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I don’t need the attention. Don’t want it. Even when I was centre stage for Visage, I kept my hood up and a mask over the lower half of my face, always satisfied to keep to the shadows.
Who would have thought that would only drive fans to be more curious about my identity? You would think they would respect the fact that I wanted to remain anonymous. So far, I have, but there were so many attempts to uncover who I was. Where I was from. If I was single. If I was hiding an ugly mug beneath the mask.
Can we just fast forward this weekend so Atonement can ship off to another festival and direct their charm at other people without a laundry list of problems?
That’s what Hail deserves, after all. Someone normal. Someone whole.
His pained expression has lurked behind my closed eyes since he practically bolted out of my house. I haven’t heard from him since, and he hasn’t shown up tonight.
It’s exactly what I wanted, right? So why do I feel so… unhinged? Like I’ve forgotten something important? Or like I’m just waking up from a strange dream after five years of slumber?
Focus on your finances, Z. Your life is falling apart, and that affects other people’s lives, too.
It’s weeks before I’ll get another royalty check, and I owe the facility that treated my mum a substantial amount of pounds.
Which brings me to the song of the night. New material I wrote after Hail backpedaled out of my life. A song I’m nearly ready to hand over to an artist that has been patiently waiting for me to produce something of worth.
Our demons cross paths and take aim, eager for the slaughter
Will we both survive this?
Will we ever have the chance to hold each other?
Or will we be haunted by shadows forever?
Washed up rockstar doesn’t even begin to describe me. I never actually got to ride that wave of fame. I had a big label contract in hand, but instead of being responsible and reading over it with the band, we celebrated prematurely.
The damage done that night can never be erased.
I haven’t talked with Eric or Jackson since I fled town shortly after. Out of morbid curiosity, I looked them up about four years ago. They’d both joined separate bands, off on lengthy tours in the United States. Eric had even gotten married to his private school sweetheart, and they were expecting their first kid.
If I even catch a whisper of your existence, I will deliver a world of hurt to your doorstep. You’re a selfish piece of shit, Zander. You’re worthless. You’re nobody.
Jackson’s text is still on my phone. I can’t bring myself to delete it or remove his number, though he’s definitely changed it by now.
Forcing my attention back on the ball of wretched emotions expanding in my chest, I start in on a slower song. Melodic notes ring out from my acoustic guitar, filling the dimly lit bar.
My set ends with an outburst of shouts and clapping, more than I’ve received before, and it rightly freaks me the fuck out. Do they know? How long before Jackson shows up at my house to rip me apart? To tear into all the wretched things I’ve kept barricaded away for five long years?
I’m trembling with so much fear and adrenaline and mental exhaustion that I zip up my guitar and bolt out of the emergency exit in the back of the bar, spilling into an alleyway.
As soon as the heavy door shuts and locks behind me, I let out a frustrated growl. I need those tips from Selma, but I can’t summon up the courage to walk back in there and face the crowd. The very thought has my pulse throbbing and my lungs constricting.
My head hangs heavy on my neck. This might be the last time I can perform here without drawing up some suspicion. Selma might even be grateful to be rid of me.
I tug my hood up and start the five-mile walk home, down ghost-silent streets and out into the countryside on a narrow, paved road lined by rocky walls and fields of tall grasses. Sheep bleat at me and bounce away. Even they can’t stand my company, and I don’t blame them.
I don’t bother turning on the lights when I get home. There’s a missed call from mum’s health institute on my phone, and a text from one of the artists that contracted me to deliver a few hits. The songs sit unfinished on my desk.
I toss my phone on them and go sit in the shower. Fully clothed, I run the water ice cold until my body goes completely numb.
Seven
Hail
“Y’allareblowingupon social media, bro!” Stasi cheers, her cell bobs in her hand as she jogs the wooded trail around her apartment complex in Dallas. Her long, blonde ponytail swings behind her head, fed through the hole in the back of her Cowboys hat.
I force a wide grin as I plop down on the leg press machine in our hotel gym. I’ve made it four whole hours without thinking about Z since I left his run-down countryside house. “Really? That’s fucking wild!”
