Topher snubbed out his cigarette’s life on the window seal. The smell of burning flesh had finally made its way from the bonfire several blocks away. He shut the window.

Topher walked over to his stereo and slid a vinyl out of the protective case. Lexi was the one who found it buried in the stack of records, and he almost felt bad for only paying $2 for a mint condition of Christian Death’s Only Theatre of Pain. Almost. The owner played Michael Bolten over the store’s speakers; ignorant bastard didn’t deserve to make money if he played that shit. Topher cranked up the volume; the amazing guitar rifts shook the whole house. He sat on his bed.

“This is for you, Lexi.” The razor stung as he carved Lexi’s name into his forearm. The pinkish scares that riddled his wrist acted as speed bumps for the blood snaking its way down his arm.

The 2 surviving Mannhunds lapped at the blood pooling his palm. The one he named Pan looked up at him. Topher sighed as he realized Pan had Lexi’s eyes. God he missed her.