Chapter 10 Shattered Illusion
SHATTERED ILLUSION
ENZO
This is a fucking nightmare. Marcus and Dylan struggle to load Jax into the van, and he looks like he’s seconds away from collapsing. The guy can barely stand, let alone perform. I lean against the side of the van, my scowl deepening, patience depleted.
“This is a goddamn joke,” I mutter under my breath. “We can’t drag him around like this.”
Lily shoots me a look. Her eyes are swimming with worry and frustration. Her expression clearly conveying that she thinks I am not helping the situation.
Fuck it, I know I’m not. There is no helping this situation.
“Enzo, we don’t have a choice,” she replies, in a pleading tone.
“Yeah? Well, this is gonna end badly,” I snap back. “And when it does, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
As if to prove my point, Jax suddenly starts retching. Before anyone can react, he vomits all over the van floor, narrowly missing Dylan. Dylan jumps back, his face twisted in disgust and concern.
“Great,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Just what we needed.”
Lily looks like she’s on the verge of a mental breakdown, her hands trembling as she pulls tissues from her bag and tries to clean up the mess. I almost feel sorry for her. I almost apologize. But the moment passes before I make up my mind whether I should or not.
“Should we call Harris?” she asks, her voice shaking. “Maybe they can send another van at least? Or delay the show?”
“We need to keep going,” Marcus says firmly, his expression grim. Determined. “We can’t afford to miss this show, and they won’t send another van. The fans are likely already lined up outside and if we delay, the label is going to be up in arms.”
I release a heavy sigh, stepping over a puddle of vomit and slumping into the seat. “Someone at least get a bag or something for Jax.”
Dylan nods and runs back inside, returning a few minutes later with a roll of garbage bags. He unrolls a couple and hands one to Jax, then we head out.
The ride to the venue is suffocatingly tense. It seems to be the new theme for the band. Maybe we should change our name.
Electric Tension.
Jax slumps over, almost falling out of his seat, barely conscious. I throw an arm out, to catch his chest, pushing him back into his seat. His breathing shallow and uneven.
Lily sits on the other side of him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her face pale and drawn. Dylan stares out the window, his usual chatter replaced with heavy silence. The acidic smell of vomit lingers heavily in the air, even with all the windows open.
Suffocating Tension. That should be our new name.
When we finally arrive, the crew hurries to help get Jax out of the van and into the backstage area. The venue buzzes with frantic energy—roadies shouting instructions, equipment clattering into place, and the muffled noise of our fans filtering through the walls.
It’s chaos, but none of it touches us. We already have enough of our own chaos, there’s no capacity for more.
All the usual joy I feel at being backstage and preparing for a show is sapped, my energy drained away. I move in a fog-like state, slow to respond, steps faltering as I move closer to the inevitable disaster of the show.
When I finally reach the dressing room, I find the others spread out carrying out their normal routines.
We try to go through the motions of our pre-show routine, but it’s pointless.
Jax barely registers what’s happening. His glassy eyes drift unfocused, and he sways dangerously on his feet, every muscle in his body working just to keep him upright.
I cross my arms, my frustration bubbling up and spewing out. “This is a bad omen. He’s not going to make it through this,” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos.
“Enzo,” Marcus warns, in a low, clipped tone.
“No, seriously, look at him,” I bark, gesturing toward Jax. “This isn’t someone who can perform. We are currently babysitting a guy who can barely stay conscious. And we’re about to throw him out in front of thousands of people?”
“We don’t have a choice,” Marcus says, his voice tight but unwavering.
“We always have a choice,” I shoot back, heat and anger swelling in my chest in a toxic combination that makes me want to explode.
Lily steps in, her voice tight. “Fighting isn’t helping. Right now, we do what we can. We get through tonight. It’s one show.”
I shake my head, my jaw clenching so hard it aches. “This is insane.”
She looks at me, her eyes full of the kind of weariness that digs into your soul. “I know.”
That one admission—quiet and raw—pulls the fight out of me. Everyone here is being forced into this. I know that and they know that. Fighting them isn’t what I really want to do. We are all victims of this circumstance.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. “Fine.”
The sound tech calls for us to get into position, and the reality of what we’re about to do crashes over me. We’re a band that can’t afford to break, performing with a lead singer who can barely stand.
As we walk toward the stage, I glance at Jax, his frame frail and shaky, held up by sheer determination—or maybe just sheer stubbornness. He’s not ready. None of us are. But the show has to go on.
The roar of the crowd grows louder as we approach, and I feel my stomach churn. Tonight’s going to be a disaster—I can feel it in my bones.
We take the stage.
At first, the fans cheer, excited to see us, but it doesn’t take long for them to notice something’s wrong.
Jax is a mess, fumbling through our songs, his voice weak and strained, half of the lyrics wrong.
The energy is off, and the crowd starts to quiet, their cheers turning into murmurs of concern.
The stage lights are blinding, casting a harsh glare on everything. Jax stands at the front, his dark hair falling into his eyes, sweat dripping down his face. He tries to sing, but his voice cracks, and he sways on his feet. It’s painful to watch.
Marcus, to his right, plays his guitar with forced intensity, his blond hair sticking to his forehead.
He keeps glancing at Jax, his blue eyes filled with worry.
Behind the drums, Dylan pounds away with grim determination, his short brown hair slick with sweat.
It looks like he’s trying to hold the band together by pounding against his drums harder than usual, but nothing can cover the issues of our singer.
I stand on the other side of the stage, my bass feeling like dead weight in my hands.
The crowd is a sea of faces, their expressions shifting from excitement to confusion to concern.
It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion.
The smell of sweat and too many bodies packed into one place wafts up to the stage, mingling with the faint scent of alcohol from the front rows.
We push through as best we can, but it’s clear we’re a fucking mess. Two songs before the set is supposed to end, Jax collapses on stage, unable to continue. The rest of us exchange panicked glances, the gravity of the situation sinking in.
“This is not going to be good,” I mutter, my voice low.
Marcus moves to the mic stand. “Thank you for coming,” he shouts with false pep. “We had a food poisoning incident…”
He continues to talk to the crowd as Dylan and I calmly prop Jax between us and move him away from the prying eyes of the audience.
Backstage, the atmosphere is tense and grim. Jax lies sprawled on the dressing room couch, barely conscious, his face pale and drenched in sweat. Everyone else looks as exhausted and defeated as I feel.
Lily hovers over Jax, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with tears. “What are we going to do?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“We need to get him help,” Marcus says. “Actual help.”
“And miss more shows?” I shoot back, frustration bubbling over. “We’re already hanging by a thread and we can’t afford to pay the label back if we cancel all our shows and cut our contract.”
The tension in the room is thick. It feels like the band is crumbling, and none of us know how to stop it.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Marcus snaps, his frustration spilling over. “We return to the nurse, then we get a break and give Jax a chance to get his shit together. No one is saying that we cancel anything.”
Dylan runs a hand through his hair, his face lined with concern. “We need to stop fighting; it’s making everything worse. We follow Marcus’ plan and when we finish the break, we follow the tour schedule and everything will be okay.”
I clench my fists, anger and helplessness surging inside me, but I tamp it down. “Fine.”
As we prepare to leave the venue, Marcus and Dylan haul Jax to his feet. His legs tremble under his weight, barely holding any of his weight as he stumbles forward. He leans heavily on Dylan, his head lolling against his shoulder as they guide him toward the van.
The ride back to the hotel is worse than the trip to the venue. Jax is barely coherent, his breathing labored. Without warning, he vomits all over himself. The stench fills the van, making me gag.
Lily tries to clean him up with trembling hands, her face pale and strained. Fear and worry is written in every line of her face.
“He’s fucking useless like this,” I snap, unable to hold back my frustration. “We should have left him back there.”
“Shut up, Enzo,” Marcus fires back, his blue eyes blazing with anger. “We’re not leaving him behind. It wouldn’t help anything anyway. We need him to sing.”
Dylan, pale and visibly exhausted, chimes in, “Enzo, come on, man.”
I cross my arms, glaring out the window. “When this goes to shit, it’s on all of us.” For better or worse, Jax’s actions impact us all and I don’t want any part in the failure that is surely headed our way. Unfortunately, none of us have a choice in the matter.
When we finally reach the hotel, Marcus and Dylan maneuver Jax out, his body limp and practically dead weight between them. I sigh and follow the rest of the group back towards the back entrance of the building.