Coming Home

Chapter 1

"Shit," I mumbled under my breath as I realised that blood was slowly trickling down my hand for the second time that evening. I had cut myself. Again. The band aid already present on my thumb was now soaked in fresh blood.

I turned towards the box with the first aid kit, passing my co-worker, Tim, who was shaking his head lightly with a small smile playing on his lips.

"Rough night, Issy?" he laughed at me as I struggled to open the wrapper of two new band aids. One for each finger.

"I hate working Thursdays," I said through gritted teeth. Normally, I only worked at the bar Fridays and Saturdays but seeing as the next day was a university holiday, all the students were out to get pissed, causing my manager to assign me an extra shift working the bar.

"What if I highjack the jukebox and put on your favourite album for a while?"

"Mr. West always helps," I sighed and sent Tim a pout. He laughed at me and pressed a button on the jukebox, causing Kanye West to blare over the loud speakers. The choir from "POWER" rang in my ears and I started singing along quietly, already in a better mood. I knew that Kanye West was a dick, but in my experience, all musicians were.

The bar I was working at was your typical rock-and-roll-wannabe bar. We mostly played my alltime hate-genre; progressive rock. Ugh. A few months ago I had grown tired of the endless songs that always sounded the same; up-tempo guitar riff, a heavy beat in the background, and always some plain asshole-ish guy as the lead singer. It all sounded the same to me and one night I had had enough! I had practically marched over to the jukebox, had put on an old Notorious B.I.G. album and soon fell into relaxation as one old school rap song after the other flowed through the loudspeakers. I didn't even realise that someone had filmed me while I was pouring whiskey shots, rapping along perfectly. To my dismay, I had gone viral under the name of "The Rapping Bartender".

I had hated that 2 minute video, but it had made my manager very happy seeing as the bar had had a renaissance with the university students, making him eager to double the amount of my shifts. Even though I had only taken the job as a way to spend my weekends doing something more productive than working my daytime job from home or at my mum's house, I honestly didn't mind the extra shifts. The bar was fun - apart from Thursdays - and it was a great excuse to sneak in more rap music on the playlist and slowly phase out some of the rock and roll crap we would otherwise play nonstop.

Kanye West's POWER had died out and a song by my absolutely favourite rapper, Eminem, had started playing.

"I've created a monster, 'cause nobody wants to see Marshall no more. They want Shady, I'm chopped liver," I sang along, dripping absinthe over a sugar cube for one of the regulars I had been flirting a bit with the entire night. As bartenders do.

Completely lost in my flirting, I almost didn't hear the "Fuck, you still have a horrible voice," being muttered behind me. I froze. That voice. I hadn't heard it in six years and it was deeper than last time he had spoken to me, the accent not as thick as it used to be but I would've recognised it anywhere. After all, he had been my best friend for 15 years. That was - of course - until he left me to rot in this hell hole six years ago. I turned around and saw his face. The mop that had been on his head all the time I had known him was now gone and had been replaced with a smart-ass 'James Dean meets Elvis' haircut. Gone were the horrible polo shirts he used to wear everyday, replaced by a plain white t-shirt and a leather jacket. I hated it. All of it. He looked like a greasy fucker. Not like the Alex I had known all those years ago.

A thousand thoughts went through my mind with the speed of light as I tried to keep my composure and act as if him standing in front of me had absolutely no effect on me at all. After all, ignoring Alex Turner and pretend that he meant absolutely nothing to me was something that I had perfected over the years.

"Hey Is," he said and shot me a blinding smile, causing an icy breath to get stuck in my throat. All these years I'd spent hating the boy - no the man - in front of me and all it took for him was to shoot me one smile and I was completely sold. All the anger I'd been using to propel my career as the well-known-hard-to-impress music critic, gone. Just because his stupid smile was blinding me. But the anger soon returned as I remembered how he had treated me. How he had left me and never looked back. How he hadn't even tried contacting me once after fame had stolen him away.

"Alex," I croaked. Unsure of what else to say, "what are you doing here?"

"Buy me a beer and I'll tell you," he winked at me, "come join me at the booth over there, yeah?" He said and turned away from the bar before I had had a chance to turn him down.

I looked at Tim with an apologetic look. I didn't want to leave him behind the counter on his own but he shot me a look saying that he could manage the demanding university students on his own. In all honesty I didn't even want to talk to Alex but I was too curious to not join him. So I poured two pints and walked over to the booth where Alex was sitting. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. I was still in shock, unable to tell if I was dreaming or if I was awake. All those years I'd had this image of what to do and say if I ever saw Alex again. Playing the scenario over and over in my head again, perfecting my rant of how he meant absolutely nothing to me, but as he turned around and looked at me with those huge brown eyes, I couldn't help but feeling stupid. As if I was the one that had left him. Which I absolutely wasn't.