AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
As PG as I could make it 
Fiction, mostly. Fact, a little. We do know some Gaelic chick was the inspiration for this song, etc. Hmm.
This goes pretty well with 'Follow-ing'. Same kids, same story.
***
He had seen her in darkness and in light, before, many times. Shadows like cool water and like knives, shadows that beckoned at him and crawled out in tears he cried once. Light that washed the tears away. It all fell away into sound, sometimes beautiful, sometimes ultraviolet sound he was trapped in with his face forever screaming. He tried to escape into the light, thinking my mother should have never died, and yet the boyish energy became music and that became the shadows and yet chased his demons away. She, in that sense, was both a promise and a lie, a whisper and a cure, a killing curse, as she swayed in the blue lights beyond the stage, dark eyes glittering. He knew she must have been a child once, could have been that happy: but now she was all shadows and darkness and danger, adrenaline and excitement. She carried a knife in her boot and the mascara around her eyes was smudged from God knows what. He felt the adrenaline as he grabbed her hand—the blue lights stayed frozen still for a moment, a moment of change and possibility—and it was as if he was truly breathing.
He never came back there. Not then.
Out into the night-darkened alleys lit into impossible contrast by passing cars and other unnamed things that were his fears, fears she did not keep at bay but sharpened…oh, would she had been some nice girl from the countryside! That he had never seen that guitar at all, that he had never spoken, had never lived. He laughed away the green and white fantasy, of hills and clouds and families that lived. Broken bottles iridescent as soap bubbles lined the entrance of her door like teeth. Lipstick lay like angry wounds across her walls. He imagined the smoke that curled dragon-like from the discarded cigarette near the broken lamps was really clean white clouds, as in the half-light he undressed her and she turned out the light. In the darkness, he lay awake, unblinking, shocked and wondering. Was this worth it? Was any of it?
A strange perversion of relationships—the notes of the guitar, soaring and pulsing through his blood, told him he was ready for this, that the dark could never hurt him. Yet the little boy held the hand of his mother as the hill and the clouds and the house no longer empty were torn to shreds by the bodies on the bed, the two forms snaking to become one, become their own music.
He brought moon-pale arms around her soft form, her black hair falling around him. Her makeup seemed to fall away, though it clawed like a cat's marks across his forearm. Under a lone streetlight in the pale of morning, he found himself looking at these three marks and wondering. The chaos of the night before…as he walked in the crowded smoke and then ran like a confused child, remembering two bodies pressed together, the mountains and valleys of it, how strange it was. He missed his mother, and yet he felt a strange exhilaration. He crumpled the two tickets, in his clenched fist, and shouted into the dawn. She had vaulted out the window; her dark tears of laughter trailed over its opening. Sunlight had trailed over his naked body in the morning, as all his years (so few) had been lost and he believed himself found. In sleep, nothing could harm him. She clutched his nightmares in his open hands, dancing beyond streetlights, beyond cities, stealing his life and his music with her candy apple smiles, breathing away his soul. A man saw her asleep and vulnerable at midnight, a little boy was left alone.
Fiction, mostly. Fact, a little. We do know some Gaelic chick was the inspiration for this song, etc. Hmm.
This goes pretty well with 'Follow-ing'. Same kids, same story.
***
He had seen her in darkness and in light, before, many times. Shadows like cool water and like knives, shadows that beckoned at him and crawled out in tears he cried once. Light that washed the tears away. It all fell away into sound, sometimes beautiful, sometimes ultraviolet sound he was trapped in with his face forever screaming. He tried to escape into the light, thinking my mother should have never died, and yet the boyish energy became music and that became the shadows and yet chased his demons away. She, in that sense, was both a promise and a lie, a whisper and a cure, a killing curse, as she swayed in the blue lights beyond the stage, dark eyes glittering. He knew she must have been a child once, could have been that happy: but now she was all shadows and darkness and danger, adrenaline and excitement. She carried a knife in her boot and the mascara around her eyes was smudged from God knows what. He felt the adrenaline as he grabbed her hand—the blue lights stayed frozen still for a moment, a moment of change and possibility—and it was as if he was truly breathing.
He never came back there. Not then.
Out into the night-darkened alleys lit into impossible contrast by passing cars and other unnamed things that were his fears, fears she did not keep at bay but sharpened…oh, would she had been some nice girl from the countryside! That he had never seen that guitar at all, that he had never spoken, had never lived. He laughed away the green and white fantasy, of hills and clouds and families that lived. Broken bottles iridescent as soap bubbles lined the entrance of her door like teeth. Lipstick lay like angry wounds across her walls. He imagined the smoke that curled dragon-like from the discarded cigarette near the broken lamps was really clean white clouds, as in the half-light he undressed her and she turned out the light. In the darkness, he lay awake, unblinking, shocked and wondering. Was this worth it? Was any of it?
A strange perversion of relationships—the notes of the guitar, soaring and pulsing through his blood, told him he was ready for this, that the dark could never hurt him. Yet the little boy held the hand of his mother as the hill and the clouds and the house no longer empty were torn to shreds by the bodies on the bed, the two forms snaking to become one, become their own music.
He brought moon-pale arms around her soft form, her black hair falling around him. Her makeup seemed to fall away, though it clawed like a cat's marks across his forearm. Under a lone streetlight in the pale of morning, he found himself looking at these three marks and wondering. The chaos of the night before…as he walked in the crowded smoke and then ran like a confused child, remembering two bodies pressed together, the mountains and valleys of it, how strange it was. He missed his mother, and yet he felt a strange exhilaration. He crumpled the two tickets, in his clenched fist, and shouted into the dawn. She had vaulted out the window; her dark tears of laughter trailed over its opening. Sunlight had trailed over his naked body in the morning, as all his years (so few) had been lost and he believed himself found. In sleep, nothing could harm him. She clutched his nightmares in his open hands, dancing beyond streetlights, beyond cities, stealing his life and his music with her candy apple smiles, breathing away his soul. A man saw her asleep and vulnerable at midnight, a little boy was left alone.
