“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