The Riven Altar

1. The Riven Altar

The Riven Altar

This is it. This is how I die. Smudged and humiliated. Piotr will find me, step over my body and head to the gig without me.

I’m inches from the mirror, tongue caught between my teeth because this stupid eyeliner keeps going crooked no matter what I do. Why is it that the harder I try to look hot, the more I look like Natalia in Mama’s makeup drawer?

“Kurwa! Even a six-year-old could do better,” I pout, already annoyed at myself.

Behind me, Piotr whistles. “You’re wasting your life in here. It’s a gig, not your wedding, siostra.”

Of course he’s ready, hair styled just right, leather jacket hanging open over a band tee. My brother looks older than eighteen, like he’s so easily part of the world I’m still desperate to get into. He smirks when he sees me struggling.

“What?” I snap, glaring at his reflection.

“You’re trying too hard. Here.” He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it at me. “Don’t get your makeup shit on it.”

I just stare at it. This is Piotr’s sacred jacket. I hold it like it’s a rosary blessed by the Pope himself.

“Seriously?” I ask, embarrassingly in awe.

He grins. “Don’t make me change my mind. Five minutes, then I’m gone.”

He’s downstairs before I can even say a word.

I pull it on carefully. The sleeves are way too long, shoulders ridiculously broad, but it still feels like armor.

The scent of leather mixed with his cologne hits me first, then cigarettes and that cheap bar soap Mama and Tata buy in bulk.

I glance at the mirror again and something flips in my stomach.

I still look like me, but… more. Braver.

Like someone who doesn’t apologize for being loud, someone I want to be.

From downstairs, my grandmother calls out, “Kasiu! Your brother is about to leave without you!”

“I’m coming, Babciu!” I shout, still stabbing at my eyeliner with a q-tip like I’m in a fight to the death with my own face.

Tata calls up the stairs, “If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss your mysterious noise band. The one with all the screaming.”

“They’re called The Riven Altar, Tata,” Piotr yells back, laughing. He jingles his keys like a school bell and my stomach flips the same way it does when I'm not in my seat yet. It’s his signal that if I don’t move now, he’s leaving without me.

“I don’t care what they’re called,” Tata mutters. “In my day we had a melody. Wonderful voices. Not this noise they call music now.”

When I clatter down the stairs in my borrowed band tee, ripped jeans and combat boots, Piotr’s waiting by the door with one eyebrow raised like I’m already letting him down. “You done?”

Before I can answer, Babcia grabs my face in both hands, squishing my cheeks until I look like a panicked hamster. She plants a kiss on each side, her ritual blessing. I sigh, full of embarrassment. She taps my cheek once more before shuffling off, satisfied.

“Done as this gets,” I say, throwing my arms out in a ta-da motion, trying to look confident instead of shaking with nerves.

Piotr groans like all sixteen years of my life have been a burden. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

In the car, I flip open my compact mirror and try to fix the smudged mistake on my face, using spit and a fingernail because I have no shame left.

It’s hopeless. Every time Piotr hits a bump, I wobble and glare at him.

He catches me scowling and grins, then reaches up to touch the cigarette tucked behind his ear.

He slides it down, pops it between his lips, and lights it in one smooth motion.

He should not look that cool, especially since he spent half of last night arguing with Mama about doing his own laundry.

“Quick stop first.”

The back door opens and Dominik slides in, trying too hard to look relaxed.

He takes up more space now, not the scrawny idiot I shoved in the mud when he tried to steal my chocolate back in elementary school.

He’s tall, broad, hoodie on, taking up space like the car is too small to hold him.

He’s tried to style his wild honey-blond hair into something similar to Piotr’s, gel and an upsweep, but it’s already starting to fall.

His knee bumps mine and he gives me an apologetic glance.

I groan. “You didn’t tell me Nowicki was coming.”

Piotr shrugs. “Yeah, we’ve got some friends meeting us there.”

Dominik smiles. There’s something different about him tonight, almost shy. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I don’t look up. I’m very busy pretending my eyeliner isn’t my latest failed art project.

I can feel Dominik trying not to stare at me and failing.

I ignore it, mostly. He looks like he might say something else, but Piotr cranks the radio and the car fills with music.

He drums on the wheel, blowing smoke out of the window like Mama won’t know instantly.

He’ll get the blunt end of her broom as a wake up call tomorrow.

When we pull up, I blink. This is not what I pictured.

Not even close. It’s a little brick building with cracked windows, walls layered in posters.

The newest one shows four skinny boys, half-hidden behind scarves.

They look like they took whatever darkness they had and stitched it into armor.

Hoodies, paint, attitude. It should look silly, but to me, it doesn’t.

It pulls me in, like they already know something I don’t.

“This is the place?” I ask.

Piotr grins. “If you’re scared, I can take you home.”

I cross my arms and lift my chin. “No. I just expected something bigger.”

Dominik bumps my shoulder. “Don’t take anything from strangers. You’ll survive.”

The scent of his cologne and the heat of his arm assaults my senses, unwelcome. Suddenly, I have the overwhelming urge to punch him, so I raise my fist on instinct. Both of them lose it laughing at me and I roll my eyes, throwing the door open in a huff. “I’m going inside. Palanty.” Idiots.

Inside, the air is thick with beer and sweat, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin. The ceiling feels like it might press down on us, dripping with condensation. Christmas lights are strung along the pipes overhead, blinking like they’re one second away from dying.

Two girls wave from near the front, one blonde with perfect red lipstick and the other shorter with glitter that shimmer-catches every flash of light. Piotr nudges me.

“There they are,” he says, grinning like this is all unfolding exactly how he planned.

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s the friends?”

“Tak. What’s the issue?”

“I knew it. You’re ditching me.”

He shrugs, already half turned away. “You’ll be fine. Just stay out of the pit.”

Dominik shifts next to me, hands shoved in his pockets, “I’ll hang here,” he mumbles. “Better view.”

Piotr immediately drapes an arm across his shoulders. “Come on. I need my wingman.”

Dominik glances back once as Piotr drags him off, the crowd swallowing them both in seconds.

I don’t care, let the jerk abandon me to chase girls.

My focus is on the stage right in front of me and the adrenaline is already crawling up my spine.

My first live show, my first chance to be part of this world, the one Piotr kept promising to let me join once I turned sixteen.

I told him I didn’t care what band it was, as long as he took me as soon as humanly possible.

Now, I’m finally here. The lights dim. The room alters, breath held by everyone at once.

A murmur rolls through the bodies packed shoulder to shoulder.

Then they appear. Four figures in black hoodies, faces hidden behind scarves. No “hello Seattle.” Just a hiss of feedback before the first note tears through the room like atoms splitting open.

It’s rough, jagged, and alive. The sound hits me right in the chest. The tall one, half in shadow, grips the mic like it’s the only thing holding him up. His voice isn’t polished. It’s raw, uneven, and sounds like it’s scraping the inside of his throat.

It’s not something you listen to, it’s something you survive.

The crowd moves all at once, pulled forward like every person is threaded to him.

The guitarist, a jagged grin painted across his scarf, throws his head back and plays like the strings are on fire.

The bass thrums deep enough to feel in my bones.

Behind them, the drummer hammers the beat like he’s trying to raise the dead.

Sweat flies off him as he drives the whole room forward, the heavy kick folding into the pulse under my feet.

But it’s the singer I can’t look away from. He barely moves, barely looks up. But the way he sings, it’s like the song is burning him alive and he’s letting it. It feels like it’s burning through me too. My throat gets tight and my eyes sting with unwelcome tears. I don’t even know why.

When the final chord fades, the whole room explodes with noise. People are cheering, crying, screaming the fading lyrics louder to get an encore. I clap until my palms sting. I don’t even realize I’m smiling so hard until my cheeks start to hurt.

Afterward, the crowd thins toward a folding table at the back where the band are selling hand-burned CDs for five bucks, offering a signature if you want one. They still have their hoodies on, scarves loose now, laughing at something, tired but alive in a different way.

I feel my heartbeat everywhere as I inch closer, face getting hotter with every step I take. The singer is quieter than the rest, signing CDs without looking up, eyebrow piercing catching the dim light. When it’s my turn, I slide a CD forward and hope he doesn’t notice my hands shaking.

He looks up, right into my eyes. His are dark and tired but kind. Beautiful in a way that makes my stomach drop.

“Thanks for coming out tonight.”

I sort of smile. Or squeak. Or both. I honestly can’t tell. Our fingers brush when he hands the CD back and something electric bolts up my arm, spreading through my chest.

“Hope you liked it,” he says. Soft, almost shy.

Liked it? I nod because I can’t speak. I think if I open my mouth I might say something ridiculous, like I think this night just changed my whole life.

I walk away clutching the CD like it’s the most important object I’ve ever owned.

Maybe it is.

On the drive home Piotr is grinning at his phone, bragging how the blonde girl’s number is already saved in it. He hums one of their songs under his breath, like he paid attention to anything but her.

When we walk in the door, Tata is waiting in the kitchen.

“So. How was your noise?”

Mama smacks his arm, already pouring her nightly glass of water.

Piotr laughs. “You’d have hated it. Too loud and skinny, one of them even had a piercing.”

Tata points a finger at me. “Don’t get ideas, Kasiu. You’re too young for those things.”

He keeps talking, teasing. I barely hear a word of it. All I feel is the spark still tingling in my fingertips. The echo of that voice. Something cracked open inside me tonight, something got in.

I know, without even understanding why, that I’ll never forget it.