks! I won't be back for dinner, It read.

I furrowed my brow. So I was alone for the night.

("How is any of that an act of courage?!" Mr. Mileston demands. "You did nothing right. Own up to your actions.")

I turned and skipped into the living room. I plopped onto the couch, in front of my open laptop, and surfed the internet while I numbly listened to the London Philharmonic Orchestra on Spotify.

("Stop," he pleads, "Just stop. It was good! I'm not bad anymore, I'm good!!")

I yawned. I needed more of something to do. And I didn't quite want to see my band, because I had been around them for three months, non stop. I loved them. But even I needed a break from them every now and again.

(Mr. Mileston doesn't stop. In fact, he presses on, "You think this is a joke? Do you even realize what your hands have accomplished? What your eyes have seen? What your mind is thinking?" They stare at each other. One is beginning to falter. And it isn't Mileston. The boy studders, "I'm good, I'm g-good. I'm a good boy." Mileston has had enough. He's done. "Shut up, 'buddy'!" he screams. "Shut the fuck up! Just shut it!")

I couldn't take it anymore. I shut my laptop and turned my head to look out the window. I had to face the facts: I was utterly bored. And I needed something to entertain me.

("Where do you get off, huh?" Mileston shouts. He is now inches from the boy's face. "You've caused pain everywhere. That makes you good?" The boy drops his head and begins to sob. "Don't fucking cry to me," Mileston whispers in his ear. "Don't you dare cry. I should be the one crying." The boy sniffles. He looks up. "I will kill you," the boy murmurs. "I solemnly swear that I will fucking destroy you.")

I yawned. I stood up, orchestra music still playing, slid on my pair of worn-out Vans sitting next to the door, tucked my phone into my pocket (It had been sitting on the stand next to the door, where the keys were kept) and just left. I just left the house, without an idea ("I WILL KILL YOU!" he screams, now rising. His hands are extending towards Mileston's throat, and Mileston doesn't move. "IT WON'T MAKE AN IMPACT ON YOU, OR ME!" The boy's voice grows louder. "I DON'T FUCKING CARE!") where I would be heading.

("Mileston," a deeper voice growls, "Let's go." And two sets of arms pry the boy from Mileston. He is injected with a sedative, and falls limp.)

~Expect the worse. This story will be concluded New Year's Eve~