22-Kit
Medusa’s profile, not monstrous or snarling, but human.
Exhausted. Like she’s had enough of being everyone’s nightmare.
All through the rest of soundcheck, music turned into background noise, simple thuds and rumbles running through the stage. My thoughts drift to Zachary’s tattoo. It isn’t just ink; it’s a whole bloody story carved into her skin.
The snakes spiralled down her arm in loose coils, each one lined with tiny words along their backs. I didn’t catch them all; she pulled away too quickly, but I managed to spot my own lyrics blaring back at me.
Butterflies in flight threaded between the serpents, their small bodies made of semicolons; a quiet pause she refused to let become an ending. And beneath it all, ridged, marred skin.
The closer I get to her, the deeper Somnium’s words penetrate. His insistence that she and I are tied together. She haunted my dreams for nearly a decade. And now she’s here, in the flesh, the universe taking the piss at me.
My head’s still full of her when I turn a corner backstage and nearly walk straight into Ollie.
“Oi,” I say, jolting back into myself as he passes.
He spins round on his heel, his buck front tooth digging into his pout. “What now?”
“I’m tweaking the set list.”
I need to say something the only way I know how.
“Mate—”
“It’s fine. Tell Marcus to cut False Fables, get me my Martin, and tell Jimmy I want a single spotlight. He’ll get it.”
“You want the intro?” Ollie asks, knowing exactly which song I’m about to drag out.
We rehearsed it, knowing it’s a fan favourite, but I never thought I’d muster the balls to play it. I nod.
“Fine, I’ll tell the booth.” He groans, tosses his hands up, and grabs his walkie. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”
I leave him muttering and head for the green room. The moment I step in, the usual pre-show chaos hits. Seth’s pacing like a caged dog, Silver fusses with their coat, and Louanne’s buzzing stiffly with nerves. I slip between Seth and Silver, slinging an arm around each of them.
“Listen,” I say as they turn toward me, “you’ve all grafted for this. I know I’ve been a right nightmare lately, and I’m sorry for it.”
The room settles as their breathing lines up with mine. Louanne stops biting her thumbnail and comes toward us.
“Let’s cut False Fables and try something different,” I declare, mostly to myself. “We started doing this to share music with people who actually give a toss. There are thousands out there waiting. So, we’re going to give them a show worth the bloody ticket.”
We throw our hands into the centre, the same ritual we’ve done since we were in a garage pretending we knew what we were doing.
“For the music,” I say.
“For the music,” they parrot back, steady and sure.
I follow the others into the hallway, the crowd’s murmur swelling with every step.
Despite the dreams, fear, and pull toward Zach I can’t shake, I don’t want this moment to slip through my fingers.
I’ve wanted this since I first sat at a piano, realising I can hear a song once and play it back like it had always been mine.
Music’s the thing that kept me breathing when nothing else did.
My cloak brushes against my trousers with each step. Every clamouring cheer rolls through the concrete. The closer we get, the louder it builds, settling like a second heartbeat.
Fog hangs on my tongue as it deepens for the lasers. Jimmy’s voice crackles through the comms, demanding as ever, calling cues like he’s conducting a bloody symphony.
I should be thinking about the set, cues, and opening note. But all I can think about is her. The way she glared at me when I touched her arm; startled, wounded, and furious. I tug at my cloak, fingers brushing the gold trim.
I want to wrap it around myself; to hide the vulnerable parts of me put so frivolously on display every time I step on stage.
Seth bounces beside me, chains clinking as he shakes out his hands. Silver fusses with their coat, fabric whispering with every adjustment as Lou mutters an Irish prayer Alyssa taught her to keep her steady.
“For the music,” I whisper, adjusting my mic and earpiece as I step under the stage, the roar rising like a wave ready to devour me.
The platform vibrates as the lift engages, rising me toward my calling.
Screams hit loud enough to shake the rafters.
My pulse kicks as adrenaline slams through me.
Fog curls around my legs, clinging to the fabric.
The lights shift and bathe everything in deep crimson. Instinct drags my gaze to the pit.
And there she is.
Zachary stands half-hidden behind a truss support, camera in hand, face lit by the stage glow. Her gaze cuts straight through me. I tear away before I drown in it.
The platform locks into place with a heavy thud as the crowd surges in a frenzy of hands, faces, and flashes. Heat rolls off thousands of bodies. Humanity in all its messy glory. The first beats of Lou’s drum fill the air, and I lose myself in routine.
The setlist blurs into one long breath. Muscle memory takes over; step here and reach there while lights swallow me whole. Every note is a string I’ve plucked a thousand times, weaving the same tapestry of myth and noise the crowd came to worship.
Paint melts down my face, sweat stinging my eyes. The roar of the crowd rises and falls, and I ride the tide. Somewhere between song seven and eight, I stop being a person and become the thing they came to see. A silhouette. A symbol they can scream for.
Soaked in sweat, paint stripped from my skin in patches, I head toward the stool at the back of the stage. Fans roar with applause from the last number; the final single off the newest album, and I take the time to catch my breath.
This is going to be a first for all of us.
I hop atop the backless pub stool. My fingers curve around the neck of my guitar, the mahogany warm in my clammy grip as Ollie hands it to me.
“Spotlight in three… two… one,” Jimmy crackles in my ear.
A single beam slices through the dark, landing on me in a cone. The strap digs into my shoulder, the familiar weight settling me. I lift my guitar, and the first note rings out.