Page 145 of Down Beat

FIFTY-ONE

Rey

“Sound of Madness” - Shinedown

Two weeks, four stops, and six shows since she fucking left.

And shit hasn’t got any easier.

That mania on the horizon has become a goddamn vanishing point, always out of reach. Tonight we play our third show in the same venue before moving on to our second to last stop of the tour, and the whole thing is fucked.

I can see grass between the groups of people milling about with red cups in hand, waiting for us to restart.

Why the fuck can I see grass? We’re supposed to be sold out.

My fairly intoxicated brain comes to one conclusion only as I stare out at those mocking patches of nature—people have left.

Ticket holders have decided that our show isn’t worth staying for when light rain paints a mist across the halogen lights.

I shake my head at the bullshit and turn to grab my drink from in front of Toby’s stand. He watches me with hard eyes, sticks resting on his thighs as he waits for the cue to tear into our next song.

Emery makes his way across the stage while Kris plays whatever comes to mind in an effort to keep the crowd occupied.

Fuck the crowd.

Why should they be over the fucking moon to be here when I’d rather stick a fork in my goddamn eye than stare at those patches of grass again?

“What’s the hold up?” Em snatches the bottle from my hand and takes a healthy swig.

I glare at the motherfucker, well aware he doesn’t drink because he’s thirsty; he drinks the contents so I can’t.

Toby leans forward, pushing his mic to the side in the process. “Square your shit away, Rey. You’ve been off all goddamn night.”

“Fuck you,” I spit, tearing the alcohol from Emery. “Just follow my lead like you’re supposed to.”

“When this set is over you’re fuckin—”

I walk away before he can finish, turning back to what remains of our goddamn traitorous crowd.

“How about this fucking weather, huh?” I holler into the mic. “What sort of fuckery is that?”

I catch a few heads turn as the patrons look to each other for guidance. I’m known for my uplifting chants, my ability to get everybody up and jumping, not this bitter bullshit.

“Fuck the rain,” I yell. “Let’s make some goddamn noise.”

A few die-hards cheer, yet I catch all those blank stares in the mix.

The same people who seem to stare straight through me as I smash my way through one of our original tracks. Kris is on fire as usual, his playing damn near the only thing that carries us through to the end of the song.

Fuck knows it isn’t me.

I give up and set my guitar down before Toby knocks out the final bars.

“Where the hell are you going?” Kris hisses as he backs across the stage and into my path, pick still working the strings.

“Anywhere but here,” I snap.

I jog down the stairs side of stage and push into the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms, all to the deafening drone of the crowd’s complaints.