In the marrow-deep cold of that damned night, reality bit harder than usual. The cab— a decrepit thing held together by rust and prayers— rattled to a stop. I emerged into the air as bitter as my memories. There it loomed: The Soundhaven. What an awful wreck!
Time hadn't been kind either. The sign hung crooked, its letters playing a game of absence and presence against the dark sky. S_und_av_n. More like a cry for help spelled out in desperate morse code.
I let the memory wash over me— quick, violent, sweet. Back then, The Soundhaven had been electric. We didn't just perform here; we bled music onto that stage and turned our souls inside out for crowds that understood what it meant to be alive. I'd been somebody. Now? Now I was just another shadow scratching at fame's door, begging for one more hit of that long-gone glory.
Inside, someone clapped weakly. The sound leaked through the walls, like some sort of dirty, half-hearted secret. My fingers threaded through my hair, greasy and totally uncombed— perfect for what I had become as I scratched my scalp. Every strand seemed to remind me of another sleepless night chasing ghosts of melodies that would never be. The door creaked open under my touch. Backstage still smelled the same— stale sweat and broken dreams, all in a cocktail of desperation. The walls were a timeline of decay: old graffiti yellowing beneath new messages that overlapped until they were nonsense.
The door creaked open under my touch. Backstage still smelled of sweat and broken dreams, all wrapped in the cocktail of desperation. The walls were a timeline of decay; graffiti old enough to fade was covered by new messages over and over until they became nonsense.
My guitar case sat at my feet like a coffin. The latches protested—everything about this place seemed to protest—but inside lay my girl. She'd seen better days. Hell, we both had. Her wood was scarred, telling stories of a thousand nights when the music had been everything. When we'd been everything.
A tiny screen mounted on the wall showed some kids finishing their set. They moved like lightning, all raw energy. That's what I'd been once. Pure potential, uncut possibility, every chord pregnant with promise. The crowd loved them for it. They always do.
"You can still do this, Russ," I whispered. My hand trembled as I reached for the tuning pegs. The notes rang hollow, each one a tiny funeral for what used to be. I kept watching that door, calculating the distance, measuring my shame against my pride. "One last time."
The stage lights sputtered like dying fireflies before catching, throwing weird shadows across a crowd that couldn't have cared less if they tried. They spread out thin, social distancing before it was cool, nursing drinks, and conversations that mattered more than whatever had been about to make noise at them.
The mic stand adjusted with a screech that nobody noticed. Stadium roars live only in my memory now, replaced by the ambient indifference of a Tuesday night crowd. Then it came—the first heckle, right on schedule.
"Who's this bozo?" Someone thought they were clever as laughter overwhelmed the crowd.
My eyes darted from one unforgiving face to another. Their glassy stares haunted me. The weight of their expectations to fulfill pulled me deeper and deeper into a void of despair.
The first chord came out wrong; twisted and malformed. Despite adjusting in the blink of an eye, I reminded myself of the most vital law in the trade— first impressions. Conversations grew louder. They drowned out my fumbling attempts. My fingers moved like strangers across familiar strings.
A concert hall beckoned me for a moment. Its energy coursed through my veins with the roar of thousands, the heat of the lights. It was the perfect communion between artist and audience. It felt so real. So unbelievably real.
Reality crashed back in with the sound of breaking glass. The hypnotic spell shattered, leaving me stranded under flickering lights.
My voice betrayed me as I tried to sing, coming out dry and cracked.
"This guy sucks!" a voice declared, playing king to an audience eager for blood.
"Just give it up, man!"
The words landed as finishing blows. Laughter swelled, cruel and immediate. My knuckles went white on the fretboard as I forced myself forward, desperation burning in my chest.
I closed my eyes and reached for something familiar. One of my old hits, when my name still meant something. The melody poured out, beautiful and broken, but the crowd had been drunk in loathe. The magic inhaled its final breath, evaporating like morning dew under a scorching sun.
The amp's death rattle came as a mercy killing, really. One final screech, then silence. Beautiful, terrible silence. I stared at the dead equipment, my heart keeping time with the crowd's laughter. Nothing worked. Nothing would ever work again.
Something snapped. The guitar met the stage with a sound like the end of the world, wood splintering, strings wailing their final protest. The laughter stopped, just for a moment, as if even they couldn't believe what they'd just witnessed. I stood there, chest heaving, tears burning behind my eyes like acid, refusing to fall.
Backstage was an ephemeral sanctuary. It sheltered me from averted gazes and awkward silence. My jacket felt too heavy as I threw it on my shoulders. My hands shook with rage or grief, or probably both. A cracked mirror caught my reflection: a stranger's face twisted with emotions I could barely name. I didn't recognize the man staring back at me.
The night swallowed me whole as I burst onto the street. My breath came in puffed clouds. I walked without purpose, letting my feet carry me through empty streets where neon signs buzzed their endless advertisements to no one.
The hole in my chest expanded with each step, preparing to collapse in on itself like a dying star. The city moved around me in a blur of lights and distant sounds, as if I were watching it all through dirty glass.
I found myself on some nameless bridge, staring down at water black as ink. The wind cut through my jacket, but I barely felt it. Physical cold seemed trivial compared to the frost growing in my soul.
This was the bottom of the pit. The last stop on a final descent. My breath fogged in the air, carrying with it the last fragments of a dream I'd held onto for far too long. Tears threatened me, but I held them back. Some habits die harder than others.
Standing there, I wondered if it was time to let go. Not just of the music—that was already gone, shattered like my guitar on that stained stage, but of everything. Every half-remembered dream along with the last echoes of who I used to be.
The water below kept flowing, indifferent to my crisis. Like the crowd. Like time itself. Like everything else in this world that had moved on without me.