26-Kit
These places share the same stench.
No matter what city, there’s always a damp blend of old concrete, cheap refreshments, and mildew desperately clinging to cinderblocks.
A fan rattles in the corner but does absolutely nothing against the Florida heat.
One of the tiled lights flickers across the room, buzzing like an insect.
The flimsy fold-out chair is one wrong shift from toppling over, so I try to ignore the restless shake in my leg.
I’m tired of these meetings. Not the people, necessarily, but the stillness. It leaves too much room for thoughts, and mine are dangerous.
Attending these on tour the last few weeks has shown me how vastly America differs depending on location. Each region’s like its own country, and every state has its own flavour of struggle. Poverty, exhaustion, and inequality bleed into the bones of every community.
Here I am with millions, and we are projected to garner over a million per show this tour. These rooms are a stark reminder that suffering doesn’t give a damn about status, and I can lose it all at any given moment. I know how fast a future can be ripped from you.
Potential—gone in a blink.
The man next to me tears open a plastic wrapper, releasing a foul odor.
He takes two bites of the frozen burrito and grimaces, wrapping it back in the foil.
Then, the wanker tosses it toward the bin a few metres away, missing the rim by a long shot.
I lean over, careful not to tip onto the arsehole, but close enough to whisper.
“If you’re gonna be daft enough to spend money on overpriced shite and disrupt our meeting to open it, the least you can do is eat it. Or at least dispose of the rubbish properly.”
Baldy whips toward me, his shite-brown eyes blinking emptily. “Huh?”
I nod toward the discarded burrito, then at his large belly, cocking a brow. “I take it you’ve never starved.”
His puffy cheeks sear crimson as his face twists into a scowl. “What’s your problem, man?”
“Nothing,” I snap, crossing my legs and turning away.
I’m still simmering when a softer tone slices through the tension.
“…Somnium,” someone says, and my head jerks up.
A young woman sits across the circle, hands clasped in her lap. She’s wearing one of our merch shirts, the black oversized one with the red serpent coiling around the moon. Seth designed it.
“Today’s six months of sobriety for me.” Sandy blonde strands fall from her loose updo as she dips her chin. “And I’m nervous about going to a concert without drinking. But I realized I don’t want to spend eighteen dollars on a watered-down beer anyway.”
A few people chuckle.
“There’s something about Judas,” she continues, her worn pink trainers skidding along the chipped floor tile, “Somnium’s music, and the community that makes me feel like I don’t need alcohol. Seeing them is the first thing I’ve looked forward to since getting sober.”
Freckles dot her pallid cheeks, but there’s a grateful shine in her jade irises. Our eyes meet from under my hood, and recognition hits hers instantly. My heart stops, as if debating to end it all now.
Her pink-glossed lips part into a trembling smile, then she dips her chin in a tiny nod, fingers wiggling in a discreet wave. My chest thrums as I return a small one. A silent “thank you” for respecting the anonymity of the room and not screaming.
The meeting wraps with the usual scrape of chairs and the murmur of people gathering their things. I stand slowly, stretching my legs. A dehumidifier jangles one last time before shutting off with a wheeze, though the floor is warped from decades of excessive moisture.
Across the room, the girl hovers by her folding chair.
Her fingers bend nervously in the hem of her shirt, the serpent design rippling with the movement.
She keeps glancing at me, then away, then back again.
Something about her sincerity, the way her voice shook when she talked about looking forward to my concert, even being sober, tugs at me.
I step towards her, and she pales. Colour drains from her cheeks to her chin. Her breath hitches, getting thinner with each step I take.
“Congratulations on six months,” I say, offering my hand.
Her eyes nearly bulge from her tiny head. Squawking half in disbelief, she reaches out with a trembling hand. Tears spill down her cheeks in an unrelenting stream. Her palm’s damp with nerves but inviting and firm. She lets go quickly, as if I’ve shocked her.
“I know you don’t usually do this,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself, clutching the Somnium shirt like a lifeline. “Thank you. Your music has saved my life. And I-I promised myself if I ever got a chance to say this to your face, I would. So, uh…yeah. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, her sincerity hitting me like a punch to the ribs.
I open my arms, and she launches herself at me with surprising force. Her tiny arms barely wrap around my back, but the emotion behind them is enormous. She lets out an inflamed sob that ricochets from the low ceiling.
We stand for a still moment; her shaking while I keep her steady, holding myself together by a thread. Her overwhelming gratitude clings to me. I clear my throat to keep my own emotions from spilling over.
This is why I endure the persona, pressure, and nightmares—to reach people who know the feeling. But I never imagined I’d have an impact like this.
And maybe that’s why I can’t fully fault the god for this life; because he knew. Beneath his self-serving cruelty, there’s a strange, twisted kind of compassion, a desire to witness suffering souls find peace. That’s obvious enough from the teachings I’ve turned into the very lyrics they praise.
“What’s your name?” I ask as she pulls away.
“Jessica.” She sniffles, wiping her face into her short sleeve. “Jessie.”
“Well, Jessie.” I bend my neck to meet her short frame. “I’m honoured to meet you. And honoured that you’re choosing to spend such a milestone with me.”
“No, thank you.” Jessica grabs my hand with both of hers, bowing her head to it as if she’s been blessed. “I’ll never forget this.”
“Me neither,” I say, earning a beaming grin from her. “I’d better get going. I have a concert to get ready for.”
She lets out a squealing giggle, stepping back and gesturing dramatically toward the door. Hinges groan as I push it open, rolling up the narrow stairwell like mic feedback. Cold air rushes me as I step out into the alley behind the church.
The stairs are worn down the center from decades of feet passing over them.
A single bulb drones above the door, casting a weak halo of beige-yellow that barely reaches the ground.
Moths batter themselves against the glass, tiny wings tapping like impatient fingers.
Jessica’s hug lingers on my skin, her words pressing against the inside of my skull as I light a smoke.
Your music saved my life.
I lean against the wet wall, letting the cold soak through my jacket. The brick is rough beneath my palm, gritty with dust and old mortar. I exhale slowly, cold smoke cleansing my lungs. They view me as something holy. I’m not.
I know that better than anyone.
But for just a moment, I bask in it. The connection.
The reminder that maybe, despite everything, I’m not entirely lost. Jessie’s face flashes behind my eyes, followed by Zach’s, wide-eyed and shining with something I don’t deserve.
I split myself apart night after night to reach people who know the experience.
To give them something I never had. I’m not what they need me to be. I’m not the saviour they think I am.
Not even close.
Spiked air hits my lungs too fast, the sound of my exhale warping at the edges. Familiar footsteps approach beside me. I must be visibly slipping, because Yensil steps into the alley without a word. He comes to every meeting, but he has allowed me the decency, the grace, to usually wait in the car.
My breath stutters. The cigarette trembles between my fingers as I bring it to my lips. I take a long, shaky drag, the smoke burning down my throat. It grounds me for half a second before panic surges again. The alley smells like damp leaves and rust, the cold biting at my cheeks.
“Easy, Kit.” Yensil’s firm hand lands on my shoulder, steady and anchoring. “Just breathe.” I try, but my chest locks. He squeezes my tense muscles, grounding me in the pressure. “In through your nose. Out slow.”
I follow the cadence he’s used on me a hundred times. He knows how to get me through the worst of my anxiety attacks without making me feel like a burden.
The air tastes metallic. My hands shake. But slowly, the ground stops tilting.
I drop the cigarette and shove my hands into my pockets, fingers brushing the frayed lining. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, long, low, and mournful. Somnium’s presence brushes the edge of my mind like a cold fingertip tracing my spine. My shackles tighten, unseen but unmistakable.
Blessed. Chosen. Cursed. Bound. The line blurs more every day.
Cold wind sweeps through the alley, carrying the hum of the city traffic, and the distant thump of bass from a passing car. I push off the wall and start walking with Yensil towards the car parked on the street. The gravel tumbles under my boots, crunching rhythmically.
Life’s pushing on. Continuing. The quiet ache of being human. Tugging my hood up, I step out onto the pavement and blend into the night.
Forced to move along with it.