You, Me & The Band On The Second Floor - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Nine drunken hours later, in the hung-over morning...
~*~*~*~*~*~
There was this beat. Rhythmic, monotonous. It was muted, like hearing it through thick glass.
I groaned. My head pounded heavily, thrumming & constant.
I scowled, my eyes shut tight, trying to avoid the increasing sunlight shining upon my closed eyelids. I moved my shoulders, which ached with a muted pain from the position I lay. My fingers twitched.
My eyelids began to flutter. I groaned as I was blinded momentarily from the sunlight. I squinted, my eyes adjusting slowly, my head pounding.

"Naomi..." I moaned. I felt groggy. I lifted my head, my neck aching. I was faced down on something scratchy, with a tingling lingering sensation on my cheek when I lifted my head up. My eyes focused; I was lying faced down on a carpet, to my & Naomi's bedroom.
At that very moment, I was a little disgusted with myself. I lay there on the floor with a confused expression & unstable hung-over mind. I couldn't remember anything from last night. It was just a thick haze, like a mental wall was built in my mind.
"N-Naomi?" I asked, my voice hoarse. I lifted myself gingerly off the floor with weak limbs. I stood, & staggered.

The room was a mess; clothes were strewn across the floor, make-up was scattered along the dresser, a bra hung from the light on the ceiling, a half-empty pizza box sat beside our king-sized bed, Naomi lay in an awkward position beside our TV-set, her legs spread out and her arms covering her eyes. Sunlight streamed in from the window, the curtains drawn.
Naomi snored loudly, her mouth hanging open and her nostrils flaring, her mascara smudged and her lipstick smeared over her left cheek.
I trudged over to her, & poked her harshly with my index finger, "Naomi, get up..."
She grunted, & muttered something in a vicious tone. Her brow creased, frowning her eyes shut.

I sighed; I knew better than disturbing Naomi when she's sleeping soundly, or on the verge of a mind-shattering hangover. She clutched her handbag closely, & started snoring again.
Naomi Coleman is my best friend. For all I can remember, she has been by my side when we were four, she helped me build sand castles; when we were seven, she helped me with my homework; when we were nine, she helped me tell-off James Brown when he had taken my Barbie doll & painted a beard on her.
She's just two months older than me, we're both eighteen. We finished school just last month, & we've both been accepted into the St. Helen's Academy For The Performing Arts.

We rented this apartment together last month, at the start of June.
Believe me; most of the time, we are not drunk junkies who waste their money on booze & partying.
"Ahh," I moaned, my head thrumming, explosives going off in my head every second. I rubbed my forehead, brushing back my side bangs.
With heavy steps, I shuffled into our compact bathroom, opening the door to wall of aromas; Naomi had a habit of experimenting with my perfumes.
I walked over to the sink, turning on the cold tap; it gurgled for a half a second, then a grumbling of rushing water came streaming out. I cupped my hands, and washed my face. It stung, refreshingly cold. I looked at my reflection.

My hair was a charcoal tangled mess, sticking up wildly on the left side, as the other lying obediently immaculately flat. My mascara was smudged, purple bruise-like rings hung like shadows under my brown eyes, my foundation blotchy on my heart-shaped face.
My reflection grimaced back at me, "Ugh."
"Aspirin," I murmured, rubbing my pounding forehead, "I need a freakin' aspirin..."
I trudged out of the bathroom & into the kitchen, small yet wonderfully spacious. I opened the top cupboard; All Bran, marmalade, peanut-butter, granola bars. I check the next one, opening it with a slight creak; a Kit-Kat bar wrapper, strewn Cornflakes beside an up-turned box, ketchup & an untouched loaf of bread. I dug my hand in at the back, and felt along, my fingertips trailing over Cornflakes & dust. I felt the outline of a packet, & grasped it, taking it out.

I grinned, holding the packet of elusive aspirin. I opened it with fumbling fingers, & took out a small pill. I popped it into my mouth, & swallowed; the taste reminded me of acid & fish. I grimaced.
My head continued beating like an 808 drum. I groaned, & walked back to our bedroom, Naomi sleeping soundly. I fell onto my bed, clutching the duvet close. My muscles ached as they relaxed. I closed my eyes, begging for sleep.
The sound of Naomi exhaling noisily didn't bother me. It was actually quite soothing; it reminded me of home, of my snoring Dad. I drifted off to sleep, letting the dark covers of my eyelids keep me dreaming.

Abruptly, something sounded below me. I bolted upright, my eyes wide.
It sounded metallic. Strumming. Continuous, in the same pattern. Moving up chords, picking up tempo.
It came from the room below ours.
Then a swift beat came in. One, two - ah, one, two, three. It was really loud, yet muffled. Then a faint low undertone came in with that beat, kicking in with speed.
I scowled. This music was loud, filling my ears. I could tell it wasn't a CD playing, it was real instruments playing immensely loud.
The beat pounded, the guitar rocked out, the bass strumming; it flooded my thoughts, screeching in my head like a siren.

I closed my eyes in frustration, "Oh dear sweet Lord..."
Naomi moaned, pulling her handbag over her eyes, and grumbled. The music kept going, louder as a muffled voice settled into the verse. There was a quiet harmony, the voices male.
My head pounded, thrumming to the beat.
"Ugh! I'm going to freakin' kill them," I moaned, getting of the bed, & checking myself briefly in the body-length mirror. I was still wearing the clothes from last night; a ruffled white jersey tank hung loosely from my narrow shoulders, my low-rise creased skinny-jeans were splattered with what looked like mascara at the end, my cropped leather jacket seemed to be over-worn, & I was barefoot. I flattened down my hair, running a comb through it thoroughly.

I opened the door; immediately, the sound flooded in like water. I grimaced, feeling like I was an old man at a music festival. I plugged my ears with my index fingers, & walked down the stairs in a swift yet stumbling manner. At each step, my brain took a pound, & I winced; at each step, a strum of a guitar, & a beating of drums.
I came to the end of the stairs, & squinted my eyes as the sun streamed in by an open window.
I walked down the small hallway, the carpet itchy against my bare feet. I came to the door where the blasting music blared out of, room 06.

There are twelve rooms in this small apartment block, and only eight are occupied. There are three floors; Naomi & I live on the third, room 11. We aren't close with our neighbors, we've basically known them for less than a month; so, we've never really seen who lives downstairs - except for our little Scottish landlord, Mrs. Heyler.
I withdrew a quick breath, composing myself. I took my fingers out from plugging my ears; the sound screeched.
I rapped my knuckles on the door four times, & waited with baited, furious breath. I frowned; the music didn't stop, or even slow. In fact, I think I had gotten louder.
I pursed my lips, raising an eyebrow. Well, they had nerve.

I huffed & knocked heavier, shouting, "Hello?!" I banged my fist, hard.
Abruptly, the guitar cut-off; the drumming faltered, then stopped; much to my relief. A silence crept into my mind like a blanket, clouded my headache a little; the voices halted, then muffling of confused murmuring started. I heard footsteps, coming closer.
I waited, sighing.
The door opened with a slight creak.

A tall guy appeared. Tall, 6'01 at least. Lithe, yet strongly built, broad frame. Honey-blond shaggy luscious locks framed his oval face, hung over gray eyes. He was wearing a check red shirt hanging loosely off his shoulders, denim jeans, old converse, & a beanie hat. He had one hand held against the frame of the door, standing in the threshold, one hand in his pocket. He stared down at me with a rigid expression.
The minute the door opened, a waft of a some-what floral musky aroma hit my nostrils, making me salivate.
I was lost for a moment. This guy was hot.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice gravelly yet smooth, as he looked me up & down, taking in my messed-up hair, bare feet & creased clothes.
I cleared my throat, my sudden temper was a dimming, "Sorry, but would you mind if you stopped playing? You're just pretty freakin' loud, & me and my friend don't need that right now."
He seemed as if he was stifling a scoff.
He looked at me with a piercing gaze, "Sorry chick, but our band is playing a gig in two days & we need to be at our best. Yeah, so we're gonna keep on playing."
He shrugged, and smiled a little smugly. He pushed the door closed.
I held out my hand to stop it before it closed, my expression exasperated, my temper flaring.
What a jerk.