The Music

Mel was sitting alone on the bus. She was on her way back from the office to the house share. She lives with four other "professionals", which were placed there by the landlord. They always just nodded or said "excuse me" but they never really interacted, which seemed to suit everyone. There was a lounge in the house that was all but abandoned, communal living was the last thing anyone here wanted. This is not a home for those who enjoy the company of others, or at least others so different from one another, just a place to live. She was listening to music, some new electro sound Sarah from back home sent her to check out. It was pretty good, and had a relaxing beat with a kind of organic flow, like an electronic Debussy. The music shut out the inane chatter of the other passengers which was the best part as far as she was concerned. She missed Sarah, even though it's been a dozen years since they lived in the same town. Under the bridge now, halfway to the house. She can't call it home. Home is a small quaint touristy village down south, where she wishes she was and at the same time fought to leave. This is just 'The House'. She's thinking that she better have some Ibuprofen at home, she's starting to get a migraine. She's not had one for ages, but why not, everything else turning to crap. I mean, her new supervisor that went to school with the boss's son got promoted over her even though she has way better productivity.

"Are you sure you're ready?'' they said, "this position is really a big change, are you sure you are up to it?".

They just wanted her to drop out of the running so they wouldn't have to feel anything for not giving her the job, not that they did feel anything anyway. They took the kid, James, ten years her junior out partying to celebrate. That was thirty minutes ago, she told them she had to be somewhere tonight, 

"So sorry I really wish I could" she lied. 

She had nothing. Every evening was the same. Coffee, eat, shower the stench of the office away and then read. 

The migraine is getting worse. Her stop is coming up. She pushed the button and stepped off the bus when it pulled over. 

"Thanks" she muttered to the driver as she left. 

The stop was about ten houses away from 'The House'. She went straight to her room for the pills, then to the kitchen. On with the kettle and a glass of water for the pills. The kitchen was immaculate as usual. Everyone always kept it clean so they wouldn't have to talk to the other residents. She took the coffee to her room, along with a salad bowl she picked up earlier in the day. She's still listening to headphones as she eats. She can't believe they invited her to go and party with them. Worse, she can't believe that she said "sorry" to them either. Why did she do that? She needed to get out of there. She's been saying that, no not saying but thinking that, for the last 6 six years. That's five years before the party boy showed up. He didn't even have a degree, and was always late because he was out all night partying with the boss's son, who will end up taking over at some point. 

She still has the pain in her head. 

She washed up and went for a shower. In the shower she noticed some dry patches on the skin, one of the others may have left some powder in the washing machine, have to be more careful. When she got out she dried off and put some moisturiser on her skin. She dressed in her pyjamas and put the laundry on, checking the powder drawer this time. All clear. She sat at the desk in her room and picked up a book. She tried to read but the headache was still there, so she put some music on and turned the light off and laid in bed. 

The music floated around her, she could almost feel the intersect in melodies swooping around the room and through her body as if they were exploring and studying the room and her. It's almost tickled. She reached to scratch his side. The dry patch wasn't sore, but it's gotten clammy, almost sticky. She might have to call the doctor in the morning. She carried on listening to the music, and despite a headache, she fell asleep. The alarm woke her at 7am, as usual. With a migraine that was far worse now, and her stomach was turning over too. She left a message on the company sick line, the first time in four years, and she'll call the doctor in two hours when they open. She set the alarm for nine and went back to sleep. 

Her alarm woke her, no not her alarm, her phone. It was the boss, she answered.

"I need you in" he said, straight to the point. 

"I can't" she told him "I have a migraine, and I think I have a bit of a fever too". 

"I'm out on my boat and we have clients coming in today, they need looking after. I need you in"

"Can't James do it?"

"He's with me, we can't get in".

"I'm sorry, I'm really can't"

There was a pause

"Not good really, is it?" 

Another pause.

"Sorry"

Another.

"Right" 

He hung up on her. 

Alarm went off. She called the surgery and they told her it was probably just irritants on the skin and headache will likely pass soon too. Call them again in three days if it persists and they will book her in for an appointment, the appointments take about two weeks. She thanked them and got a cup of water and a cup of tea. She took some more pills. She put her phone on silent and just listened to music in bed. She drifted with the music for a while and turned to her clock which said 01:21. She lost 4 hours? But it was dark out, sixteen hours then. His skin was sticky and flaky, bits were peeling away like she had sunburn. Her night clothes were sticking to her skin. She took them off and put them in the laundry basket and wrapped herself in a sheet. It was getting warm now. The music was on a loop, their full back catalogue, and her mind was feeling fuzzy, like she was resting her head on a bass speaker. The music flowed and vibrated through her, soothing her as her fever increased; she cocooned herself in the sheets. The music fluttered and swarmed passing through her, at once attacking and caressing her. She was enraged and entranced. How dare they treat her like that? Why does he put up with that boys club anyway? And the company doesn't make anything, they don't provide any service, they don't even sell anything. They are just middlemen for middlemen. What is the point? Who cares? Really Who?

She must have fallen asleep, she woke up anyway . Her sheet was solid. She carefully peel it off her skin and she climbed out of bed. She looked at the clock, 05:37, and it was light out, so afternoon then . The headache has gone and she feels refreshed, no longer aching. Her skin was still looking really bad so she went and showered. All the dead skin fell away, her skin was better than ever, softer and clearer. She made herself a coffee in the kitchen and went back to her room. She's feeling healthier than she had the last six years, maybe much longer than that. She actually felt good, her body and mind. She looked at the phone. It's been three more days since she called in sick. Thirty-two missed calls, all from work. And twenty texts, nineteen of which were from work and one from Sarah. She deleted the work ones and read the one from Sarah.

"Hey babe. Hope you like the music, reminds me of butterflies🦋 Miss you loads, wish you would come back. My mum needs someone like you to help her run the hotel, said the job is yours if you want it, you can stay there too lol. We need to catch up, call me when you can xxx"

She smiled. She knew what to do. She hit call back and asked Sarah if she could drive up and get her, and then started packing.