jericho. / seven fin

I fucking hate Mondays.

For one, it's right after the weekend, and who the hell wants to go back to school? I'm barely scraping by in my classes and all of my teachers are annoying little shits, so yeah, I try to avoid that place at all costs. Sometimes I try to sleep in but Melody always smothers me with a pillowcase and drags me out of the house by my hair because, "You can't hope to succeed in life without an education."

Bullshit.

Utter fucking bullshit.

Either we become lumberjacks and wear nothing but cheap flannels and drown out the rest of our days in whiskey or we become part of Pop's Covey full-time and perform antiques of songs in bars and shit for a measly change. I'd pick the latter. It wouldn't be a fancy life or anything, no marble staircases or diamond chandeliers like the Salazar's, but at least we would be happy. Scratch that. Look, maybe we wouldn't be happy but at least we wouldn't have to bury our sorrows in vodka after work every day just so we don't have to feel anything like some of the guys that work in the lumber mills. It's depressing watching them come home from the forest each day, sweat sticking to their skin and heads hanging low, it totally ruins my vibe.

I don't know why Mel thinks it'll be different for her. She spends so much time lingering on her schoolwork or having her nose-dived into her perfectly methodized notes that I think she's losing this part of her life. The time where we don't have to brood about going to work each day and we can just get high on the roof of some random bar or get so shitfaced drunk that our vision becomes hazy and we can no longer see what's in front of us. Mel doesn't realize that those things don't work out for people like us, we aren't the ones who receive those flashy scholarships or those coveted positions. We don't get second chances or promises of a future. People like us aren't that lucky. We live and we die and the best we can do is try not to hate our fucking lives.

There's a thin line between hope and delusion and Mel toes that line incessantly. And I think the worst part is that she doesn't even let me copy her fucking notes!

Once I skipped class and decided to play one of the songs Pop used to lull us to sleep with when we were kids in the square for some change. Momma always said that music was in our blood, it coursed through our body like veins and rooted itself in our soul. She always liked to exaggerate. But I felt like it gave me a purpose, Melody found her heart within her books and I found mine within my guitar. I was never one to want to chop wood for the rest of my life and I don't think I'm smart enough to sell drugs. I'd probably blunder the easiest deal and get sent to the detention center. Plus I'm a total clutz, I once tripped over nothing, like literal intangible air tripped me up.

So that leaves Pop's Covey.

I grew up around them, a toddler with pudgy arms and stars for eyes looking up at them strum their guitars and violins. Pop was always in the corner with his guitar and Momma was always singing upfront. The way he would look at her with so much love in his eyes. They let us join a few times, Mel and I, cradling us in their arms as they effortlessly harmonized melodies. Though now I think they did it so they could get some extra money. Like basically waving us to the crowd and saying, "Hey, starving children here please help us feed them." Mel was so into it then, sometimes if I concentrate hard enough I can still hear her little giggles. Then I guess life happened and now the only time I hear her sing is in memories. One day hopefully I'll get to hear it again.

But for now we're just stuck in the slumps of Seven with every other street rat. We're the bottom of the barrel, baby, but we make it work.