Page 1 of The Only Thing That's Real
Chapter One
Knox
The last note of “Goodbye” reverberates through the stage floor as darkness engulfs the arena, the only illumination coming from the thousands of phones capturing the moment. I’m dripping in sweat and anxiety. My mind is on an incessant spin cycle, that causes my nerves to fray. But not due to the usual spike of adrenaline I get from a live show.
I’ve been on autopilot for the last few weeks. Most nights, I don’t even remember how we got through our set once it’s over. Nobody seems to notice I’m going through the motions, wanting to be anywhere but here. The banter I throw at the crowd between songs is well-rehearsed and inauthentic, but no one cares. Not the band, not our manager, not the fans who spent their hard-earned money on a ticket to the show. Don’t they see I’m drowning? Maybe they do, but they needme to be okay. I’m their puppet on a string put on stage to entertain and give them someone to worship.
However, those kneeling at my altar don’t know what a worthless piece of shit I am. If they knew the real me, they wouldn’t be screaming my name. Feeding me their adoration. If they had been on the call with my brother and his girlfriend just a few short months ago, this building would be empty.
The numbness that usually carries me through my performance has become a cocktail of shame and disgust coursing through my anxiety-ridden veins.
The stage is where I’ve always been the realme. The only place I allow myself to be vulnerable and proud of the person the fans scream for.
But not tonight.
Tonight, vulnerability would mean being stripped bare and exposed as the fraud I am.
The concrete arena walls close in on me while the sweat coating my skin sends shivers scattering up and down my body. I’ve never had a panic attack, but something tells me that’s what this is. I have to get off this stage. Away from the crowd worshiping the false gods they’ve put on this pedestal after years of off the chart record sales and sold-out concerts.
The fans go into a frenzy screaming for more as I run off the stage. Our fans are the reason I get to stand in front of twenty thousand people doing what I dreamed of as a kid, but no performance is ever enough. They always want more.
Not stopping behind the stage where the band meets during our break before the encore, I run through the dark bowels of the building until the bright lights leading to my dressing room finally appear, lighting theway for my escape. As I close the distance, the lights turn blinding. My head pounds along with the thunder in my chest. Bile rises in the back of my throat.
I’m not sure if this is a panic attack or a heart attack. Either way, I need to get away from people. Away from this life that feels anything but real anymore.
In the distance, I hear my name being called. I know we still have an encore with three more songs to perform, but I don’t stop until I’ve pushed through the metal door of my dressing room. I can’t face the greenroom we all share. The greenroom filled with people. Friends, the rest of the band’s family, staff, and those who want something from us. Because there are always people wanting something from us. Always.
Right now, I just need to be alone.
Taking a seat on the first chair I see I try to take deep breaths, but there isn’t enough air to fill my lungs. I drop my head in my hands, focusing on the ground a moment before the door slams open.
“Dude! What the actual fuck?” Sean, the band’s drummer screams, invading my space.
Without lifting my head, I tell him my truth. “I’m done for the night.”
“I didn’t realize you got to make that for call for the four of us!”
I don’t bother replying.
“You know there is no show without ‘SettleDown.’”
“Well, if you want to sing it, knock yourself out.”
Matt storms into the room next. He’s our guitar player. “What the hell is going on?”
“Would you all leave me the fuck alone? I need some damn space and I’m not getting back on that stage tonight.”
Our manager, Trevor, pushes past my bandmates, his face red from running to catch up. “Knox, I don’t know what’s going on, but the twenty thousand people out there who have afforded you a house on each coast don’t care. They want what they paid for.”
I try to speak up, but he has no intention of listening to what he thinks will be a bullshit excuse.
“You only have to make it through fifteen minutes more. Not only do these Chicago fans deserve an encore, but Ryan Staley is out there.”
“Who? And why do I care?”
Sean and Matt curse under their breaths. Trevor stares at me, dumbfounded for a moment before answering. “You don’t remember the journalist fromVanityFairwho is joining us for the remainder of the tour?”
“Shit, that’s right.”
