by Sara Taylor
“I know you from somewhere,” he said in that deep voice. I physically reacted to the sound, unable to keep a sob from bursting out of my throat, feeling every nerve ending, every muscle in my body react, feeling everything in me ready to take flight, to propel myself back and away from him, around the corner, out into that muddy field, to get the fuck away. Stop it. Keep it together, don’t give it away, don’t let him know, don’t let him remember. I tried to take control. I somehow managed to turn the sob into a wrenching, horrible chuckle, forcing my face to smile, my hands curling into atrophied, painful fists, my nails digging into my palms.
“What’s wrong? Did our collision hurt you?” He smiled, friendly, and reached out for me. I recoiled immediately but tried to cover it up with a casual laugh.
“Oh, no, I’m fine. Just in a rush,” I replied, wondering if I was shouting, knowing I looked insane, not caring, just wanting to get away from him. “My band is going on in a few minutes.”
He stared down at me for a moment, thoughtful. I didn’t understand how he could have forgotten me. This eye contact had happened before, it’s just that I’d been crying and he’d been drunk, but it hung in the air between us, heavy like an old dirty towel.
“I know!” His face lit up. “Of course. You’re Rachel from Colostomy Hag.” He gave me a smile. “I have to say — I’m a huge fan!”
I smiled.
“I’m actually going to watch your show from the side of the stage,” he continued. “I haven’t been able to see you guys live yet, so I’m definitely looking forward to it.”
“I have to go,” I said happily. I raised my hand in a friendly farewell and watched as his eyes took in my scabbed, bloody palm. I bolted then, running past him, running harried through the halls, bumping into people and not caring. I threw the door to our cubicle open and flung myself into it as though the walls would protect me. I turned and slammed the door, pressed my forehead against it, taking heaving, shuddering gasps.
“Rachel! What the fuck?”
Startled, I turned and saw Toad in the room. I tried to compose myself, tried to grin, but he stepped forward and grabbed me by the shoulders, scowling darkly.
“I don’t know what your deal is. And, you know, I don’t really care.” I met his gaze, holding eye contact with him, and allowed my dislike for him to show. It was met with a matching dislike. Good to know. “Just get through today’s show. And then go fuck off, go have your little meltdown or whatever you have to do.” He released my shoulders, but not before giving me a small shove backwards. It wasn’t hard, but it was enough to express that he did not like me and that he could — and probably would have loved to — shove me harder.
“You’re a real gentleman,” I said.
xXx
So I walked onstage for our first big festival show with fury at Toad coursing through me. Horror followed when I saw that Balthazar was, indeed, watching us from the side of stage. I couldn’t enjoy it — I couldn’t enjoy how beautiful Fern looked, how great Edgar’s performance was, how the crowd screamed appreciatively, how their hands reached towards me. I did the best I could, going through the songs, making the faces, smiling and baring my teeth and snarling, but all the while I was hideously aware of him, standing in the darkness, lurking in the shadows, like a thin black spider, waiting to pounce. I came very close to vomiting on that stage. The crowd would have loved it, but I didn’t want to show weakness.
Our set was short — only a half-hour — and as I went to announce our last song, the microphone slipped wetly out of my hand. My palm was bleeding, one large scab hanging half off. Shrugging, I raised my hand to my mouth, grasped the scab with my teeth, ripped it off, and spat it onto the floor. Blood dripped from my hand. I raised it and dragged it across my face, smearing blood over my flushed, sweaty skin. The crowd roared. I felt like I was in a frenzy. My eyes stung. I wanted to make Balthazar sick. I wanted to make Toad hate me.
xXx
Toad said nothing as he bandaged my hand once we were offstage and back in our little dressing room. I knew he thought I was crazy. It was obvious that the wounds on my hand were nothing new. I’d seen him glance at them sometimes but he’d never asked and he had nothing to say to me now. I can’t really blame him. I hated him, and anyway, I was insane, right? It made me smile, sitting there while he pressed gauze onto my bloody palm, imagining how he’d feel if he knew I’d killed two people. Smashed someone’s head in.
Doesn’t being self-aware negate any sort of insanity? I can rationalize, of course, that the things I had done up to that point were insane, but I also remember acknowledging I am insane. Which maybe means I actually wasn’t. One thing’s for sure — Fern was in the room while Toad was wrapping my hand, looking in the mirror that had been hastily nailed to the wall, fixing her powder and lipstick, brushing her long hair, and humming to herself like a lunatic. To me, she was the picture of madness. But that’s probably because I knew she was plotting mass murder while she smiled prettily at her reflection. To Toad, I’m sure she just looked fuckin’ hot.
Then she and I went to go smoke outside, and as we walked through the building, we passed a wall lined with DED’s stage props. That same old rig, the rack of medieval weapons that they always had onstage. The battle-axe, the swords. Fern whirled to me. Our eyes met, and our faces lit up. I swear: it’s like the universe wanted this to happen. I mean, how many bands bring real, functioning, deadly weapons onstage?
“They’re asking for it,” I said to Fern, and her shriek of laughter startled the people beside us.
FIFTY-FIVE
I remember everything that happened that night. I can even play it back in slow motion, every detail crystal clear. Maybe because it was my last night free? Or maybe because I was so damn nervous. I felt so completely aware. I could feel something moving through my veins — adrenaline, fear. I felt like my whole body was tingling.
As the afternoon progressed into evening, the musicians in the band building started getting drunk. Especially after dinner. The voices echoing and calling got louder. We’d hung out after our show in the dressing room for a while, gone out to the autograph tent shortly after that, and then we were free to do whatever we wanted for the rest of the day. I’d gone onto the fairground for a while, wandering through the rows of vendors. It was cold outside, but there were thousands of people out there. There was booth after booth of rock shirts, boots, jewellery, belts, candy, all kinds of crap. The ground was muddy, and with so many people walking around, it was getting pretty torn up. Everyone’s feet were covered with mud, so the floors in the stage buildings were a mess.
Just before DED was scheduled to go on, I was in the dressing room with Fern and Edgar. Socks and Toad had disappeared, probably to go drink beer on the fairground. I couldn’t sit still, and I had smoked so many cigarettes that I felt light-headed and sick.
But that didn’t stop me from lighting another. My insides churned. My knee jerked up and down as I sat at the little table, staring into the overflowing ashtray. Fern placidly brushed her hair, a serene and wistful smile on her face. Edgar sat across from me, frowning. I could tell he was weirded out by the both of us.
“So,” he said. “You guys want to watch DED from the side of the stage?”
My knee stopped bouncing, and Fern smiled. “That’s a great idea, let’s do it,” she said. They both looked at me, and I nodded my head stiffly, butting out my cigarette.
There are walks you never forget. You know, the walk you do down the hallway at the dentist’s office, the walk into the hospital for some terrifying procedure. It’s a walk full of dread, a walk you want to turn away from. A walk where you can’t believe your own legs are carrying you, when every fibre of your being is telling you to stop. You entertain fantasies of some helpful person in white dragging you, while you kick and scream and refuse to take another step. I imagine walking down death row towards execution feels the same.
&nb
sp; That’s how I felt as we hurried through the dark towards the back entrance of the building where DED had just taken the stage. Fern and Edgar walked ahead, their breath rising in gasping dark clouds from their silhouettes. I couldn’t believe it was time. I guess part of me thought that it honestly wasn’t going to happen.
I mean, it’s one thing to beat the brains out of someone in a dark alley. It’s quite another to kill an entire band on a stage in front of thousands of people. Do you hear how crazy that sounds? But that’s what was going through my head as I walked behind my friends.
We entered the back of the building, showing our all-access laminates to the security guards. They let us in and I followed Edgar and Fern up the dark staircase that led to the side of the stage. There were several people standing there, watching the show: a few people from other bands, a few scantily clad gigglers, and a bunch of security. DED was onstage. They’d just launched into “This Sad Earth.” I looked beyond them to the crowd. It was packed — a sea of faces, everyone headbanging, undulating, raising their fingers and fists, packed in tight. Lips moving along with the lyrics. Eyes locked to Balthazar as he writhed and gestured. The others in the band flanked him, their long hair flying. The lights flashed, bathing everything in scarlet.
They finished the song and began another. I felt a body press in beside me. Fern was breathing heavily, staring at the stage. Her hand curled around mine. It was sweaty. I looked past her to the five security guards on this side of the stage. I couldn’t see any on the other side, but I was at a bad angle.
“We’re going to get caught,” I said. I don’t know why I bothered. Of course we were going to get caught. She didn’t reply, just stared at the stage, eyes wide, her chest heaving with her deep breaths. I started to feel sick. Prickly and sick. Like I might throw up. I grasped her hand tightly. “Let’s go,” I said. “Let’s leave.”
She didn’t reply. Her eyes looked glazed. “Fern,” I said sharply. “Fern.”
I’d caught her attention, and she turned her face towards me. I tried to plead with her with my eyes. “We can’t. Let’s go.”
She smiled at me, a sad smile. The strange gleam was gone from her eyes, and she just looked like my exhausted friend. My tired, sweet friend.
“I’m sorry, Rachel,” she said. “I have to.”
She squeezed my hand again, and my eyes filled with tears. She let go, and I tensed myself, ready to move with her. I had to do it with her. Beside her.
Beyond Fern I saw Edgar, and when our eyes met, he gave me a big, happy smile. “This is great,” he said, but then Fern moved forward, and I fell into step beside her. Just before I looked away, I saw Edgar’s smile vanish.
It all happened very quickly. Fern walked onto the stage, smiling. She moved fast, like a cat, towards the weapons rack. I followed. As I watched, she lifted a really big sword with a curved blade. I glanced back. The security guards were just standing there watching. I was confused by that. I dared a glance at Balthazar. He was grinning. I guess he thought this was cute or something.
I spun back to Fern just in time to see her swing the sword, burying it deep into Sid’s shoulder. It sliced through his guitar strap on its way, causing the instrument to crash to the floor. The band abruptly stopped playing. I panicked. I lifted the battle-axe out of the rack. It was heavier than I had expected, and I brandished it with both hands, spinning back around.
Sid had fallen to his knees, his black shirt soaking wet with blood. Fern was now on her way to the other side of the stage, raising the sword over her head, towards the other guitarist, Ed. I couldn’t believe that the security guards weren’t reacting. The crowd, meanwhile, was roaring. I was stunned. They think it’s part of the show.
Fern had driven the sword into Ed’s stomach, letting out a scream as she did, and everything erupted into chaos. I saw Edgar’s horrified expression, his mouth wide open in a shriek, and then the guards leapt into action. We were running out of time. I whirled, charging right at Balthazar.
“I’ll cut your fucking arm off,” I heard Fern scream hoarsely behind me at the guards. “Come onto this stage and I swear to god I will.”
I faced Balthazar. Beneath us I heard a loud shuddering — the crowd was pushing at the barricade. There was a feeling rising in the air, a coppery taste in my mouth. I guess it was blood lust. I stared into his blue eyes. I saw fear in them, and it made me laugh out loud.
“Wait,” he said, holding his hands out. “Put that down.”
“Grow the fuck up,” I said, the same words he’d spat at me back when this whole mess got started. “I thought you were sick of boring girls.”
Something clicked into place for him, registering in his eyes. But it wasn’t about me. It was a phrase he used often. Because even though he didn’t remember that night, he knew exactly what I was talking about.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Me too,” I replied, and swung the axe as hard as I could.
Balthazar’s head flew into the air. And then everything went insane.
My face hit the stage floor. Two security guards had tackled me. Their weight kept me pressed down. I was able to lift my head far enough to see Fern. She’d dropped the sword and was climbing the scaffolding on the front of the stage, her long white hair soaked with blood.
I screamed her name.
She looked down at me.
People speculate about what Fern intended to do on that scaffolding, why she jumped into the crowd. A lot of people seem to think that she was trying to escape. Crowd surf to freedom, or something ridiculous. But I knew what that crowd would do to her. And so did she. And when our eyes locked, me on the floor, her in the air, she smiled.
A word passed between us.
Goodbye.
I watched her fall. Watched the crowd swarm, bloodthirsty, ruthless. I heard Edgar’s strangled scream. And I cried.
FIFTY-SIX
I ended up in a small room, staring at my blood-streaked reflection in the mirror that covered one wall, with a cop trying to talk to me, me crying all over my cigarettes because I couldn’t believe what Fern had done to herself.
xXx
So now, here I am. My parents won’t talk to me right now, and Melissa won’t either. I’m hoping it’s just because my parents won’t let her, and not because she hates me. Socks and Edgar haven’t spoken to me. The only people I really talk to are my psychologist, and the girl I share my cell with — but she’s crazy. We don’t have much in common, but we get along okay, I guess.
I think back over the events of that night, you know, and I do that whole thing where I’m re-thinking everything I said. Like, when Balthazar said, “I’m sorry,” I wish I’d said something witty. It’s like when you’re in an argument, or someone says something shitty to you in the street or something, your brain works overtime after the fact to give you something awesome you wish you’d said. I hadn’t walked myself through the events before they happened, I hadn’t given myself time to plan. I think that right up until Fern walked onstage, I didn’t really believe we were going to go through with it.
It’s a bummer. Colostomy Hag got to the point where things were picking up, and we’d all worked so hard to get there, and now it’s nothing. The whole thing is spoiled. I’m sorry for Edgar. I’m sorry for Socks. The point was never to ruin anyone’s life or waste anyone’s time. The point was just revenge.
Sometimes I wish that I could have somehow stopped Fern from jumping into that crowd, even though I know there was no way back for her. But why did I feel there was a way back for me? Should I have jumped? Why do I feel like I can happily live with what I’ve done? Why do I feel such peace?
None of these questions are really meant to have answers. It’s just the stuff that cycles around in my mind. I don’t have that much else to do.
xXx
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’d like to thank Crissy
, Michael, Erin, Jenna, Rachel, and everyone at ECW Press for thinking this was a good story, and for helping me get it into the best possible form; Nathaniel Radmacher for holding my heart and my hand; Jesse Grimaldi for being my number one and for catching a breeze with me; my father, Alex, and my mother, Louise, for supporting this and all my other ridiculous endeavours; my sister, Emily, who also sings and writes, inspires and supports me; Aimee Echo, Michelle Cosco, Ashley Costello, Ryann Donnelly, Kathleen Binder, Chelsea Davis, Dolores Lokas, Angela Jekums, and all the other women I have shared the stage and road with and learned so much from; everyone at Sonic for putting up with my insanity and always giving me a place to escape to; Rainbow, Mike, Jim, and Owen for filling me with both rage and love and redefining “family”; and Lance, because I wouldn’t have written this without him. Thank you.
ABOUT THE
AUTHOR
SARA TAYLOR sings and writes songs for the Billboard-charting band The Birthday Massacre. She lives in Toronto with her Shetland sheepdog. Find her online @ChibiMassacre.
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