The needle of the gramophone scratches slightly, and the next song spills from its polished speaker. The cheerful warbling of the Fab Four pours into my large lounge, and I ease back, not needing to look at what I’m doing. I enjoy watching dust particles as they dance through the sunlight streaming through the immense windows. They twist and turn perfectly in time with every rise and fall of the Beatles’ upbeat tune.
For such a huge party, it was awfully dull. I yawned and wandered over to the doorway, peeking out. A few people were milling about, drinking and talking, probably just trying to get away from that horrible music. I couldn’t blame them.
“Well, they don’t feed off the same things we do, but it is exhausting. Also, between us girls, I don’t think I’ll ever fit into what they want me to be. I’m not good or this cosmic being of perpetual bliss. And I don’t think I ever will be.”
When the music dropped, the crowd in front screamed for more. I looked backstage to see Amy beaming at me. She may be a cheap knock off, but she looked so happy. I owed it to her. I owed it to Atë. I owed it to myself to make the past the past.