Lestat de Lioncourt
Sympathy For The Devil~♡
The girl sat, cross legged, on her bed. Her guitar lay at her feet as she sat, her head to the wall, just listening to the radio next to her, which at the time played out those soft lo-fi beats which seemed to soothe her. Every now and then it'd change songs, but she didn't mind. The girl was so engorged to the radio, her mind wandering off into the world. She began to think; Who else was listening? Was anyone out there willing at all to just sit and listen, like she had for the past month?
Suddenly she jerked awake. Sunlight streamed through the slits of her broken blinds as she sat up, leapt out of bed and took her guitar by the neck, slinging it onto her back like a soldier would his gun.
She exited her one-room apartment and locked it behind her, petting her pet cat in the process. She left down the hall and into the elevator, tying her frizzy hair up into a ball on the back of her head. The elevator jerked to life as she had this morning and, with a jolt of force that made her stomach jump to her throat, descended, and with the satisfying ding that she heard each morning left the building, onto the busy hustle of the street outside.
Late nights were her thing; she could be described as a night owl to some. To others, she had no sense of direction- her moral compass was a roulette table. Apart from her white hair and skin she'd received at birth, she was a normal 18 year old high school dropout, just waiting for the right person to be in the cafe at which she performed.
The aptly named “ Void Cafe” at which she worked was sparsely decorated, with paintings of seasides and beaches adorning the walls, which were painted a light cream colour. Her employer sank into the shadows as she entered, mumbling something about her always being late.
Her employer reminded her of one of those thumb- like minions from spy kids. He was a middle aged man, with a wrinkly but not saggy face and a severe lack of hair anywhere on his head. He was stern, yet kind at times, and payed her with a mixture of scraps of cash, coffee and coupons.
She entered the desolate- as usual- cafe and sat up on the raised platform which was called the “ mousetrap” by the cafe's usual customers for some reason unknown to her.
Her mind cleared as she set her guitar on her thigh, sitting down on the metal chair, and started strumming out some notes.
A few hours in and it was dark. What customers there were had left in a hurry, and she set her guitar down, leaning against the chair and stood up, speaking into the microphone she'd been singing into.
“ And that's all for tonight, ladies and gentlemen.”
She sighed and backed away, only to hear a slow yet certain series of claps from all around the empty room...
Suddenly she jerked awake. Sunlight streamed through the slits of her broken blinds as she sat up, leapt out of bed and took her guitar by the neck, slinging it onto her back like a soldier would his gun.
She exited her one-room apartment and locked it behind her, petting her pet cat in the process. She left down the hall and into the elevator, tying her frizzy hair up into a ball on the back of her head. The elevator jerked to life as she had this morning and, with a jolt of force that made her stomach jump to her throat, descended, and with the satisfying ding that she heard each morning left the building, onto the busy hustle of the street outside.
Late nights were her thing; she could be described as a night owl to some. To others, she had no sense of direction- her moral compass was a roulette table. Apart from her white hair and skin she'd received at birth, she was a normal 18 year old high school dropout, just waiting for the right person to be in the cafe at which she performed.
The aptly named “ Void Cafe” at which she worked was sparsely decorated, with paintings of seasides and beaches adorning the walls, which were painted a light cream colour. Her employer sank into the shadows as she entered, mumbling something about her always being late.
Her employer reminded her of one of those thumb- like minions from spy kids. He was a middle aged man, with a wrinkly but not saggy face and a severe lack of hair anywhere on his head. He was stern, yet kind at times, and payed her with a mixture of scraps of cash, coffee and coupons.
She entered the desolate- as usual- cafe and sat up on the raised platform which was called the “ mousetrap” by the cafe's usual customers for some reason unknown to her.
Her mind cleared as she set her guitar on her thigh, sitting down on the metal chair, and started strumming out some notes.
A few hours in and it was dark. What customers there were had left in a hurry, and she set her guitar down, leaning against the chair and stood up, speaking into the microphone she'd been singing into.
“ And that's all for tonight, ladies and gentlemen.”
She sighed and backed away, only to hear a slow yet certain series of claps from all around the empty room...
