Inspire.

She watched him on stage, his hair flipped sideways over his head, his eyes closed, his lips parted in a gentle note caught only by the microphone in his hand. Girls around her screamed, reaching out their arms to reach for him. They wanted to touch him, lick him, kiss him and fuck him; they all wanted him for their own selfish desires.

She was painfully irritated.

She was tired of the fans, tired of the screaming, sick of the fake plastic smiles they put on their faces. She was sick of living her life in the dark, never knowing what it would be like to have him in it. She just wanted the leisure of talking, speaking, just exchanging words because they could. She didn’t want to hug him; in fact, she didn’t want to touch him at all. But it was so redundant, the meaningless monologues that she was forced to listen to. Did conversations no longer exist? Were people now so shallow that all they could discuss were their own meager existences? She needed to know that there was still a point to speaking at all, that opinions still had a place in the world.

His hand dragged down the side of his face, caressing the skin of his cheek before traveling further south, directing everyone’s attention to its steady trail. She crossed her arms, her eyes darting across his features as the screams increased in pitch. He rocked his hips forward, sighing, the sound amplified around the theatre in a monstrous echo. His eyes fluttered open and, for a brief second, they found her. She bit her lip out of habit, ignoring the ricochet of her heart and instead focused on her crushing indifference.

She could tell that it was all an act. He may scream, he may run around and sexually frustrate the majority of his audience. But she knew that there was a whole separate person buried beneath his eccentric and narcissistic exterior, and it was that part of him that she craved the return of. It was that man she wanted to know, to be able to talk to, to simply stand in front of and say, “Thank you.”

But that man didn’t exist anymore.

She was unamused by the bodies pressing her against the barrier. She was not a cow; she was not to be herded by the hundreds of girls pressing for a closer view. She could barely breathe, but she remained as solid as she could, her hands now reaching out in front of her and gripping the metal rim pressing into her stomach. He was strutting across the stage now, his hand placed comically on his hip as he paraded past her, a wave of shrieks following his progress. She was disappointed; disappointed in him, in the crowd, in the whole idea of her even coming here in the first place.Yet she stayed where she was, trapped against the barricade, her eyes stuck on his pompous performance that frustrated her beyond measurable feeling.

It took entirely too long for the guitars to fade, for the thudding bass to finally cease. The post-gig murmurs of excitement lit up the air as the house lights flickered on, and she was finally released from her prison, her back curving forward as she leaned down, attempting to breathe properly for the first time since they had taken the stage. A group of five scrambled to her left, battling over forgotten guitar picks scattered into the crowd as an apathetic afterthought. The victorious squealed, pinching the thin plastic between their fingers in a momentary glow of creating a memory. She leaned back against the barricade, watching as the crowds shuffled towards the doors entirely too slowly. She wondered if there might be an alternative exit, but no signs made their appearance. Her back ached, her chest was constricted.

Overall, she just felt defeated.

“Hey, kid!”

She turned to the male barking at her from the stage, swallowing tightly, willing her throat to open to allow more air to pass.

“If you’re lookin’ to meet the band, you’re in the wrong place.”

Her mouth contorted in distaste.

“I’m sorry,” she responded, quiet yet still audible. “I didn’t feel like getting mobbed by prepubescent females.” An amused smirk spread his lips, and he nodded, tugging at a spare wire until it came loose.

“You take a beating?” he asked her, wrapping the chord from elbow to hand, elbow to hand, the thick black collecting in a loose coil. “The crowds get a little nasty sometimes.” She shrugged, the right side of her lips turning down in a small frown.

“Not too bad,” she responded, offering what she hoped to be a smile. “I’ve been stuck in worse.”

“Good on you,” he said, nodding appreciatively in my direction. A small silence fell as he reached the end of the wire, and he disappeared, bringing it somewhere backstage. The stragglers had all but vanished, leaving her in an uncomfortable silence. She wondered if perhaps she should leave, but shuffling footsteps drew her head back around.

“Y’know, there’s a back door,” he huffed, picking up a smaller amp off to the right side. “Can you climb up?” She nodded, climbing easily over the barrier and hopping up onto the edge of the stage. She brushed off her legs quickly before following his lumbering form behind the curtain and to the side. She saw a door with a glimmering ‘Exit’ sign placed securely over the top.

“Take care of yourself,” he called over his shoulder, placing the amp on the ground a few feet from her. She nodded gratefully, her hands pushing against the cold metal bar that released the clasp on the door, allowing it to swing forward with little resistance.

The night was cool; it was Spring, that much she could tell, but the real warmth was a few weeks off. She inhaled deeply as the air filled her lungs, the slight scent of stale cigarette staining her tongue. She looked around, searching for an idea of where she had to go, but the only indication to life was a light pole a couple hundred yards away. She placed her hands in her pockets, her feet heading towards the light, a heavy weight settling on her chest.

She could not believe how disconcerted the show had made her feel. She hated this appearance that they gave their fans, this stupid veil that they all cowered behind. The band was all about being yourself, finding who you were and embracing that individual. But they didn’t follow their own teachings.

Especially him.

He, with his ambiguous outlooks on life, with his general blasé attitude towards the world and its critics, was the exact opposite of this words. She had seen him in interviews, seen what she thought was the real person behind the music. The light shimmered over her as she looked up from the pavement, and her eyes darted around, finding still a group of people milling about the parking lots. Some were singing, some were laughing, dancing, skipping and hugging each other. She simply leaned against the light pole, watching their enthusiasm and wishing she felt the same.

She simply wished for the inspiration to come back.

Gravel crunched behind her, and she froze, her eyes stuck on a couple of girls in the distance, shoving each other around. Their laughter cracked the night air, but she still felt the tension of the eyes now searing into her back.

“You’re not supposed to be back here.”

She turned where she stood, recognizing his careful slur, which had now returned to a normal volume outside of the venue. He had a cigarette between his fingers, and he looked wary, as if she would give away his apparently incognito position. His hair was slick with sweat, individual strands falling around his forehead in slices of red. The orange glow from the light gave his face a haunted look, and his fingers flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette against the asphalt.

She surprised even herself by simply shrugging.

“I’m not here to stalk you,” she said, a slight edge of contempt buried in her tone. It was unintentional, and she felt like speaking in such a way to him was unwise. But she was not currently in the mood to be civil, especially not to him. He looked stunned, and his hand stopped it’s journey to his lips in mid-movement.

“Sorry?” he asked, as if he wanted her to repeat her statement. She sighed, her chin dropping to her chest as she regarded her shoes.

“Fuck you,” she muttered, turning to leave him standing there. He called out after her, and she heard his footsteps behind her, so she stopped, turning once again to face him.

“Fuck you,” she responded, louder, and his eyes widened as he stepped backwards. “You’re a complete fake!” she said, her fingers twisting around themselves. “Is there anything you still actually give a fuck about? Do you know how ridiculous you look on stage? What happened to the music?” She folded her arms across her chest. “I thought it meant more to you than a stupid show.” She looked up at him, the sad look in her eyes reflecting the swell in her chest.

“You used to care about your fans,” she said softly, “You used to care about what we had to say.” She kicked at a rock, but it simply scuffed at her shoe. “Why can’t you just...stop being so conceited. Look around you for once.” The silence between them was suffocating, and she exhaled silently, rubbing at her forehead.

“I used to want to meet you,” she confessed, “but now, I don’t want anything to do with you. And I hate that feeling.” She bit the inside of her cheek, and she looked up at him again. “You were my whole reason to be here tonight. You made me think that there was a point to be able to speak. But you’ve got me monologuing, just like every other fucking person in this goddamn town.” The cigarette was long forgotten in his fingers, and he simply stared at her, unable to speak.

“Thank you for who you used to be,” she said finally, and his eyebrows furrowed, a dull pain searing his irises. “But fuck you for who you turned into.”

She spun on her heel, leaving him contemplating her retreating figure as his cigarette fell to the pavement with a gentle hiss.