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“Yep. This is the one. Thanks again for the lift.”
“’Course. I’m not letting you wander around any part of LA this late at night. Don’t do anything dumb tomorrow, either.”
I laugh. “I’m just doing some standard sightseeing shit for the weekend. I’ll be back on Sunday.”
“And I’ll see you at work next week.”
“Yeah, you got it.”
I take my backpack of clothes and travel necessities from the trunk, then wave Grace off and head into the reception.
Checked in and key in hand, I make my way to the privacy of my room for the night. Just like the motel, there’s nothing special about it. Generic, basic amenities, but it has a bed and space of my own to unwind.
Flopping onto the bed, I kick off my shoes, peeling down the fishnet tights beneath my skirt.
The concert was fantastic, no doubt about that, but being around people that much is exhausting. There’s something melancholy about it too, now.
The slump after the rush of adrenaline.
The silence, after Elias’ captivating voice.
That thought brings another pang of longing. A much more familiar one. Old, childish wishes that have long since settled into a quiet dissatisfaction. I wish I could sing. Properly, not just under my breath or along to the stereo. I wish I weren’t too shy to sing for others. I wish I had the dedication, time, and money to take lessons and improve.
I want to do something more. Create something. Bepassionateabout something. So much of life feels like I’m drifting through it. Wanting anything at all is a rare and terrifying concept.
Concerts are a double-edged sword. I adore the rush, the energy, the immersion in the music. But it always reminds me of the things I could have if I were brave enough to chase a fleeting dream, but I never will. Coming down afterward feels like crashing back to earth.
Goëtica has that energy too. They feel like… more. That nebuloussomething. A spark of adventure, passion, or excitement. Even as a gimmick, their demon personas appeal to the fantasy I still crave, that there are things out there that are incomprehensible, beautifully terrible, and far beyond the grasp of everyday reality.
The tap in the bathroom drips monotonously as I lay back on the bed, listening, and my soul aches.
Everything isfine. I’m doing decently for myself.Why do I always have to think too much?Nobody needs late-night existential crises.
Eventually, I roll over and off the edge of the bed. I need to get organized for the night, and that’s the only way I’ll get up. Absentmindedly, I gather up my pajamas out of my backpack and go to shower before sleeping.
The walls are probably thin, and I don’t want to annoy anyone late at night, but I end up singing in the shower anyway. Just quietly. Singing is easier than thinking, making up wordless melodies as a means of expression.
There is certainly a familiarity to the dissatisfaction, the yearning for that nebulous, unattainable more. What is unfamiliar is the other hook sunk into my heart, the threads working their way through my veins.
I can’t stop thinking about them. Elias. Caelan.
The idea had crossed my mind when I planned this weekend’s trip to LA, but I had dismissed it as weird and maybe a little stalkerish. I know where they started out. The tiny hole-in-the-wall would-be theater where they did their first-ever gigs and where they recorded their early music videos. It’s not hugely publicized, but not that hard to find either with a little digging into old records.
What would I even gain from going there? Like some strange pilgrimage of sorts. There’s no record of them, no memorabilia, nothing to see. It seems almost pathetic to go so far out of my way to stand somewhere because they had once.
Why do I feel so drawn to doing it anyway?
Whatever. It’s LA. Hollywood. People go on tours all the time to see where their favorite movies were filmed. They go to see the homes where celebrities live. So it’s not as though it’s as stalkerish as that.
There’s no harm.
I settle into bed and lay on my side with my phone, searching for the address and directions. Itisout of the way, and I don’t want to carry my backpack with all my weekend gear so far, so I plan the trip for later in the afternoon after I check into the hostel I have booked tomorrow.
I check the other details I need while I’m at it. Bus and metro times to get into central LA, places I want to visit tomorrow and Sunday, double-checking the train back home. I’m trying to distract myself, and I know it.
Eventually, I can’t do anything else useful, so I place my phone back on the nightstand, plug it in to charge, and then roll over to sleep, which doesn’t come that easily. It never tends to. Too many thoughts running through my head, as usual. Only now they’re of demons, Elias’ voice dragging me down like something hypnotic and Caelan’s quiet cackle.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to the theater. I’ll satisfy this stupid, helpless craving and see that there’s nothing there, putting my dumb infatuation behind me.
