I groan as the light of the morning sun invades my apartment through the window. The blinds are fucking useless, bent with gaps all over so at best they block a couple rays of sun at best. I pull myself up a little, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My back hurts like hell from sleeping on this worn couch; I’m fairly certain there is a spring in there trying to impale me every night. I check my phone—nearly time to get down to the pizza place. It takes a few hours to get ready every night and I can’t leave the other two hanging.

I find the strength to pull myself up off the couch, scratching my side while walking over and popping open the fridge. Looks like it’s pizza for lunch, again, like every other fucking day. I don’t even bother heating it up before chomping it down in seconds, gulping down my pitiable meal. Making my way over to the bathroom, I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower. The water is lukewarm at best, which is all I ever expect to get out of this thing. It rattles the whole time so relaxation is out of the question, but I can’t go in smelling like booze and depression if I want to keep my job. I get in enough trouble when I get pissed at anyone in the audience who heckles me.

“No-talent fuckers thinking they can judge me. Pricks probably couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.” A smug smile grows on my lips. I may not be famous, but I fucking know I can play music well.

After finishing up my shower and drying off, I almost grab the brush off the counter. For a moment, I thought I still had my hair before but then I run my hand across my scalp. I haven’t grown my hair out since I shaved it off a year after I left home. Every time I looked at myself in the mirror, all I saw was someone else I wasn’t anymore. Sad to think that one of the things Anon had shit on me for was something I let go a couple of years back.

I had thought I was non-binary; it seemed so right for me when Trish brought it up. But the more I focused on it and learned who I was, without anyone pressuring me, the more I realized that it wasn’t really me. I had been so eager to accept something new to make a new me feel less depressed that I latched onto the idea without understanding it at all. Just another piece of me I left behind, though a part that I guess never was really me at all. I’m still Fang, though, through and through, just a fuckton more miserable. I still can’t believe Trish tried to get me to wear a leotard! I roll my eyes at the thought.

I touch the stubble on my head a bit longer before sighing. As I look for my eyeshadow, I catch sight of my old orange and purple makeup. I had brought it with me when I left, but I stopped wearing it ages ago. All I wear now is my black eyeshadow and lipstick. The only colorful thing on me is my necklace and my own blue scales. I slip on a fresh set of clothes, same as I was wearing before, not that I have much of a wardrobe these days. I stare into my eyes in the mirror, watching a single tear streak down my cheek. I had such high hopes before, now I just feel empty. What is even the point? Why do I keep on pushing on when I have so little to live for?

Closing my eyes, I crush the thoughts out of my head. Naser would be devastated if I killed myself. My parents—even if I am barely on speaking terms with them—don’t deserve to have to bury their daughter. On a smaller note, I’d also be fucking over my bandmates. They need what little we make every day to survive, same as me, so I can’t leave them alone.

“Just keep doing what you are doing, Fang.” I look myself dead in the eyes as I straighten up. “Someday, something might change. You don’t know. It can’t just be one miserable day after another. Something will change…it has to.”

Nodding to myself after my tiny pep talk, I put on my boots and grab my bass. I can’t waste any more time moping and feeling sorry for myself…I’ve got work to do. The streets of Skin Row are even more of a disaster these days than they had been four years ago when I had been here with Anon. Trash litters the streets and there is at least one new chalk outline in the alleyways each day. Homeless dinos and humans alike line the sidewalk holding their hands out to anyone who has change to spare. I’m not one of them—every cent I have goes to rent, cigarettes, booze, and food, specifically in that order. I probably should have food further up, but I get enough cardboard pizza for free for working and it keeps me alive, if only just.

Lighting up a cheap cigarette, I take a deep draw, stifling any coughs trying to push their way out. I blow out smoke as I look out at the streets, covered in potholes and puddles. What few cars even drive this far down are pieces of junk, held together with duct tape and prayers. One drives past me with its muffler dragging across the pavement, leaving sparks in its wake. I’ve lived here long enough that the locals don’t bother me anymore—they know how poor I am and that as scrawny as I look, I can still fucking end any bastard that tries to steal my bass. My claws are still pristine and sharp; I have to take care of my ten personal defense weapons in this part of town. Finishing off my cigarette with one last breath, I flick it into the street, not bothering to stamp it out.

As I turn the corner, the grungy Pizza Time sign comes into view. My tiny shitty oasis in this sea of refuse and broken dreams. The walls in the alley are covered in graffiti, the employee entrance door the only thing spared the local artists’ attention. The sign in front of the store has lost a couple of letters and on the window hangs a “now hiring” sign, for all the good it does. Ever since I showed up, I don’t think I’ve seen another new employee. I guess this city ran out of fuckups looking for a last chance to survive on minimum wage. I make a little more than that—perks of being a performer, I guess, though it is nothing to write home about. It’s enough to keep me in my vices so it’s all I need.

I push open the side door and the smell of smell of cheap greasy pizza greets me. Not that they can afford quality ingredients in Skin Row, but it’s practically a miracle that they’re serving actual real meat instead of whatever they can scrape off the sidewalk after a hot day. As pitiful as it is, this is the one place I can smile, here in the back. The kitchen staff are always kind to me, greeting me like it is the best day in the world. It keeps me going. At least to these people, I am someone more than a faded and dead musician. One in particular is always the kindest—the owner, the man who had given a run-down pterodactyl a job when I had run out of hope.

“Hey hey, Fang! Good to see ya! How are you doing this evening?” Dave smiles up from his oven, feeding another pizza into it where it slowly slides across the conveyor track under the heat. He can’t afford a brick oven down here nor the cost to operate one, but no one complains about freshly heated-up pizza. Dave is a large baryonyx, his snout dwarfing my own with rows of sharp teeth. He has bright orange scales speckled with brown and red, and a long stiff tail. His eyes are an intense crimson but if you know him, they won’t scare you. He has a heart of gold—he just has to act tough outside so he won’t be taken advantage of by the fuckers that live here. He always wears casual clothes with a thick white apron, filled with all sorts of utensils for carving up pizza and ingredients.

“Hey Dave, I’m doing alright. Just another day in the office, ya know.” I wave and smile at him. I’ll never let him know how close I am to the edge every day; it’d break his heart.

He laughs heartily at my poor attempt at a joke, giving me a slap on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it, Fang. The rest of the band is waiting for ya in the back room. I’ll have some fresh pizzas in there for you guys in just a little bit.”

“Thanks Dave. I appreciate it, as always.” He gives me a quick nod and I head down the hall to the sounds of the drummer testing out his kit accompanied by the soft strumming of someone tuning a guitar. I push open the door and take in the sight of my home away from home. A lightly furnished break room where we spend time between sets every night. There’s a microwave, and a stack of paper plates with a few grease stains scattered on the counter. I have taken to scrawling lyrics and notes in my corner with chalk, with plenty of dust lingering around from erasing my mistakes. It is a hell of a lot cleaner than my apartment, mostly because someone else does all the cleaning for me.

In the corner, messing with his drums and getting into the mood, is Jacob. A tall and skinny gallimimus, his arms are the only buff thing on him from all the practice he put in every day. I thought their speed was only in their feet but with how swiftly he can hammer out a beat, it’s crystal clear it went to his arms as well. His scales are dark green with bright stripes of red across his neck and snout, with brilliant light blue eyes and a tuft of dyed teal hair covering his head. Skin Row can’t keep him down; he is going places…as soon as he decides to finally leave this place, that is. Too much of a homebody to try to escape anywhere yet.

Off to the side twisting the pegs on his guitar is Benjamin, though he always goes by Benji. He is a little taller than me, but shorter than Jacob with a lean build. He runs to work every day as he lives on the edge of Skin Row, and I’m still not fucking sure why he chooses to come here. He never drives his car because he wants to keep his tires. I can’t blame him, though it’s not like anyone would steal the junker. He is an impressive utahraptor, with feathers running along the length of his head and back all the way down to his fluffy tail. A short layer of feathers also runs along the underside of his arms. His feathers are beautiful shades of gold that compliment his dark yellow scales, with his snout being a lighter hue of yellow and his eyes piercing green. He is the most artsy of the three of us, always dreaming up crazy ideas on how we are going to go big someday. I never will have the heart to break his dreams, but I really have not been planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

Setting down my bass with an audible thud, I take a seat down on the couch, crossing my legs as I call out to the boys. “Hey guys, sorry I’m a little late, had some trouble waking up.”

Benji flashes a toothy grin and shakes his head. “It’s no problem, Fang. We were just practicing anyway. Never know when we’ll get discovered and get out of Skin Row before we get shanked.”

I sigh, snapping open my case and pulling my bass up onto my lap, plugging in a small amp. “I wish I had your optimism, Benji, I really do. But I’ll be honest, I’m okay with just surviving for now.” I pluck a few strings, making sure it didn’t detune while bouncing around on my walk here. The deep tones rumble across the room finally startling Jacob out of his focus.

He looks around for a bit before his eyes fall on me and as he smiles. “Oh, hey Fang! Didn’t hear you come in. How’s it going?”

“You wouldn’t notice an earthquake busting the building around you when you are in the zone, Jacob. It’s going okay, another day in paradise.” Not that I show any signs I am happy…to me, this is just one more day and another paycheck.

He nods before putting down his drumsticks. “You’re right. Place could blow up and I wouldn’t notice. Anyway, since you’re here now wanna get some practice in before we go on stage in a little bit?”

I shrug. “I don’t see why fucking not, nothing else to do before showtime anyway.”

With that, Jacob picks up his sticks and spins back to his drums with Benji not far behind standing up with his guitar in hand. I scoot forward on my seat and start us off, with the other two joining in after they figure out what song I am playing.

I’ll admit I like these two dweebs. I still remember the day I met them down here. The three of us looking for a job, like fate brought us together to form a new band. It sucks for them that the one person they had to run into was me. I wonder where they would be by now if we hadn’t stuck together these past four years. Probably not still playing in a pizzeria day after day. God, I hope I haven’t ruined their fucking lives.

I hum along to the beat, sparing my voice for when the show starts later. I can barely get through a full set as it is with how hoarse my vocal cords have become after years of heavy smoking. Not that I have any intention of stopping, nicotine being one of the few things getting me through the day.

Benji is happily shredding away at his guitar; he is equally good at bass and even offered to let me front line with the guitar, but I pushed it aside. I still don’t want to touch my guitar, maybe not ever. Jacob is once again lost in his own world yet keeping perfect pace with the both of us. He doesn’t belong here. I hope he gets out soon. I hope they both do. No one deserves to be stuck at a dead end with me holding it all down with my apathy. I can’t help it…it’s a struggle to even wake up in the morning these days.

As the minutes fly by it grows close to showtime…well, what passes for showtime in the middle of a pizzeria in the dumps of Skin Row. We gather up our instruments and amps and finish setting up the stage. The dimly lit restaurant has scant few patrons filling out a few booths and seats as I scan the crowd. I never expect many people to show up. To be honest, I am happy with the handful that regularly passes through, the poor dregs of this society long having given up on their dreams, just like me. The same human has come in every day since I’ve been working here, eating a burger, which for some reason Dave always makes for him. They are old friends, I guess. Always a new teenage couple in one of the booths making out, like it was some thrill to get your rocks off in the dingiest corner of town. I can only wonder how many of them never make it home with their wallets.

Oddly enough, there is a new face in the crowd, if you can call it a face. He is hidden in the back corner, furthest from the stage, a black beanie and black sweatshirt on with a pair of ragged navy jeans. Something about him seems familiar but I can’t put my finger on it. Not that it matters, he’ll come and go same as all the newcomers did, lasting a week at best before hauling ass out here. I feel like he is staring straight into my soul. It makes me a little uncomfortable, I’ll be honest, but nothing else is going on in here…I suppose eyes will be drawn to the only things moving around here.

I plug my bass into a larger amp before stepping up to the microphone, a dim spotlight illuminating us as we begin our show. I introduce the band before preparing myself for another night. Most of my songs these days are a mix of depressing and sometimes soul crushing, but I always stick a few more moderate songs in. I don’t want to drive anyone to fucking suicide listening to me no more than I do to myself writing each one. Jacob is providing a pleasant beat to my song while Benji keeps pace with my soft but deep notes. My voice crackles across the tiny speakers dotting the stage, the cheap microphone doing its best job not to deafen anyone with feedback.

My eyes are closed as I finish the first song before I slowly open them to see the reaction of the crowd. Neutral, as I always expect, same as any other night. Except for the newcomer. It seems like he has seen a ghost as he leans forward in his seat getting a better look at us, or more so me. He has a dumbstruck look on his face with whatever is going through his mind. Not that I really care…. Gawk all you like, whoever you are, you’ll forget me by the end of the week.

The set goes on, song by song as the hours dwindle into twilight. Nearly all the patrons had long since checked out. A few pay attention up to the last song, until only one person in the crowd is still even looking at us. That one skinnie who seemed on the edge of his seat the whole time. As indifferent as I am to life at this point, it still feels good to see someone really seeming to enjoy everything we played. Far different from the normal lazy gazes we got from the desperate folk struggling to afford a meal day to day.

I sigh before stepping back up to the mic to close the night. “Thank you all for listening. We have been Strands of Silver. We’ve got merch up front if you want any. Good night, Skin Row.”

With that, I step back away from the mic, turning to unplug my bass and pick up the amp. I look out one last time into the crowd and whoever it is, he’s still there, though it looks like he’s fighting an internal battle and losing as his head is clasped in his hands. I shrug. Whatever problem he is having isn’t any of mine. I’ve got to get home before it gets too dark to see, with how half the damn streetlights are out.

As we gather up our stuff and head to the back, Jacob speaks up. “You know, our band name made a lot more sense a couple years ago.”

I scowl as I sling my bass case around my shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. I just…I don’t want to grow my hair out right now. Every time I looked at myself in the mirror…just no for right now, Jacob.” I run my hand across my scalp, the stubble a faint reminder of what once was.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry Fang, I didn’t know it was a sour subject. It’s alright, the name is still pretty fucking cool.”

I sigh as I give his hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s alright, Jacob. Someday maybe I’ll grow it back out, for now though it’s stubble Fang all the way.”

“Fine by me! I need to get going though. Thank Raptor Jesus Dave lets me keep the drums here. It’d be a bitch to haul ’em back every day.”

“Lucky you,” Benji says with a grunt as he steps in front of us. “I gotta go make my run while hauling a guitar case around.” He tightens down the strap so it presses against his body, keeping it from slapping the shit out of him on his run. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Take care.”

“See ya, Benji,” Jacob and I say in unison as the raptor pushes open the side door and sprints out of view.

“Guess I’ll catch you later too, Fang.”

“I’ll see ya later.” I wave and he too heads out the door, out of sight. It’s not long before it’s just me and Dave left inside. It is a little after eight, and the pizzeria doesn’t stay open into the night as there’s nothing but robbers and ruffians after that strolling the streets. The last customer to leave is my rapt audience of one. He glances back at me for a moment before walking out the door, his face a whirl of emotions as his eyes drift over me one last time. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him in here again, not that it matters. Still was nice to have someone seem to enjoy my shit for once.

I am leaning on the wall outside the employee entrance enjoying a smoke when Dave finally comes out, locking the five locks behind him. Not much to steal in there but people are desperate in Skin Row and anything has value to a pawnshop. I take a deep inhale, burning up a quarter of it as Dave turns to me and hands me a couple of pizza boxes.

“Don’t go smoking those too hard, Fang. Hate to ruin your beautiful voice with that stuff.” He puts on his jacket, stuffing his keys into his pocket as I roll my eyes at him with a smile.

“Ehhh Dave, don’t go trying to be my dad. I’ll be fine, I know how much I can handle, and the years haven’t destroyed my voice yet.” I tap the ash off the end as he sighs, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry Fang. I can’t help it…I worry, is all. You always look so tired these days. Is there anything I can do to help you out?”

I shake my head, flicking my cigarette into the alleyway. “I’m sorry but no, Dave. There isn’t really anything you can do ’cept keep paying me so I have something to eat every day and a roof over my head. I’ll deal with my problems. Don’t worry about me, okay?” I slide over, giving him a quick hug before picking my bass up off from where it was leaning against the wall. “I gotta get home. You know these streets aren’t safe after nine.”

He nods before walking beside me as we reach the parking lot. “I’ll worry about you anyway, Fang. See you tomorrow.”

He waves to me, me giving a limp wave in return before starting my walk toward home. Home…not that it is even much at all. Moreso a prison of my own making that I go back to every day, adding another scratch to the wall, wasting my days away in a swirl of smoke and booze. The streets are dead quiet, everyone already having fled indoors, the homeless gathering in groups for protection. No one bothers me as usual, too afraid to find out how dangerous I can be when backed into a corner. I punt a can into the street as I round the corner and head up the stairs into my building. The hallways reek of beer and spoiled food. I am pretty sure half of these apartments are abandoned and maybe even a couple have dead junkies in them, not a soul in the world caring enough to check.

I push open my door with my boot before closing it and locking the three deadbolts. Home, terribly depressing home, but it’s mine. One of the few things in the world that belonged wholly to me. I put the pizza boxes Dave gave me in the fridge, pulling out any of the ones with old slices that have turned to stone and tossing them in the garbage. My fridge is a shitty sight to behold. Alcohol of all types and a sea of pizza boxes, with the only difference being the single bag of nuggies I splurge on every month just to keep me sane.

I grab a plate and toss a handful of dino nuggies on it before shoving them into the microwave, staring as they spin inside. With a satisfying ding, my morsels are done. I take the plate and plop onto my couch, the errant spring stabbing me in the ass causing me to jump up with a yelp.

“Motherfucking son of a goddamn bitch that fucking spring!” A continuing string of expletives escapes me as I check to make sure it hasn’t ripped straight through my pants. No damage done except to my cheek as I settle back in. I can’t afford my normal BBQ sauce anymore, have to make do with whatever is on sale. Even with mediocre sauce they still bring me comfort as I toss a couple into my mouth, chewing them into tiny bits. It is one of the rare times when I can feel something at home other than misery. A comforting call of a place I long since left behind, of a life I had given up after it had all fallen apart. A few tears fall down my face as I try my best to enjoy my meal, broken up by sobs I can’t hold back.

After I finish the last one, I throw the plate down and cover my face with my hands, leaning onto my knees as I sob. I had such high hopes near the end of school. I was going to go places and live my life to the fullest, like a rockstar. Now all I do each day is go to a job, play for a couple of people, and try not to drag a knife across my wrists. My brother, my family, Dave, and my band are the only things keeping me from walking off a balcony.

“God-fucking dammit!” I shout as I slam my fists into my thighs. “How did my life get so screwed up? All I wanted was a new start, something to change so I could move past my fuckups.” I pull my knees up to my face as I bury it into them, sobbing and shaking on the couch.

One night on the beach is all it took to ruin my life. One night to take every dream I ever had and smash them to bits. That one night leading me to every bad decision I made that brought me to here, living in Skin Row but too fucking proud to go back to my parents and make up for lost time. Instead, I just sit here, waiting for the day where the reasons holding me back stop mattering and I’m another statistic for some chart.

Falling sideways, I pull the blanket up over me, my sobs slowing as my body gives in to exhaustion, resting my head on what little pillow remains. As I close my eyes, one thought came back to my mind: who was it that had been watching me play so intently? The person who seemed so entranced by my music but at the same time looked so miserable at the end. I don’t know why, but I hope he comes back. I want to not give a shit—like I did about everything else—but having an audience, it gave me a little bit of hope. I shouldn’t, though…hope got me where I am now, but I can’t help it. It's a dim light in a sea of misery and I didn’t know how long it will last, but it’s better than nothing. Sleep finally takes me away, the brief moments where there is relief in feeling nothing at all.