3-Zach
I toss my phone onto the couch and groan.
It lands with a dull thud, sinking into the cushions like it’s giving up, too.
When I told Neil I scrapped the project, I meant it.
All that’s left are scattered notes, half-formed ideas on sticky pads, lyrics scribbled in margins, and printed photos of the band.
Letting this project die was brutal, and now Neil wants me to resurrect it—to piece together ashes with my bare hands as if I didn’t light the pyre myself.
I stare at a picture of Judas, mid-belt onstage.
A snort escapes me. I used to worry about keeping it professional if I ever met him, and now I’m supposed to spend three months with someone who stared at me like he wished he could char a hole through my skull.
I hate that he burrowed under my skin and stayed.
It’s not just their image or contracts on the line if this project fails, but mine, too.
I built the online momentum and pitched this.
I’ve spent so long pretending I climbed out of that wreckage. Today proved that I’m still stuck to that seat, hanging helplessly. Anger spikes, but underneath it is the same old ache whispering that I’m the problem.
I ruin everything I touch.
I stomp toward the freezer and reach for the bottle.
My fingers brush the frosted glass, jolting me back into myself.
It’s muscle memory from a life I’ve been clawing my way out of.
Relapse starts with a single moment of weakness disguised as relief.
But sobriety isn’t linear; I’m allowed as many day one’s as I need.
My gaze drifts back to the picture of Judas. It’s been a while since my suicide attempt, but I still get it sometimes, that lure toward an edge I can’t come back from. Then I put on Somnium’s most underrated ballad, and the piano alone makes my next breath worth taking.
How could a person whose music saved my life be the same man in that board room?
“Your new life will cost you your old one.” An unwelcome voice drills its tendrils through my mind, just as it has since the night I first reached for it, or it reached for me.
I unscrew the bottlecap. My hands shake, unsure whether to obey my brain’s command. The past presses in like a grape crushed under my thumb, all its sweetness forced out before it has a chance to ripen. Fumes rise in a harsh wave, burning my nose as I lift the rim to my lips.
An empty swallow stuck in my throat, I pour the undrunk vodka down the sink, forcing tears back. Crying never helps. Neil’s right; I need to stop wallowing and get my shit together. For the sake of this project. I take my phone and drop it in my purse, fishing out my keys as I grab my jacket.
The thick scars across my forearm heat beneath my tattoo as though they are fresh wounds again. Somnium’s lyrics itch my skin like the first day I got them permanently etched there as a reminder to keep going. Every burned bridge and broken promise led me straight to Judas.
My reckoning—the one person who can make or break everything I’ve built.
The church basement always smells like moldy coffee, mildew, and the sour tang of old hymnals.
These chairs are made of cheap, hollow plastic; beige, stackable, and unforgiving.
I wriggle, trying to get comfortable, but it groans like it’s protesting my existence.
There’s a stained-glass window at the far end of the open space, its cracks casting the room in a muted kaleidoscope.
Under the washed-out colors, the demons that haunt everyone boldly show themselves.
With a pulsing bladder, I stand, weaving through the half-empty circle. The concrete is covered by a thin, fraying rug that squishes under my boots, damp from rain tracked in by the earlier meeting. A burnt, metallic scent drifts from the coffee urn as it hisses on the folding table.
My insides twist as I wander through the door and down the hall. I want a cigarette; anything to take the nervous edge off. But I made this decision and I need to stick to it. My job, my career, everything I sacrificed, all of it is on the line.
“Sorry, excuse me,” I murmur, passing a man in a flannel shirt who nods without looking up from his phone.
The single bathroom is tucked in the back corner of the basement, next to a bulletin board covered in faded flyers for potlucks and choir rehearsals.
A faint hum of the ventilation fan leaks through the water-stained ceiling tiles.
The bathroom is as old as the church, and the door is no different; with chipped burgundy paint and a rusty doorknob hanging loose in its socket.
I reach for the busted knob, but the door nearly smacks me in the face as it’s cracked open from the inside.
“Out of all the bloody fucking meetings,” a deep voice with a crisp English accent snaps as Christopher “Kit” Rotherson fills the frame, crowding the half-open doorway with all six-plus feet of irritation.
After combing through his digital footprint, I discovered little media from the last decade of the man behind Judas.
I haven’t seen a recent picture of him out of Somnium costume, but I can tell.
There’s something familiar about his face; timeless features that could never be forgotten, no matter what stage of life they’re at.
I click my tongue, processing the fact that here, and well, outside, Kit is meant to be anonymous. From the snarl curling his lips and the glare morphing his ocean eyes into tundra daggers, I know he sees the recognition in my gawping stare, and he clearly remembers me, so that ship has sailed.
“This was a setup, wasn’t it?” His big hand grips his phone, thumb flying furiously while the other points a bony, ringed finger at me. “Are you and the label really that desperate?”
Coincidence doesn’t exist in his world—only traps. He’s wound tight, waiting for the ambush as he pockets his phone then grips the doorknob.
My bladder pulses urgently. I duck under his arm to slip past, but his giant, ski-like sneaker slides into my path.
There’s nothing but a lurch in my stomach as the pristine white leather takes me down.
Gripping the first stable thing I can for balance, I yank Kit’s arm.
With a pained grunt from him, we fall in an awkward tangle of limbs.
A heavy thunk vibrates through the frame as the door swings shut behind us. My shoulder clips the edge of the sink before my palms slap the gritty tile, the impact shooting straight up my arms. I land atop Kit, and he’s a contrast of piney mint and sharp cigarettes, filling my nose.
“What in the fuck?” Kit holds up the inside half of the rusted doorknob, metal teeth and a little square spindle exposed.
I leap to my feet, heat crawling up my neck. Of course. Three months I’ve been gone, and they still hadn’t fixed this shitty bathroom.
“No!” I pull my phone out of my back pocket with a groan and text Kevin, the meeting head, to tell him to bring the screwdriver again. My bladder clenches, a hot spike of urgency that makes my vision go pin-sharp. “Why?”
I grab the skinny rod sticking out of the door where the knob should be. It’s cold and greasy, and when I rattle it, it just clicks uselessly inside the latch. Metal on metal; a dead little sound that tells me there’s no give.
Kit growls, waving the worn brass around as he jabs a finger at me. “I swear to God, Greg’s going to hear about—”
“Whoa, buddy!” I smack his hand away and replace it with my own snappy finger, though it’s not intimidating since he’s got a good half-foot on me.
“How dare you insult my integrity like that. I’ve been coming to this meeting for years.
I don’t know why you’re here, but I sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with it. ”
Would Neil really stoop that low with the label as to invade my personal sanctuary?
I scoff; because of course they would. These vultures will do anything for a chance to pick at whoever’s currently trending. Greg, Kit’s own manager, had a hand in setting this up, which means Somnium can’t afford to lose this project either.
Kit rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing the mop-top back from his forehead in a way that’s annoyingly effortless.
The strands gleam like white gold. Pale five-o’clock shadows blanket his too-symmetrical face.
Sculptors would kill to replicate his chiseled jaw.
I know this face. A flicker of memory flashes, only to be snuffed out by the fog of forgetfulness.
His frigid gaze falls to my chest, and he takes a piercing inhale. “Where did you get that?”
I drop the vial, not realizing I reached for my necklace.
Hesitantly, his nimble fingers curl around the glass.
He lifts the pendant, turning it which-way.
Tiny silver flakes catch the flickering light, casting a thin shadow across his knuckles.
His skeptical expression contorts into a fractured grief.
“I—” I swallow hard. I don’t want to talk about the accident. Or the fact that I wear a piece of Somnium merch like a true fangirl. “Someone gave it to me.”
His fingers bend around the charm then flex straight, as if the glass had shocked him.
Our shared space crackles like lightning before the devastating strike as he cradles the dainty chain.
Something flickers across his stony features, like he knows exactly what it represents and would never judge me for needing it to cope.
It’s not just the costume or the music; Kit radiates a power that’s so magnetic I can’t help but humor his request.
“I was in a car accident,” I say quietly, dancing on the balls of my feet in an attempt not to soil myself in front of a literal fucking rockstar. “The cop on scene gave it to me for—”
“Protection,” he murmurs, his sapphire gaze never leaving the pendant.
The word falls heavy; more sentence than solace. A binding verdict carved into my bones when I was at my lowest.
“Yeah,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek. “I guess it worked, considering I survived.”