Henrietta was my best friend while she was alive. The last conversation we had was about how amazing her churchgoing boyfriend was. She was churchgoing too, so it worked out. I was happy for her. She seemed to have so much peace in her heart. It was another thing she did better than me, though.

With how religious she was, I figured only holy music would do. But I admit that I never really knew what kind of music she liked. We talked about her reality TV, her church, and my horror movies, but never music. I never expected a ticket to a hardcore show to be among her possessions.

When we last talked, why didn't she ever say something like: "Hey so there's this local band I'm checking out soon." Not that I have to know her every move – but it sounds like the type of thing you would tell your bestie, doesn't it?

I wonder, was there something about me that made her not want to mention it to me? Was she just embarrassed about it? Maybe ashamed?

I found out about her taste in music through a shoebox. Henrietta's sister, Beth, found it under her bed and gave it to my mom to give to me. Not that my mom filled me in on any of that. She just gave me the box while trying to make sure this whole "friend dying" ordeal was as miserable as possible.

Beth had to tell me herself last night. I realized I had her number in my phone and texted her to see how she was.

"Did you get my sister's things?" she responded. I figured out then how my mom ended up with the box. I asked her then why she gave it to me. "Because I think Henrietta's spirit wanted you to have it," she said. Girl watches way too many ghost hunting shows.

But I'm not my mom. I don't act like I know what's best for people, so I didn't say anything about that. I just thanked her and asked her to thank Hen's spirit for me later. I am absolutely sure that she did so, too. Probably with a Ouija board. I'm just glad she has something that gives her peace too. 

I'm jealous of Beth's supernatural peace like I was for Henrietta's religious peace. I can only be thankful that Beth isn't going through the same thing that I am. The only thing worse than my own misery is someone else's.

Where you are in the city of Morgan is marked by the tree-to-building ratio. More trees, you're south. Half and half, you're in the middle. Mostly buildings, barely anything to call a shrub – you're in the north.

I drive through a grove of buildings with thousands of bright, unblinking, square eyes. The eyes multiply, spreading higher and higher the farther I drive. I know I'm close to my destination when the squares are stacked 8, 9, 12 stories at a time. I then find myself in a forest of tall, blocky buildings. It's not long before I see "The Jetway" searing through the darkness in jittering neon letters.

Parking isn't too bad. It's busy but it's manageable. Getting out, I look around at all the cracked concrete and graffiti. It's got a real inner city vibe despite being thoroughly outer city, borderline suburban. Good kids come here to feel like bad kids. Bad kids descend from Kemper Park, a legit city, to escape worse kids. That's my impression of it, anyway.

I follow a troupe of kids with colored hair out of the parking lot. They have much more going on in their looks than I do – different little accessories, some chains, skinny jeans with designs printed on the back pockets. One of the girls looks like an old timey rockabilly girl with a pompadour and bandana. Their fashion assures me that I'm in the right place.

My own outfit is my best guess of what the "alternative crowd" might wear. So basically just lots of black. Black jeans, black boat neck shirt, black shoes, some random bracelets I found in my drawer. I'm a poser for sure. I'm okay with that.

I do have one thing that might work in this situation, though. Or maybe not. Luckily, I've misplaced the part of my personality that used to care about such things. I think maybe I left it somewhere in Hope Haven Memorial Cemetery, about 6 feet underground.

So I'm wearing my favorite article of clothing this evening. Not proudly, not boldly, just… empty-ily. Vacantly, there we go. The look I am going for this evening is apathy. I think I'm pulling it off too.

About 3 years ago, I was wandering around a used clothing store. I think maybe it was called… Miguel's? Either way. Buried deep in the men's section, on a rack as long as a school bus, there was something meant for me. I rescued it from Miguel's textile prison and brought it home. It's been with me ever since.

It's a purple-ass wax cotton jacket. It fits nicely, and it backhands the cold from touching my poorly insulated skin. Never have I shivered while wearing it. The best part of this jacket is on the back, though.

There's a big picture of a werewolf stepping out from behind a tree, stringy spit draping from its jowls as it stares ahead. He's staring at you, the one viewing the picture! He wants your skin for looking at him and he shall have it! Why? Because you are under a full moon, beneath his glow, and he is territorial of his dominion…

It was a limited edition jacket released 10 years ago to promote a movie called Beneath the Silver Glow. My favorite movie. I love scary movies, and the ones with monsters have always enraptured me. It felt like it called out to me when I found it.

I've barely ever worn it, however. Everyone tells me it looks bad. Shamefully, I have worn it most while just sitting in my room. I never could muster the confidence to wear it publicly. That ends tonight. Tonight, I'm going to live like I'm going to die on the way home. 

The troupe of colorful people make it to the front door. A guy with a braided beard and ear gauges big enough to fit two fingers through lets them by, barely glimpsing at their tickets. He is quite a large fellow. I'm pretty short already so next to him I'm microscopic. 

I have felt emotionally numb up until this moment. Now I feel apprehensive. Why is it that my feelings are dead except when I need to experience something bad like fear or sadness? I have to wonder where my brain's priorities lie, and if it's actively working against me at this point. 

Then I hear sounds behind me… footsteps for sure. Another patron to The Jetway?

No. This guy doesn't belong. He's got on a button up shirt and he's smiling too much. His hair is tightly cropped too. "Hello ma'am!" he says to me.

I try to answer, but my voice doesn't come. Instead, all I get is a weak, raspy sound. After screaming so much over the last few weeks, I wonder if I've become genuinely mute. But I force the words out and bark "Hi!" at him. 

He flinches. Then his goofy smile comes back. "Glad to see some enthusiasm! May I have just a moment of your time?"

Great. He's the wrong kind of weirdo. Not the fun kind, either. There's a pamphlet in his hand and it says "God will come soon! Will you be ready?" 

I want to say something nicer, but again, my voice isn't working without some power behind it. I realize that I sound a bit like chain-smoking snake, all this rattling and hissing my voice is doing. I give up and just shake my head no. I turn and walk away.

I hear him… following behind me. Skiff, skaff go his polished little dress shoes. I don't have the capacity, mentally or physically, for a proper deescalation. My voice apparently works only in full blast, so I blast it. "NO!" I yell, and the skiffing ceases to skaff. It's tactless, but effective.

If Hen were here, she would have had something witty to say. The guy would have laughed, and she would have found some masterful way to glide out of the interaction, probably involving a holy quote or two. Afterward, I know she would have said it was a sign for me to go back to church. Half-joking, sure, but still sincere.

If this was indeed a sign for me to go back to church, then the universe needs to learn some subtlety. What "Grand Design" involves sending a crazy person to hand out pamphlets on a street corner at midnight? If that is the kind of plans God comes up with, then our fate as a species is in the hands of an incompetent deity. Pretty sure that's not the case, though.

I turn away from the evangelist and I'm now eye level with a wide, off-white tank top. Judging by the barely contained body mass beneath, I'd say this is likely the chest of the Jetway bouncer. Seems I fled from crazy straight into scary. There's something truly intimidating about looking straight at someone and seeing only nipples. How can I possibly reason with nipples?

He lets out a long groan. I crane my neck to look at him. His eyes barely glint under the deep shadows pooling under his brow. He says something which vaguely resembles the human word for "ticket." I show him the slip of paper with "THE DEAD DROP KIDS" in big, bold, bleeding letters. This seems to appease the giant. His follow up grunt is slightly less terse.

I take a step forward but his huge arm falls between me and the impending music like a barrier arm in a parking lot. He growls at me again. I think for a second and remember this is a bar.  I pull my ID out of my little side purse (I forgot to say I have a purse, with bat wings on it. Yes, thanks, it is very cool) and show it to him. It proves that, despite my size, I am 21 years old as of a couple months ago. He nods and lifts his arm. I nod back and even give him a little curtsy. A gravelly chuckle comes from the braided mass of hair on his face. I still have no idea if he speaks the language of people.

Inside, the noise is pungent. You can smell the cigarettes and alcohol in the cacophony. The two sensations hit simultaneously. Not necessarily unpleasantly though. It has its own kind of dank charm. Like a dungeon with some lovely cottage decor.

Paint-chipped walls funnel the crowd around a corner. A wooden stairway arches over us at the turn, and most people have to duck under the beams bracing the steps. I don't. I walk by easily and before long I'm in the general "fun having" area of the bar. I don't know what to call it. Maybe a rock lobby? It's a big, open space between the stage on the far right and the bar on the far left. Some tables orbit around the bar, taking up about a fourth of the floor space. The end of the "bar zone" is marked by a giant living room couch of all things.

Being that I am functionally miserable, I have no issues walking up to the first interesting person I see. I ask a gorgeous woman in a corset and thigh high boots the first thing that comes to mind: "Excuse me, where is the restroom?"

Amazingly, it comes out pretty coherent. It's so loud that I naturally just have to scream to communicate. The woman looks at me a second, definitely sees my jacket, and definitely has some kind of nonverbal reaction to my whole getup. Who knows if it's positive or negative. I don't speak "unspoken" and I don't care to learn it tonight.

"In the back," she answers. "By the bar."

"Thanks," I say. Then, "Hey, sorry. Can I ask you something real quick?"

She nods. She's smiling very wide too. But not the same way as the evangelist guy before. That was the empty, hypno-smile of someone who has traded their feelings for faith. This woman's smile is different, genuine. I just can't tell yet if it's warm or mocking.

"I just turned 21. I have never drank before in my life. Can you recommend me something?"

She covers her mouth to giggle. That's one tally for "mocking smile." This may be going badly. Oh well.

"I know it's weird, sorry. I just came here alone and decided maybe I should… give up sobriety?"

I then notice the three other people around the girl. They are giggling too now. A guy with long hair and a nose ring points at me. "Where'd you get that jacket?" he asks. 

Two tallies for "mocking smile," now multiplied for three additional faces. Might as well commit to the bit at this point.

"I got it from a guy named Miguel. He owns a clothing store and it sucks. But I liked this so I got it." I turn to show the werewolf on the back, because if I'm going to be a clown for their amusement then I'm going to dance, damn it. "This is the only friend I brought with me tonight," I explain.

The group laughs. I can feel my face getting hot. It's weirdly nice. I haven't spoken this much in a while, and I've felt more in the last 30 minutes than I have in the last week.

"Why'd you come alone?" asks a skinny guy in a beanie. "Do you just love Dead Drop that much?"

I shake my head no. "I never heard of them until last night. And I only heard their music for the first time this morning."

Beanie guy shares a look with nose ring guy. The two double over laughing. The tallies counting the amount of "mocking" I'm experiencing right now are in the dozens. Were I still a feeling person, I'd definitely stop now.

But I'm not so I don't.

"So what kind of stuff is on your Treble Brew list?" asks the other girl in the group, who has a sparrow tattooed on the side of her face. Treble Brew is a music streaming platform. I use it sparingly, mostly on long car rides or while I was doing math homework in college.

"Not much," I answer honestly. "Mostly just crappy pop music and the occasional butt rock band. Nothing good, for sure."

They all laugh some more. Beanie and Nose Ring say something to each other I can't hear while glancing over and pointing at me. Sparrow Face then touches Beanie on the shoulder and says something while laughing. Miss Corset leans in to talk to Sparrow Face. Conversation shuffles like this between them for another couple seconds while I stand with my hands in my pockets. I never really make out what anyone says. Apparently, I'm not included, even if I seem to be the topic.

I wonder why I did this to myself. Do I need to be made fun of to feel something? Embarrassment isn't great. It's not even better than what I've been going through. It's just more than the cold, endless nothing that's been my life as of late.

But that's enough dancing. This clown has to get moving now. To another circus, if nowhere else.

"Hey," says Miss Corset, a giggle boiling under her words. I can see the proverbial creme pie being aimed in my direction already. I'm not going to like these next words, I already know. 

"You going to the bathroom or the bar?" she asks.

"I have no idea. Why?"

"Well when you're ready to head to the bar, I'd like to sit and drink with you. Along with my friends here. I could give you my recommendation, if that's okay."

I'm so shocked that I smile. My cheeks feel like they're creaking, it's been so long since I displayed happiness on my face. "Sure. I'd like to christen my newly minted maturity with some strangers. Sounds fun."

Miss Corset laughs and suddenly it doesn't sound mocking at all. I don't think her laugh has changed, either. I think I'm just hearing her better now. Despite all the noise around us.

"My name's Rachel," she says.

"I'm Kyrielle," I say to her.

"Awesome name. Why are you so entertaining, Kyrielle?"

I shrug. "Because I'm mourning."