I stifled a yawn with my upper arm, trying not to drop the box in my hands. Inside were my band's, Save Me A Bullet's, CDs. It wasn't like we got a record deal or anything--we had to pay to have them made, but it would still help us on our way to the top. Think, Elise, by this time next year we could be playing at Warped and not just selling our stuff there! The very thought made my stomach drop in excitement.
I had been up since 5 in the morning, cleaning and getting ready for our next gig, practicing with the guys and everything. On my back I was carrying my 6-string in its case, a classic, vibrant red instrument that I lovingly referred to as my girl. Tonight we played at some obscure pub on the edge on town, and they weren't even paying us much, but we would take what we could get.
Without warning I was slammed into by someone, causing me to tumble over. At the last second I had to choose between my guitar and our CDs, and I twisted forward so that my girl would be saved, the box flying forward onto some grass and my hands hitting the pavement.
"Fuck, ow!" I shouted as I landed, skinning my wrists and knees. Great, my new tights: ruined, I though, sitting up and glancing over at the guy who knocked me over. He had long, dark shaggy hair that was half-way between his ears and chin, and a bony frame. Taking off my guitar, I unzipped it and ran my hand down it, making sure no damage was done. I was lucky: everything was intact, and it came away unscathed.
"My CDs!" I realized, quickly getting up and picking up the now-broken open box, inspecting the contents. "You're lucky my stuff is okay," I told the stranger, sending him a slightly angry look. "Pay more attention next time." I told him, a little snobbily, as I inspecting my stinging injuries. Hesitantly, I glanced over again, "I don't suppose you have any bandaids or anything?" I inquired. The blood ran down my arm in a few small trickles, and my tights were soaked around my knees where they were scraped. There are going to be so many prostitute jokes, I realized, resisting a groan.