31-Zach
I stare at the infuriating, enigmatic man known as Judas and wait for something.
Anything.
The band’s bus is smaller than it appears from the outside, and the walls creep inward the longer I’m in it. I’ve been in the same cramped little booth for twenty minutes, knees pressed against the table, camera perched on its tripod in front of Judas.
He finally agreed to do an interview, but his terms are utterly ridiculous. Just him and me. One small camera. No studio lighting. We’re rolling, but Judas still hasn’t said a single word.
He sits in the booth across from me like a statue carved from red rock.
The jerk is hoping to bide time before someone drags his ass to the stage.
His mask hides everything except the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The only exposed skin on his face is the strip along his jaw, painted crimson and shimmering faintly under the bus lights.
“So do your mates know you made a deal with the devil?” I ask with a snarky drawl.
His head tilts, slow and deliberate, like a wolf studying a wounded animal.
The smirk deepens by a fraction. I let out a frustrated huff and shuffle out of the booth, pacing the tiny aisle between it and the rectangular dining area.
The bus sways gently with each of my steps, the suspension creaking.
This is the opportunity of a lifetime. I’d been ecstatic.
I was going to be the one to tell Somnium’s story; the story of a small indie-rock band playing in dive bars across London, clawing their way into the spotlight before selling out arenas a few years later.
But now I don’t know what’s real; how much of Somnium’s aesthetic was the genius behind Judas, or a clever manipulation of the god who was once mortal.
Never meet your heroes.
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to ease the pressure building in my skull. The words I’ve swallowed for weeks claw their way up my throat.
“I just don’t understand,” I whisper, fighting the sting of angry tears. “How can the man who writes lyricism so profound that it connects millions of people, be so charming and empathetic one moment, then callous and cold the next?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
“I’m starting to believe you’re not even the real writer.” I laugh bitterly, smacking the slab of metal between us. “Maybe that’s it. That’s the big secret. You’re just the frontman. A mouthpiece.”
I brace my arms on the table, leaning in until heat pours from his painted skin. His jaw clenches, a faint grinding of teeth the only sign I’m getting under his skin. I try to meet his glower through the knitted slits, but only darkness stares back.
“Is that why you’re so against this?” I demand, steeling my spine. “You have no idea how to answer questions about the music because you didn’t write it? Because there’s no way in hell the same person who wrote the music that saved my life couldn’t have more to say to the world.”
I hate that my voice cracks. “Especially now, with so many people losing hope, struggling to find a reason to get up in the morning. Your music found me after I thought I couldn’t live anymore.
And it’s your music, your pain, your words, that helped me continue.
I don’t know if I’d still be here without them.
And I can’t fathom that person being you.
It kills me to see the person who saved me consider me with such vitriol. Such disdain.”
Grabbing the tripod, I turn to walk away, but he grips my elbow.
“You saved yourself.”
I jerk away from his touch, heart hammering. “What?”
Chip—his voice. It’d been months since I heard the crisp posh accent that wraps around consonants like velvet. He sighs and reaches up, wrenching down the black hood. Blond tips of hair fall forward, catching the dim light.
“You saved yourself, Zachary,” he says, my name on his lips like the first notes of a forgotten song, hauntingly familiar. “I don’t have the ability to save anyone.”
“That’s such crap. It’s a cop-out. A way for you to reap all the benefits of this power and influence without ever actually having to wield it for something bigger than yourself. That’s selfish.”
I scoff, stepping back from these uncharted waters before I cross a professional line and say something I’ll really regret. His hands grip the table’s edge, knuckles whitening beneath the paint.
“You think with fame there’s some magic, infinite source of power?” He jerks forward as if to stand, then stops himself, shoulders trembling. “You’ve got no idea how little power I’ve gained. In fact, it’s been quite the bloody opposite. Don’t presume to know the sacrifices I’ve made for this.”
His voice cracks on the last word, barely audible, but it shatters my defenses.
I click the camera off and set the tripod back on the table.
The bus hums as the faint rattle of the heat kicks on, nearly knocking the statuesque man to his feet.
For the first time since I’ve met him, Judas looks afraid.
A fragile Atlas, carrying Earth on his shoulders.
I lower myself to the floor, folding my hands in my lap as I lean against the booth’s edge. The blinds are drawn, and the bus is dim, lit only by the amber glow of the overhead strip lights. Shadows cling to the corners, and beneath my sneakers the generator vibrates.
“You can’t even see how much you’ve gained. How many people’s lives you’ve changed by simply being here,” I say, chewing the skin around my pointer nail.
“People can’t handle the real me.” Judas inhales slowly, the mask shifting with the movement.
“Not beyond the facade that I’ve built just to get through the day.
My thoughts run too deep. Too heavy. Burdening someone else with them is cruel.
The moment anyone gets a glimpse, they say I’m too much.
And if they’re brave enough to dip their toes in—”
His sharp jaw pulses. “It ends the same. Waist deep is all anyone ever manages before I’m left drowning. I’m nothing without music. Without the mask, I’ve got no power at all.”
“Power isn’t something you gain; it’s something given. It’s given by people who see more in you than you ever can in yourself. Built from the shards of broken souls—yours, mine, your fans—all forged together through your music.”
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it, but I don’t wipe it away. “You’re foolish to assume you have any control over the influence you have on people. That’s not up to you. Whether or not you saved me, that’s my decision. Not yours.”
I look up at him, and we hold each other’s gaze.
For the first time since this impossible project began, I see him; not the performer or myth, but the beautifully flawed human who wrote the words that stitched me back together when I was falling apart.
Someone who understands what it feels like to not want to—but keeps going anyway.
Out of obligation and hope; with the faintest, most fragile desire to want to want to live.
“That’s quite a bit of pressure,” he whispers, low and frayed, “holding influence over so many lives.”
He leans back, inhales deeply, and reaches for the mask like he’s going to take it off. I leap to my feet and reach out, hands closing around his wrists.
“Hey, I’m not asking you to bare yourself to the bone here.”
He freezes, and I release him gently, my palms tingling with smeared paint.
“I made you a deal.” He exhales shakily.
“I know. But it’s hard enough to be vulnerable through my music.
When speaking, I can’t take it back. I’ve gotta be intentional with my words.
With my thoughts. Being inside my head isn’t easy.
I always say I enjoy being alone, that solitude is my sanctuary.
But I don’t think that’s true. I despise being alone with my bloody thoughts. I don’t want solitude. I want—”
Judas hesitates, ringed fingers flexing into fists atop the table.
“I want deep, meaningful conversation. Full engagement. Not a thousand sideways answers while someone stares at their phone. I want someone willing to ask the hard questions because they want the hard truths. I want companionship in emollient silences. A hand waiting for me to reach for it. To be considered a priority instead of an afterthought. That’s why I’m terrible at shallow, surface-level interviews. ”
“The great thing about technology.” I reach up, placing my hand over his clenched fists as he lowers them to his lap.
“You can delete and redo. We can take what we like and leave the rest. Try again. Shape it until you’re comfortable.
This isn’t a race. It’s not a test. There are no expectations here. ”
He stares at me for a long moment, then reaches for my left arm slowly, asking permission. I nod, and he lifts my sleeve, revealing the tattoo spiraling up my forearm. His fingers trace the ink with reverence, avoiding the scars with a cautious touch.
“Did you sketch this?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head. “I designed her face, but thankfully the artist sketched the rest; I can’t draw to save my life.”
He follows the serpents, carefully reading the lyrics from artists who shaped me. His touch pauses on another line of his lyrics, etched in delicate cursive along the spine of one of the snakes. Words I use to anchor myself.
“Don’t hurt yourself anymore,” he reads them like a command; gentle, but absolute.
He lifts his head, and his hidden gaze feels like I’m something precious and rare, like he can’t believe he’s found me. I hate it.
“She’s stunning.” He pushes the sleeve higher, following the intricate angles of the Medusa profile.
“It’s Nicole,” I choke out, grazing my thumb across my best friend’s face. “She died a few years ago.”
“The car accident?” he asks, dipping his gaze to my necklace. I nod. “I’m sorry.” Judas places his thumb over mine, smudging rusted crimson across Medusa's cheek. “I know what it’s like to live when it feels like you shouldn’t have. To survive.”
His fingers slide beneath the chain at my throat, and he lifts the necklace gently.