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Note: The stories I used to post are being discontinued, obviously. New me. New stories.

The Darkening of the Rose

Ayden rose stiffly in the early morning light. The night before had been a blur of booze and loud music, and now he was feeling the aches, although he was like to be used to it by now. He faintly recalled the taste of some strange girl on his lips, though he wouldn't have recognised her if she'd stood in front of him now. Smiling slyly to himself he grabbed a deodorant can off the end of his bed and gave himself a few sprays - enough of a wash for a twenty two year old, he figured.

Standing at 5 feet and 11 inches, Ayden wasn't ridiculously tall, though he liked his height. It framed his body well, or so he thought. In truth, he wasn't particularly healthy, evidenced by the small but noticeable belly he had hanging out from his freshly woken and naked body. His face was strongly defined and square-shaped, black, matted hair hanging loosely to his shoulders and meeting his thick brown coat, typical of wolves, yet that did not stop Ayden believing himself a stud.

Stepping out into the landing he decided that he was glad he'd finally moved out of his parents house into his own apartment. Not only was his privacy extended to near infinite amounts, he'd also decided his own routine, which usually consisted of waking up when his eyes opened and eating what wasn't coated in a light blue fur in the fridge. He was living the young New York dream alright, and loving every second of it. From the skyline he saw every time he opened his large window inside his 27th story apartment, to the bums he passed on every street corner begging for his loose change, it seemed to him as though he had stepped into the world of television. He had always had a soft spot for the homeless, and as such, ended up setting aside $20 a week in loose change to toss for them. They mostly seemed grateful, though one or two had given him trouble for the pittance he'd given.

"The fuck is this?" he remembered an old man in a patched brown coat shout after him. Ayden had flung him a silver dollar. "A man can't eat on a fuckin' dollar in this city, kid!". Ayden had chuckled his way home, though decided it would be best to quicken his pace, despite.

As it happened, he'd be walking by the same spot today. Here's hoping he's found a nice place to ram his silver dollar he thought bitterly as he stepped out into the chilly autumn (or for you true American wolves - Fall) air. Shivering and pulling a dark jacket tighter around himself he started walking down the end of the avenue, taking in the rancid smells of the city. Y'know you're home when there's rotting garbage over your street every morning... Although he was used to it, the stench still filled his nostrils and caused him to cease breathing through his nose altogether until he'd reached the subway.

On his way down, he registered two things - that the water pooling across the steps seemed oddly shiny, and that the world had flipped itself around. Next thing he knew he was hurtling his way down the flight of stairs, landing harshly on the freezing concrete below. Lying halfway down the subway steps he clutched at his leg and let out a loud cry of "Fuck". Trying a glance down, he found that, to his surprise, his leg was slowly dying his jeans a deep reddish colour. Another stifled curse parted his lips, but nobody was around to hear.

His 'wound', however, turned out to be no more than a deep graze into his kneecap. Testing his weight on it, Ayden eventually gathered himself together and, gripping the banister this time, descended the final flight of steps into the dreary subway.

The rest of his morning went much without a hitch, to his relief, and he soon found himself stood outside of a small, nameless off-license with a key hand, glancing at a small set of steps to the right of the shop. Full of glee he ascended the stone stairway and reached a bolted wooden door. Nothing particularly special had stood out the first time he had pushed the key into the door, and the paint had been more or less the same as it is now; cracked and peeling. There was a sharp edge to the handle where the curve had rusted loose one morning. But once he had stepped foot inside for the first time he knew that this was perfect.

"Ayden always had a passion for music" his mother would boast, though he never had much talent, in truth. Often he had tried a hand at singing and found that, whilst being able to carry a tune, he could hardly call himself good. And so he had fallen into the New York Dream's well implemented nightmare. Full of hopes he had set out for the legendary city, and when he arrived it had chewed him up and spat him back out amongst the other hopefuls. Penniless, homeless, he had almost been forced to move back to Cornwall in the U.K, back to his parents home. But as he slid the key into the lock for the first time, gazing on the chipped, dark-red door, he knew that this was his best chance at making a place for himself.

The door swung open effortlessly. Not much good against thieves, but who would ransack a place like this?. Or, at least, those were his first thoughts. The utter transformation of the small room was enough to make his heart swell with pride.

Inside the cramped space there were instruments of every sort hung on the walls, leaning upon rusting metal stands in corners, and even a few brass instruments hanging from the ceiling. The carpet was a deep red, mostly to hide the filth dragged in by customers, but Ayden felt it also gave a homely feel to the place. He threw his rucksack into a back room no larger than a cupboard, and turned to face the rest of his recording studio, taking in the musky smell of dust and switching on the main light in the room, basking it in a warm orange glow. Enough nostalgia. Work to do.

Hours later Ayden found himself caught in the depths of a book entitled "Fur and Furribilia". He often had to pass the long days reading, or else doing something to distract himself from the severe lack of customers. He had his usuals, of course. 'Trashy' Joe and his lot most Mondays, a name he had thought fit to dub them the third time he had failed to pay on time; Liam and his band 'Haunted Tranquillity', who created music so heavy Ayden hadn't thought existed before he came to New York, and half a dozen others. But today was sunday, and as he'd promised himself, he was open seven days a week... even if he did open late.

Just as he reached a particularly grisly scene of his book the door swung open with a click of the lock, followed by the sound of a half-arsed bell, one that he'd meant to fix months back and which now scraped tiny wood shaving off of the door every time it opened. In stepped an unfamiliar face. She stood in the doorway, looking around slowly with a laugh just fading from her lips. Her skin was very fair, at least the parts Ayden could see, the parts which weren't canopied in dark inks. Her tattoos were as strange as her hair, which was knee-length and dread-locked, with dark reds and jet blacks faded in. Large, black symbols stretched across her upper arms and, from what he could make out, her legs as well, and all seemed joined at some point. She looked like an enormous canopy for some strange Celtic symbol.

Ayden felt oddly aware of how mundane he must look in his pre-worn jeans and stained shirt, but he did his best to stand behind the counter and look cool; something he had never been very good at, and which now was causing his palms to moisten even as she simply entered the room.

After a moment her voice penetrated his somehow deafened ears. "Hello?". Ayden was suddenly aware that she was staring right at him, and ripped his eyes away from where she had stood moments before.

"Sorry" he said, his voice coming out confidently, thank God. "What can I help y'with?". Although he was raised in England, his time in the States had definitely blended his accent to a strange concoction of sounds, some the harsh wails of New York, and most his stereotypically well pronounced Englishman. Thankfully, the girl just smiled and carried on as though nothing was amiss, something Ayden felt almost eternally grateful for.

"Just lookin'" she replied in, to his surprise, a flowingly silky Scottish accent. As she neared the small recording booth he had set up from the 'loan' his parents had arranged to lend him, under the impression he could pay them back within a few months (something which never quite materialised), she craned her neck for a glance through the rectangular window. Inside was nothing out of the ordinary than you'd expect: a microphone set up with spit-guard, a drum set and several guitars and basses with their amps connected up to their own recording equipment. "Right, I'm gonna be honest with ye here, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I want to start up looking for a band". Her thick accent flowed fast and left little room for misinterpretation, and so Ayden found himself stammering his reply

"A-alright, well, do you play an instrument?"

"A little guitar when I was younger, piano, but mostly I sing". She waved her red-tipped dreads from her face and fixed him with a stare.