29-Zach
I lose myself in Judas. Again.
He’s onstage finishing a stripped-down cover of one of my dad’s favorite rock ballads.
The original is all electric guitars and gravelly vocals, but Judas gutted it to nothing but a piano and his voice.
And somehow, in that emptiness, the song becomes something else entirely, like a confession dancing through the dark.
His voice carries through the empty arena, filling the space with an aching purity. The theme, already devastating, becomes almost unbearable in his hands. He doesn’t just sing it. He bleeds it.
Do your job.
I’m supposed to be reviewing the soundtrack cuts and timestamps, making sure the audio matches the footage. The reminder barely dents the pull he has on me.
I try to focus on my laptop screen, but I keep drifting back to him.
The way his fingers move over the keys; his shoulders rising and falling with each breath.
Lights catch the red paint smeared across his torso, turning it into something mythic that belongs to the persona he built and the god who puppets him.
When the final chord fades, Judas stands, nods once, and disappears backstage. I sling my camera over my shoulder and go around the stage, filming the stragglers; the lighting tech as he adjusts the rig, the sound engineer testing a mic, and stagehands rolling out cables.
I drift toward the piano. The keys are still warm, smeared with paint-streaked sweat. I film the imperfections, the faint pieces of fingerprints left behind. A zap shoots up my spine, followed by an exhale skittering across the back of my neck.
It’s terrifying how I know Judas’s suffocating presence by breath alone. Probably because he sucks up all the oxygen around him like a greedy, selfish asshole with zero regards to other people’s need for air.
“You owe me an interview.” I let my camera hang heavy, tapping the F key. “I need this, okay? It might seem ‘proper silly’ or ‘utterly ridiculous’ to you, but this is my job. And if you don’t help me—”
He grabs my hand firmly and guides it away from the keys.
Gently, he ushers me toward the edge of the bench.
He sits first, then pats the space beside him.
I hesitate, but he waits, patient and expectant.
Shuffling beside him, our difference in stature is staggering; he looms alongside me, heat rolling off him like sun on pavement.
Long fingers cool against my skin, he guides my hands to my lap carefully, reverently. Judas begins to play the same intro he just performed, his giant hands covering nearly twice the space of mine. His lips part as if he’s about to sing, but nothing comes out.
After a few seconds, he stops, turns his head toward me, and then starts the intro again. He pauses at the exact moment the lyrics should begin. The horned devil faces me; brows no doubt raised behind the mask.
“Are you seriously trying to bargain with me?” I rub my wrinkled forehead, rapidly aging due to him. “I don’t sing.”
He smirks, a tiny curve of his lips as if to say, ‘Now you know how I feel.’ I press my lips together and bite my cheek. I get it—if I expect him to be vulnerable, he’s asking that I do the same.
Wanker. Absolute wanker.
With a single, decisive dip of his chin, he turns back to the keyboard and begins the intro again.
On cue, my lids close, and I sing, letting the music lure the words out.
My voice wavers, thin at first, then steadier as the melody carries me.
The acoustics of the empty arena wrap around us, amplifying every sharp note and unsupported breath.
His piano playing is flawless; emotional yet intuitive, guiding me through the melody like a hand at the small of my back. He’s better than I could ever be. A true master of the craft.
When the final chords ring out, I let the last note fade from my lips. I keep my lids squeezed, too embarrassed to face him. Then he clears his throat, the tiny nudge to my side like a battering ram. He’s smiling.
Not a smirk, or a twitch of the lips, but a full, wide, genuine smile directed right at me.
My heart freezes. I know that smile; how it curls at the edges like a secret. The charm behind it. I’ve seen it for years now, after I sold half of my life and soul and all of my sleep to it.
“Endymion,” my lips part in a careful, questioning whisper, and Judas freezes.
The air snaps taut, charged.
His hands clench into fists so tight the tendons protrude from the paint. The bench screeches across the stage as he shoves it back, nearly knocking me off balance. He stands abruptly, posture rigid. Then he turns and stalks away.
“Hey!”
I scramble to my feet, but he’s already gone, swallowed by the curtain. Spinelessly disappearing backstage like a ghost fleeing daylight. My pulse hammers as I stare after him, the echo of his reaction replaying in my mind.
I used to think my dreams were just trauma wearing a new mask. Or my brain trying to stitch meaning into the meaningless. But seeing Judas’s face, I know I’m not crazy. There’s a connection between him and whatever entity has been clawing at the edges of my life.
Clarity cuts through the fog of shock.
Finally, I can figure out what’s been happening to me. I can start to unravel why this strange British man feels woven into my life in ways that run deeper than music, or even logic.
A tremor runs through me, but I force myself to breathe. I run my fingers over the red-smeared keys, tracing the places where his hands had been. The paint is still tacky, warm from his skin. A smirk tugs at my mouth.
“Checkmate.”