Chapter 1
Simon stands on a stage before thousands, guitar clenched in his hands. His fingers dance over the strings, strumming a familiar riff. The melody pulses through his veins like an electric current, the only time he feels truly alive, wired into a frequency the rest of the world can’t hear. Dark brown eyes lock onto the screaming girls in the front row, their excitement radiating like heat from a summer pavement. He dips his head slightly, narrowing his focus, tracking them with an almost predatory smirk as the sharp pitches and harsh tones swell. This is where he’s safe, communicating without words, his black hair veiling his face from the world, and from himself. Here he is free, as his body thrashes to the pounding beat of the drums, fingers flying over the chords in a blistering sequence.
The crowd surges, a chaotic wave of bodies moshing together, hungry to feel the music, feeding his desire for attention. Simon steps to the edge of the stage, the crowd’s lust radiating like the mist from a fountain. Laughter and shouts crashed around him, fueling his performance. He’s untouchable here. He’s safe above the masses. Another step, eager for more, becomes a miscalculation, and the edge of the stage suddenly vanishes beneath his foot. Gravity yanks him down, and all the nerves in his body jump at once. Panic erupts in his chest as he falls, and electrical warning signals race through his brain. The euphoria strips away, leaving nothing but the raw, shaking reality of a kid with an impossible dream. He reaches out in a panic, desperate to hold on for a little while longer, eyes wide in terror, feeling like himself again.
With a jolt, his hand connects with the cool edge of an end table, anchoring him to a reality he doesn’t ask for. The alarm clock flashes 6:00 AM, and Metallica oozes from the speakers. Sunlight pours through the window, warm and intrusive against his cheeks, banishing the remnants of the dream. He rubs the sandman from his eyes and throws back the covers, his fragile pale skin prickling as it meets the air.
He lies on his back for a moment, lungs burning as they pull in the silence. The routine is already settling in, a heavy, familiar weight on his chest. He glances towards the door, cracked open, his parents are already at work, leaving him with thirty minutes of borrowed freedom
He slides from the bed, his movements mechanical. He doesn’t need to think; his muscles have the morning memorized. Shuffling to the dresser, he slips into black pants and a Megadeth T-shirt. The same as yesterday. The same as tomorrow. The thought is a dull hum in the back of his mind. He laces the military jump boots, tucking the hem of his pants in until it blooms at the ankles. Finally, he wraps a black maternity shirt around his waist like a skirt, his armor for the day.
Departing his room, he grabs a spiked metal bracelet and necklace from the counter, donning them as he heads for breakfast in the kitchen. He doesn’t really see the cartoons on the cereal box; the flavors are all the same, just fuel for a body going through the motions. As he crunches through each bite, eyes glued to the flickering TV screen, he zones out, the blur of entertainment another routine he’s a comfortable slave to.
With a sigh, he finishes off the bowl and turns off the TV, the silence humming in his ears. He swigs the sugary milk and tosses the dish into the sink on his way through the kitchen; the clatter echoes in the hollow quiet of the house. A glance at his cheap plastic watch on his wrist marks his efficiency, right on time. He steps out the front door and locks it behind him, the click of the bolt sounding final.
He heaves the backpack higher and slips the key into his pocket, turning into the daylight, squinting, a loathing groan vibrating deep in his throat. His thumb traces the cold, sharp edge of the metal guitar pick on his necklace, a reminder of the place he’d rather be. He walks the few blocks to school alone. The wind snags the thin strip of black cloth holding his hair in a ponytail, snapping it behind him like a frayed whip. He locks his emotions behind the wall, ready to face the masses, his ears tuned to the rhythmic thud of his boots on the sidewalk.
