On a Bed of Roses

“Welcome to my shop!” the man declared, inviting Aster into a decently sized store stuffed to the brim with rows of records, posters, and various musical equipment. It was the picture of Aster's very dreams. She marveled in awe, struck by what could only be described as a very uncountable amount of records, of all genre and nationality, filling the shop from the front to the very back. The place was structured more like a home than a store she noticed— gorgeous floral wallpaper played well against a bold looking wood floor which led to a small, winding staircase in the very back, which it itself led to a semi-open second floor loft.

Beside the staircase, perched in front of a register, sat a short-haired blonde in a red and white striped t-shirt, whose matching headband ended in a bouncing, poofy peppermint bow. She looked up from the catalog she had been flipping through upon hearing them enter, her bow bobbing as she raised her head.

“Mr. Floyd! You're back already?!” the girl gleefully shouted, exiting the counter to greet them. “The show's not over yet is it? Don't tell me you already signed them!” the girl inquired full of excitement, before turning to Aster. “And who's this?!” she asked. Aster's face went blank in response.

“Ah, right! Excuse me so very much, I forgot to catch your name!” Floyd interjected, looking down at Aster with a slight smile.

“It's... it's Aster,” she stammered. The blonde girl's eyes lit up.

“What a cool name!” she exclaimed, attempting to deliver a failed high-five to Aster.

“My name is Sylvia,” she beamed, not skipping a beat.

The shop fell silent, the faint bustle of commotion outside amplified in the maw of static air, Aster freezing in her inability to utter anything. The walls groaned here and there, the shop breathing while Aster could not.

“I came across this young lady at The Strawberry Set. I paid for her entry into the show but she became very unwell quite soon into their performance, so I had to assist her in exiting the venue,” he explained, adjusting the frills of his shirt. “However, there was the question of reimbursement for the ticket since I felt it was misspent in us having to leave early, and so it's been arranged that she will be working a shift with us tomorrow to repay it!”

“Really?!” Sylvia exclaimed, eye-smiling as her bow bounced upon that ever animated head of hers. “Someone who isn't Cecil!” she cheered, grabbing Aster's hands. Her ever racing heart seemed to hit new speeds every hour she spent here.

“Where are you from Aster? I don't think I ever remember seeing you around...” Sylvia asked, her smile not wavering.

Aster choked, unsure of what to say. Sylvia's words had now left her very concerned with just how she'd go about explaining herself in this world.

That's right... Where is home in this place? I don't have any money, so where the fuck am I going to stay?! She panicked. Her eyes in hesitant terror were drawn to the waning sun outside the windows, the ever visible hourglass counting down the moments till her homelessness and probable death from hypothermia.

“I'm... I'm from out of town,” she stuttered. She tore her eyes away from Sylvia, hideously embarrassed at her excuse for a lie.

“Out of town you say? Where are your lodgings?” Floyd inquired.

“I, uh, don't have any yet,” Aster admitted meekly.

“Well now that just won't do, will it? It's absolutely freezing out and you are dressed rather oddly and not at all for the weather! Pardon my manners. Sylvia, go ready the loft for Miss Aster here! Since you are working tomorrow I have no problem with you staying for the night,”

Aster felt she would burst into tears once again, the relief so unbelievably immense.

“Well then what are you doing standing around Mr. Floyd?!” Sylvia replied as she swung the shop door open on the quickly darkening streets. “It isn't like just anybody is playing Mr. Floyd— it's The Cherubs! The Cherubs! Imagine if you can sign them!”

“You think I haven't spent my whole life working up to this moment Sylvia?!” Floyd guffawed as he exited the shop. “I swear it, I will not let you down!”

“Go get them Mr. Floyd!” Sylvia cheered as he tapped his cane and bid them adieu, riding his gentlemanly stroll down the sunset bleached cobblestone street in the direction of The Strawberry Set. Aster stood in the doorway on the shore of great relief as she watched the white-wigged man saunter off into the evening. Through some remarkably obtuse series of events she had managed to find a place to stay, at least for the night. Further yet, she thought on with a small spark of joy in her chest— it was in a record shop of all places.

Sylvia turned to her, the girl proving to be consistently all smiles. “Okay, let's get you into bed!” she said, flipping the closed sign over as she shut the door.

“Your bed is up here,” she said, motioning towards the staircase. The stairs led to a half open floor above the shop that contained a worn-looking bed that was nestled in between mountains of boxes and miscellaneous inventory. Old faded record jackets and forty fives were strewn about the floor, the smell of their aging paper hanging with a strong sense of dust in the air. The small, metal-framed bed lie bare with only a single tattered blanket and pillow to accompany it. Aster sat down, the loud creak of the mattress' springs echoing throughout the loft.

“Sorry it isn't much! Nobody ever uses it,” Sylvia apologized as Aster stretched out on the rickety bed. “I'm really excited you're going to work here though! Even if it is only for tomorrow,” she continued, reaching for the blinds on the far side of the room. She pulled them shut, leaving only a small sliver of burnt umber sunset spilling through. She then turned around and reached for a drawstring, illuminating the loft.

“It can be kind of drag working with just him, so it'll be nice to finally have someone cool around!” she said. Aster turned to the blanket, wholly unwilling and unable to engage in a dialogue on some strangers drama.

“Oh no, not Mr. Floyd! He's a blast!” she added upon seeing Aster's expression. “I'm talking about Cecil. Mr. Floyd is awesome! He's really knowledgeable about lots of things and always tries his best to help the shop,” she explained while doing her best to tidy up Aster's arrangements. “He's gonna be a famous record producer you know!”

Aster, who had been hiding her eyes in the cove of the tattered old blanket and every imperfection laid upon it, perked up. “A record producer...? For real?”

“Yep!” Sylvia chirped in response. “He hasn't really produced anything yet, but that's why he's been trying really hard lately to sign a band so he can start a label! That's why he's at The Cherubs' show. If he can get them he's totally set!” she said, shimmering with excitement as she spoke.

Aster thought back to that concert as Sylvia went on, recounting with awe and sadness that loudness which shook her very organs, an auditory blanket that felt as though it were made to console just her. And yet— despite being hand-delivered to the very representation of her aspirations and dreams themselves, she still fucked it up, she told herself.

She truly was hopeless. A most unbelievable fantasy— that of seeing live music performed in the flesh, of seeing an actual band was granted for her and what could she do? Nothing but breakdown and cower in the same inadequacy she had always felt. Even in a world where everything had yet to be stripped away, her utter failure still remained her most defining crutch. Her depression still lumbered and wallowed within her— only now it had a paisley backdrop.

Her tears welled up and sprinkled the tattered blanket, bursting forth in front of a stranger for the third time today. “I'm so fucking stupid,” she whimpered into her knees as she drew them closer, the old blanket scrunching around her toes. Her tears pooled and fell, coming to rest on the peppermint-patterned arm sleeve that found itself embracing Aster's neck.

“Hey, hey. It's okay!” Sylvia said softly, holding her. Aster's eyes seized at Sylvia's words, her cries bursting forth with ten-fold the veracity. “Just let it all out,” Sylvia cooed as Aster sobbed and sobbed. It was just hideously unfair, she thought. No matter what reality she inhabited she seemed doom to suffer. Her heart ached immensely, longing for the day it didn't feel wounded by her self-hatred. Within a matter of minutes Aster's sobbing had lulled the tired girl into a much needed sleep— her baggy eyes darker than ever when all was said and done.

Seeing that she had fallen asleep Sylvia tucked Aster in and quietly made her way down from the loft. The shop's bell rang out as she did so, announcing Floyd's return. “Mr. Floyd!” she called out softly as she tip-toed over to greet him.

“Sylvia! How is our guest?” he asked.

“She's all tuckered out... practically sleeping like a baby,” Sylvia informed him as he placed his cane by the side of the door.

“Is that so? Well she did have a very hard day it appears,” he replied, hanging up his peacoat.

“Seems so. I've got to make sure she has as much fun here tomorrow as possible!” she said, clasping at her hands. “But, anyways?? How did it go? Did you sign them?” she continued with elation. Floyd looked at her hopelessly forlorn and depressed, before quickly realizing how obviously he wore this and snapping into a look of smug assuredness.

“Sorry to say Sylvia, it did not work out this time. But as 'the Vhaumashita' says, “'One drop of rain must come before the storm.'”

Sylvia stood there, though as always seemed to befit her, in apparent perpetual motion, her bow bobbing.

“So they didn't even speak to ya, Mr. Floyd?” she quipped, cocking her head sideways. Floyd's face scrunched, his eyes darting to the side as he realized he had been found.

“Well, they are very busy after all! You should see how many journalists they have swarming the place! Completely preposterous!” He exclaimed.

“Uncultured swine!” Sylvia gleefully peeped.

“What do you figure about Aster anyways, Sylvia? Where do you think she's from?” Floyd asked, reclining back into a leather armchair that sat snug in the far left corner of the shop. Above it hung a wooden placard, dubbing it “The Listening Corner”.

“Well, she was crying an awful lot before going to sleep,” she replied, glancing up to the loft. “Do you think that... maybe she's a runaway?” she pondered glumly.

“Perhaps. I wondered the same myself. At any rate she's clearly very distressed,” he said. He fixed himself a glass of rum as Sylvia's sad eyes wandered back towards the loft above.

“I shall inquire about it after the shift tomorrow, I suppose,” he added. Sylvia perked up slightly at this.

“Good! I'm sure we can help fix whatever problems she's having,” Sylvia added with a smile.

At that moment a faint murmur of something sweet caught the ear of the two. Floyd, drink in hand, looked around in perplexment for the source of it. So hauntingly sad, it grew to just about a small whisper, when Sylvia pointed with her stubby little arm.

“Upstairs, Mr. Floyd!” she called out. It was so, the lullaby was coming from the room of the strange girl they had invited in.

“On a bed of roses...” it wavered in a sleepy tone, drifting through the shop.

“...hope I open every vein...”

Floyd stood up, his rosy cheeks flashed the most royal red by his rum-driven excitement.

“What on Earth is that?” he warbled with exhilaration.

“...be so sweet to bleed out, before this love I love drives me insane...”

“Aster, Mr. Floyd! That's Aster!” she exclaimed in absolute joy as the sleeping girl above filled the room with the most heart-splittingly tender notes anyone had ever heard.