We're Made From Nothing, So Take It Away

“I swear I’m never doing another damn festival like this in my life. Did you see them? Those idiots didn’t even know how to open a pit.” I said, huffing as I came down the stage stairs with a towel over my head. “Next time, at least run it by me, huh… it wouldn’t kill y'all.”

“Come on, Masato, at least we’re walking away with some decent cash.” Ryo said, pressing a beer can against my chest. “Well… some cash…”

“We gotta short off the rented gear… the gas and the food…” I replied, cracking open the can—the idiot had shaken it first, and I ended up covered in foam. “You dumb motherf— Damn it, Ryo… I’m not in the mood…”

“Don’t get so sour, Masato. It’s the first time we’ve played for this many people, even if they didn’t understand a single word you screamed.” Akira was laughing as he banged the stair rail with his drumsticks. “Hey, did you see the hit I gave that guy?”

“These people aren’t gonna catch a drumstick mid-air, Akira. Hell, they don’t even know what crowdkilling is… they’re a herd of softies waiting for the next pretty boy with a damn acoustic guitar singing about how his heart got broken. With any luck, someone filmed it and you’ll get canceled online for assault or some shit. Guess we’ll be posting job openings for a new drummer, huh.” I replied with a laugh that got cut short as I chugged the beer in one go, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the towel.

No, we didn’t sell out if that’s what you’re thinking… it’s just that deathcore really doesn’t pay the bills, you know? So I can’t blame Ryo for dragging us into this, though honestly I’d rather wreck my liver eating pizza every day than get back on a stage like that.

“Damn…”

“What’s up?”

“I forgot my shirt behind the amp. Go on ahead.” I said, turning back.

“Come on, dumbass, it’s just a shirt. They’ll kick you out if you climb back up while they’re setting up for uh… who’s next?” Ryo asked, looking at all of us.

And yeah, don't ask… everyone knew the answer, but nobody wanted to say it out loud.
Thanks? I guess… though there was no need to say her name when there were posters and flyers plastered everywhere.

“Oi, oi, Masato, where you going? Kao—” Akira clamped Mitsuru’s mouth shut with his bass strap before he could finish and pretty much dragged him off.

“We’re gonna grab more beers and wait in the van. Don’t take too long.” Ryo said while he and akira dragged Mitsuru outside.

“Nah, chill.”

I climbed back up the stairs as the sound guys rushed back and forth. every now and then one bumped into me in their hurry to get the stage ready.
I always thought playing for a huge crowd would be awesome, but you know? When you point the mic at the audience and not a single person knows your lyrics, that’s when you really realize that spot isn’t yours… and it probably never will be.

By the way, don’t get me wrong, I love playing in bars and watching people bust their noses trying to do a wall of death in a space the size of an apartment.
Expecting me to complain about my idiot bandmates? Nah, they’re the lifelong idiots…

I ducked behind the amps, weaving through the cables looking for my shirt. Either I found it or I’d touch some loose wire and end up as the cover for a new album.

“Hey, check the console, yeah? We had issues yesterday because someone didn’t load the presets.” Some guy said, shoving my shoulder a couple times without even looking at me—he was too focused on his list of who-knows-what.

“Do I look like a sound tech or what? My band just played.” I spitted back, brushing his hand off.

“Ah. Yeah, sorry, sorry.” He replied, waving it off barely paying attention and yelling at some dude passing in front of him.

That was it, maybe—that 'ah.' It wasn’t even a word, it wasn’t surprise. It was all I needed to know I was a toad from another pond, summed up in the shortest, dumbest way possible.
I spent a bit more time hunting for my shirt but didn’t find it, and them dimming the lights didn’t help much.
It wasn’t anything special—just an old one I’d had forever.
No, it wasn’t one of those patched-up ones with band logos or anything. Calling it moth-eaten would be an understatement, and it had my band’s name scrawled on the back.
I remember thinking it was a good idea to stencil it and spray-paint it; in the end, it looked more like cardboard than fabric.

“I can’t believe you still have this…” Impossible not to recognize that voice behind me.
Even more impossible not to turn around, no matter how hard I tried.
And… listen, I’ll be honest, I know jack about makeup and that stuff, but damn… you couldn’t take your eyes off her.
I don’t think I ever could, honestly.

“Ah… uhm…” I tried to say something, but I really had nothing. Though that’s a lie—I had a ton to say, but I’m not an idiot, and the upside of that is knowing when it’s not the time.

“Akira’s gotten a bit slow on the blast beats, huh…” Kaori let out in a laugh, dropping the shirt over my shoulder. “And I think you’re overdoing your ‘blegh’ and ‘wryyyh’.” She continued, trying to mimic my gutturals—though it was obvious she was forcing them to sound bad… after all, she could do them better than me.

“We’ve been on tour for almost twenty days straight. We’re on the verge of breaking, with two weeks left…” I said, heading for the stairs in a lame attempt to avoid getting hooked into the conversation.

“I’m not gonna ask if you’re staying to watch me, because I know the answer…”

“Aha… nope, I don’t know how to open a pit for someone singing about a pink-colored world.” I said as I pulled on the shirt.

“You never change, huh?” Kaori replied while one of the guys I prefer to call lackeys handed her a water bottle.

“Sorry, nobody ever told me I was supposed to.” I didn’t even bother turning around again or saying goodbye—I just headed down the stairs.

“Damn it, Masato, it’s been five years—can you let it go, for fuck’s sake?” She yelled from the stairs. Even I had forgotten that part of me missed those yells.

“Keep it down, your security guys are gonna think I’m a stalker or something.” I replied, as I kept walking.

And the truth is, I doubt I could ever let it go… I never could stop mixing up her face with someone new.
Let's use a metaphor, something like a tempo difference…
The women who ended lying in my bed weren’t the same as the one lying in my head.