“Should we call Harris?” she asks, her voice shaking. “Maybe they can send another van at least? Or delay the show?”
“We need to keep going,” Marcus says firmly, his expression grim. Determined. “We can’t afford to miss this show, and they won’t send another van. The fans are likely already lined up outside and if we delay, the label is going to be up in arms.”
I release a heavy sigh, stepping over a puddle of vomit and slumping into the seat. “Someone at least get a bag or something for Jax.”
Dylan nods and runs back inside, returning a few minutes later with a roll of garbage bags. He unrolls a couple and hands one to Jax, then we head out.
The ride to the venue is suffocatingly tense. It seems to be the new theme for the band. Maybe we should change our name.
Electric Tension.
Jax slumps over, almost falling out of his seat, barely conscious. I throw an arm out, to catch his chest, pushing him back into his seat. His breathing shallow and uneven.
Lily sits on the other side of him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her face pale and drawn. Dylan staresout the window, his usual chatter replaced with heavy silence. The acidic smell of vomit lingers heavily in the air, even with all the windows open.
Suffocating Tension. That should be our new name.
When we finally arrive, the crew hurries to help get Jax out of the van and into the backstage area. The venue buzzes with frantic energy—roadies shouting instructions, equipment clattering into place, and the muffled noise of our fans filtering through the walls.
It’s chaos, but none of it touches us. We already have enough of our own chaos, there’s no capacity for more.
All the usual joy I feel at being backstage and preparing for a show is sapped, my energy drained away. I move in a fog-like state, slow to respond, steps faltering as I move closer to the inevitable disaster of the show.
When I finally reach the dressing room, I find the others spread out carrying out their normal routines. We try to go through the motions of our pre-show routine, but it’s pointless. Jax barely registers what’s happening. His glassy eyes drift unfocused, and he sways dangerously on his feet, every muscle in his body working just to keep him upright.
I cross my arms, my frustration bubbling up and spewing out. “This is a bad omen. He’s not going to make it through this,” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos.
“Enzo,” Marcus warns, in a low, clipped tone.
“No, seriously, look at him,” I bark, gesturing toward Jax. “This isn’t someone who can perform. We are currently babysitting a guy who can barely stay conscious. And we’re about to throw him out in front of thousands of people?”
“We don’t have a choice,” Marcus says, his voice tight but unwavering.
“We always have a choice,” I shoot back, heat and anger swelling in my chest in a toxic combination that makes me want to explode.
Lily steps in, her voice tight. “Fighting isn’t helping. Right now, we do what we can. We get through tonight. It’s one show.”
I shake my head, my jaw clenching so hard it aches. “This is insane.”
She looks at me, her eyes full of the kind of weariness that digs into your soul. “I know.”
That one admission—quiet and raw—pulls the fight out of me. Everyone here is being forced into this. I know that and they know that. Fighting them isn’t what I really want to do. We are all victims of this circumstance.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. “Fine.”
The sound tech calls for us to get into position, and the reality of what we’re about to do crashes over me. We’re a band that can’t afford to break, performing with a lead singer who can barely stand.
As we walk toward the stage, I glance at Jax, his frame frail and shaky, held up by sheer determination—or maybe just sheer stubbornness. He’s not ready. None of us are. But the show has to go on.
The roar of the crowd grows louder as we approach, and I feel my stomach churn. Tonight’s going to be a disaster—I can feel it in my bones.
We take the stage.
At first, the fans cheer, excited to see us, but it doesn’t take long for them to notice something’s wrong. Jax is amess, fumbling through our songs, his voice weak and strained, half of the lyrics wrong. The energy is off, and the crowd starts to quiet, their cheers turning into murmurs of concern.
The stage lights are blinding, casting a harsh glare on everything. Jax stands at the front, his dark hair falling into his eyes, sweat dripping down his face. He tries to sing, but his voice cracks, and he sways on his feet. It’s painful to watch.
Marcus, to his right, plays his guitar with forced intensity, his blond hair sticking to his forehead. He keeps glancing at Jax, his blue eyes filled with worry. Behind the drums, Dylan pounds away with grim determination, his short brown hair slick with sweat. It looks like he’s trying to hold the band together by pounding against his drums harder than usual, but nothing can cover the issues of our singer.
