9-Kit - Three Years Ago
(Thirtieth of October, twenty twenty-one)
My voice bounces off the low ceiling and black-painted walls with a god-awful whine that sounds like a dying hog.
“Hold up!” Marty yells, smacking the main amp. “Cable’s dodgy again!”
I flex my fingers over the keys, letting the last vibration fade. Speakers crackle, then settle. A faint feedback slices through the air as he scrambles in the booth. The leftover buzz crawls down my spine, mixing with the hum already alive in my bones.
Before we finish soundcheck, I get another whiff of the LA venue; stale beer and stage fog that hasn’t fully cleared.
It’s dusty, like the room’s been sealed for years and is only now remembering how to breathe.
My throat’s dry, but adrenaline makes it easy to ignore.
Fans will start showing up soon, probably with some ridiculous fancy dress for Halloween.
Even though our second album got delayed eleven months because of the pandemic, it finally released earlier this year. Somehow it made enough waves to get us a small headlining gig with Jumpscare Griffins across the East and West Coast in the States.
I’m not Kit anymore. Not with the red paint streaked along my chest and jaw, the black cloak and chains draped across my shoulders and neck. His horned mask hangs from me like a second face.
Five years ago, I couldn’t imagine any of this.
I didn’t want to imagine anything. But Somnium, our band’s namesake, came into my life the moment I tried to end it.
Everything unfolded exactly as the god said it would; slowly, painfully, beautifully.
When I lost my muse, when I lost Melody, he became it, he became her.
He uses me as a mouthpiece in hopes his love can hear them. Every morning, I wake up and write down whatever fragments he gives me the previous night. Most are memories of seemingly unrequited or tragically-lost love. The bloke insists that it shall be my salvation.
Though in five years, I’ve never met the curly-haired woman who haunts my nights.
The spotlight flares to life, soaking into the shadowy fabric. Behind me, Silver clatters through the cables of their bass, humming off-key. A few of the soundcheck guys, some security, and a couple of officers the LAPD put on duty, clap.
I glance toward the side of the stage, where a police officer stands awkwardly near a stack of amps. His uniform is loose, like he’s borrowed it from someone broader. I hop off the stage, boots thudding against the scuffed floor.
“You good, mate?” I ask, blotting sweat from my jaw with my cloak.
My voice comes out lower, steadier; Judas, not Kit. The officer startles, and I’m drawn to his badge. Reyes.
“Oh, yeah, no, I’m good,” Officer Reyes says. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare. My sister put me on to your band.”
“Smart sister,” I say, a cheeky grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.
He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, I was actually wondering about the vial you always wear. My sis says it’s human remains.”
I untangle the necklace from the mess and wriggle the long thin chain free.
The vial glimmers faintly in my palm; a tiny glass teardrop filled with shimmering silver powder that catches the light like stars trapped in a bottle.
Louanne pulled my ass back into civilization after Melody’s death, and it jumped out at me with a sparkling sheen.
“Take it,” the god said, speaking to my waking consciousness for the first time as my feet dragged me toward the jewelry stand.
“It’s moon dust,” I say to the officer quietly. “For protection.”
Reyes swallows; stare fixed on the vial. A strange certainty settles in my gut, heavy and electric.
“Give it to him.”
With the god’s internal command, I hand it over.
“Whoa, no, man.” The officer’s eyes bug out. “I can’t take this.”
“Take it,” I say, pressing it into his chest. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll know what to do with it.”
He stares down at the vial like I’ve handed him a live star. It glows between his fingers as though it recognises him. The black, white, and silver dust shimmer in tiny flashes.
“I really don’t think I should be taking this,” he says, voice wobbling between awe and panic.
I wipe sweat from my brow. “It’s meant for you. A gift.”
“Why me?”
The question hits deeper than it should, stirring an ache in my chest.
“Energy finds energy,” I tell him, “and yours feels important.”
“You sound like my sister.” He lets out a shaky titter. “She’s always talking about moon phases and energy alignments and all that.”
“The moon’s not just a symbol. It’s a beacon. A call. It protects, yeah, but it also connects. Helps you feel what you’re meant to. That white rock reminds us that you’re allowed to vanish and come back, as many times as needed.”
He exhales slowly. “Damn.”
“Yeah,” I say with a small smile, “that’s usually the reaction.”
“Okay.” He shimmies the thin chain around his head. “I’ll keep it.”
“Good, because Somnium doesn’t get things wrong.”
“Unit Seven, respond.” His radio crackles, static slicing through the room. “Collision on Sunset and 8th. Possible fatalities. Repeat, major collision.”
Reyes stiffens. His petrified stare snaps to me, wide and startled.
Turning tail, he runs. Two other officers sprint after him, boots pounding against the floor as their radios crackle with responses.
The sudden rush of movement stirs the air, carrying sweat, leather, and cold night wind through the doorway.
Darren, the head of security for the venue, mutters, “Must be close.”
A cold, electric shiver crawls up my spine. The paint across my jaw and torso cracks. My pulse thuds slowly, as if fighting for its next beat.
Silver drones on beside me, but their voice is muffled, warped by buzzing. The venue lights cast jagged shadows across the stage. My skin prickles with static.
“You good?” Silver nudges my shoulder. Their large palm is grounding, moist with citrus lotion. “You’ve gone all pale. Like, proper ghost white.”
“Yeah.” I swallow, sweat gathering beneath the paint. “Just a weird feeling.”
“Probably the adrenaline,” they say, a piece of pastel-pink hair falling across their eyes as they shrug. “Or that dodgy yellowtail you inhaled earlier.”
“Yeah.” I huff out a laugh, but it’s thin. “Maybe.”
It’s not the sashimi or adrenaline. It’s something deeper, bustling beneath my ribs.
Like a tuning fork struck by invisible hands, it vibrates through my bones.
A barbed pulse throbs behind my eyes. I close my lids, letting the sensation wash over me.
The venue fades, blurring into the background as the hum grows stronger, pounding in time with my heartbeat.
“Oi. Jude. Don’t pass out on me, yeah?” Silver’s voice cuts through the haze. “We’ve got a show in two hours.”
“I’m not gonna pass out,” I mutter, though my knees are unsteady. “Just give me a sec.”
I press my hand to my chest. My heart thuds like it’s trying to sync with something outside myself.
The hum spreads through my limbs, tingling at my fingertips.
My sight smears at the edges, the stage lights glowing brighter as the red EXIT sign flashes.
I steady myself on the edge of an amp, breath hitching.
“Mate, you’re freaking me out.” Silver frowns. “What’s goin’ on?”
The hum shifts, deepening into an unfamiliar yearning.
I reach for my comfort, but the vial’s gone. It’s around Reyes’s neck now, racing toward a new life. For the first time in years, Somnium’s presence transforms, making way for something new.
Something inevitable.