Much Like Suffocating

The cold metal of the mic, the ribbed texture of its head brushing against her lips, and the music. Only these things breached Leona's consciousness. Only these things were able to transcend the mindless haze of a screaming audience, bright, burning lights and the film of smoke spit from the mouths of the fog machines that lined the stage.

Her body rocked, of its own accord, already thrumming with the energy the guitars seemed to send out in pulsing waves. She didn't have to think about her cue. No, not for this song. The music called to her and her voice responded with calibrated abandon. Sure, the feelings started off simulated, but they never ended that way. The song, the words, the feel of the moment would never allow her to stay in control of herself. So she went along until swept away by the magic. Her eyes might have been open, but she couldn't tell. The crowd was there, but she couldn't see it. Even if she could, the residual feelings would devour the occasional image that made its way to her brain, then seat itself so overwhelmingly in her memory that she could not even offer protest.

Here it comes. Sparks of energy, first sharp then settling into a steady buzz, rained from nowhere and began to warm her skin. The guitar roared its part, fire flared in the background, and Leona was lost in the heady desperation that pulled the words from her throat and cast them into the universe. She clutched her chest as though she could rip her heart out and release this overwhelming force that compelled her to sing to the audience, to the heavens, to herself. Tears, unbidden, burned their way down cheeks, some straying so far as venture into her mouth. Disregarding the lyrics spilling from her lips like a plea to someone, anyone.

Somewhere, in some logical recess of her mind, she knew no one would really hear her. They would learn the lyrics, quote the song, scream it with their friends, but they wouldn't hear the brokenness that slipped between the lines. They would never see the frayed soul, scraping through life, hoping for some kind of release in the ink of her pen. The fans that flocked around the stage would never care for the heart she had long ago sacrificed for the pretense of self-preservation, self-protection. Her life, her struggles, her pain, splayed out on the public scene to be judged and ogled by all, would be forever invisible.

So she screamed all the more. Sang louder, put whatever was left of her into the last of the song. Letting the hope that seemed to rekindle every time die with the resonance of the bass guitar. Eventually, the chaos of the audience, the bustling of the crew members and  the presence of her band mates faded. The mic, now warm from the fierce grip of hands she had not known were shaking, dissolved and slipped through her fingers like dust. And she was alone again. In the dark. With a pen, paper, and the feelings that suffocated her.


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Okay, Send the Pain Below, by Chevelle, actually has nothing to do with this, except I was listening to it while writing. Still wondering if writing works as a coping mechanism.