She feels weird, she’s never screamed like that before at anyone. Maybe it’s because she knows she’s gonna have to go back at some point. She stops running to catch her breath, she’s trembling from the cold rain and fear from an unknown source. She almost slips a few times running on the sidewalk from the wet concrete. The rain is cold on her skin and soaks through her clothes quickly. She doesn’t listen, she just runs down the street, her brain is tuning the sound of her dad calling her back into the house. She runs out the door into the freezing rain. Kohane doesn't even think, she throws her slip ons on her feet. Huh, it seems like Kohane is a horrible daughter. “ …Huh, it seems like Kohane is a horrible daughter. “ No! NO! Dad please! I don’t wanna quit music! PLEASE! I don’t want that! I don’t want that! JUST SHUT UP! “ Kohane puts her hands on her head and digs her nails into her skull. Kohane clenches her fists and grits her teeth. “ This is who I am! You don’t get to control the person I get to be! “ “ Ughh-! I want to do this! You can’t control my life! “ “ Rebel…? What does street music have to do with me being a rebel?! “ “ What happened to the old Kohane? I refuse to be the father of a rebel. “ I would actually like it if you quit music altogether. He waves his finger at her in an annoyed manner. “ No! I want to do this! Please let me do this! “ I would appreciate it if you switched genres of music. “ Dad-! I want to sing this kind of music! I want to sing at these places! I- “ And I just can’t see you sing street music anyways. I know you love to perform at these places but- it’s not safe. “ Well… it depends when me and- when I can get a gig there. “ How often do you perform at these live houses? “ I promise I’ll be okay and I’ll stay safe. Kohane starts to sweat, she never told her dad she was performing at live houses. “ Have you been performing there lately? “ “ Have you been going to those live houses down at… hmm… “ Her dad stares at her for a moment, it makes her feel uncomfortable. Her dad’s voice drags her out of her daze, she stands and exits her room and walks down the stairs. “ Kohane-! Can you come downstairs please? I need to talk to you. The sun had already set and she could see the outline of the raindrops from the light from the lamp posts near the street. Tiny raindrops landed on the window, running down to the bottom of the glass, and then falling to land on the grass. Kohane is in her room, looking out the windows into the outside. The sound it made when it hit the ground and the fresh, pleasant smell it gave off. Thin iron, stainless steel rod alloy, extruded from a drum, heated to ten thousand degrees Fahrenheit and cooled down in a nitrogen bath, fitted with sweatshop synthetic gaskets shoveled out through layers of coarse mesh and muslin strained from the battery-acid, unfolded, flipped over, and bent again, this time assembled with the pillowcases, stitched by a sewing machine following the dots, the hallmarks of mass-production on a inhuman scale like a coloring book.Kohane liked the rain. What a fanciful, short-lived life it lived, in my hands! It was truly something better off to be left up to the head’s ambivalence. Study closely the aces, faces, skinning with the swisher sweets juice, the pavement grit, stuck off your mangled hand. Ask your mother for the gin-rummy dice, cast it into the mahogany floorboards while settling your conceits, and fan open your cards. See if the newspaper dispensaries, the catalytic converters will drip-feed you. “Broken heart, broken head,” they whistle, twirling filter-tipped cigarettes, “now you’ll like to see it for yourself, you snagged, no, duped-too little, too loose, of the sludge from the garden hose out in the patio. I lost my brand new umbrella from the gift shop between the shelves, between the cocktails and the Cartesians, the hellion and the self-help, egged on by the John Kennedy Tooles and the Faulkners.
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