Stimulation

Philly was the turning point.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

I took two Modas before stepping on stage, and for the first time on tour I felt like I belonged up there. My playing locked in with the band. My voice finally matched the weight of my chest. The energy pushed all the way into the rafters, vibrating against the concrete of the upper bowls.

“Thank you, Philadelphia. This song spent a week at the top of the charts. It’s about leaving behind the things you love the most…and finding a way to continue.” Sweat dripped down my neck as I clutched the mic. “This is Kill Your Darlings.”

The drums cracked and the bass rumbled through the floor, shaking the stage under my boots. For the first time, I felt it in my chest. I struck the opening chord, cueing my rhythm guitarist, and stepped forward.

I lifted my guitar high and let an improvised solo bleed out of me. Each note carried the weight of the chemicals that made this possible, and the shame of needing them just to feel like myself. The crowd had no idea. They weren’t here for that. They were here for the mythology of Ariel Sanchez, not the fracture of Wes Reau.

I made it to the mic for the verse. The crowd raised their arms, a dull cheer rippling across the arena. They mouthed the words in unison. This was what they came for: something familiar, something safe.

It stung. But this was what I’d signed up for. I could push at the edges, but I couldn’t expect them to follow. As long as I knew when to pull back, I’d survive.

The chorus hit, and the audience drowned me out. Thousands of voices eclipsed my own, and for a moment I was glad. People who never would’ve touched Embers of Twilight were screaming my words back at me.

Was this fame? Success?

It didn’t matter.

We finished tight, sharper than we’d ever been. The crowd roared long after we left the stage, but I felt nothing. I’d been with this band for weeks and still didn’t know their names. The precision was sterile, technically perfect, and spiritually hollow.

Backstage, Ariel was stretching in the hallway, casual as always.

“Hey, Wes,” she called.

I turned, hesitant.

“You finally lived up to your reputation tonight, good job.” Her words were flat, but cutting. We hadn’t spoken once since the tour began, but clearly she’d been watching.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound apathetic.

She laughed. “Keep this up, maybe I’ll put you on my next album.”

I smirked, unsure if it was a joke or a test.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

In the dressing room, I pulled on street clothes in silence. My bandmates were buzzing, swapping stories, still riding the high. I didn’t join in. I wasn’t trying to be a diva. I just didn’t want to taint their joy. They could have their camaraderie. Me? I was just a coworker. Nothing more.

***

New York was the same story as Philly: two Modas, a tight set, an empty pride, another night alone.

I still hated the quiet parts of touring. Offstage, I was miserable. You could only sleep so much before the silence pressed in. Most nights I’d sit with my guitar, scribble half-finished lyrics, demo something new, but without anyone to play for, it felt hollow.

I could’ve hung out with the band, maybe even Ariel, but after everything with EoT I didn’t trust myself around anyone. Distance felt safer.

On off-days I stayed clean. Courtney and Scott had already shown me how easy it was to slip past the point of no return. As uncomfortable as I was, I told myself I wasn’t going to rewrite reality anywhere but the stage. Stan swore Moda was the safer bet, and maybe I wanted to believe him.

But the bigger fear wasn’t Stan or the shows. It was Skye. The thought of her looking at me and seeing nothing but a chemical shell, finding a corpse where the man she gave her future to should be, kept me from dosing in the quiet hours.

The crowd cheered for that hollow version of me again. I wanted to believe their reaction was enough, but the emptiness from Philly hadn’t left my chest. Maybe it never would. As long as the perception held, though, I could keep going.

***

Stepping into Foxborough was overwhelming. This stadium had housed legendary games, iconic concerts. Ariel even spliced footage from her sets here into her videos. Tonight it was mine to face. My home market. My proving ground.

Texts flooded in from “friends” and local scenesters. I ignored most. Julia’s message steadied me. Proof someone still believed in my music after everything. Courtney’s, though, twisted in my gut. I didn’t know why I’d left that door open. Skye was right: I should’ve shut it.

Pre-show ritual: two Modas with water, shotgun a twenty-ounce Red Bull, chase it with an energy shot. Twenty minutes before curtains, like clockwork. By the time the house lights dimmed, I was vibrating. I hit the stage early, faster than I should have.

It bled into the first song, My Only Void. We usually kept it at 135 bpm, but tonight I pushed twenty over. Violent. Ariel’s fans looked puzzled, but the EoT holdouts lit up. That only egged me on.

We tore through the set like that; tempo climbing, intensity spiking, my body begging me to stop, but my brain locked on the idea of making a statement.

Then came Sirens, the penultimate song. No room to rush, no way to thrash through it. The clean fingerpicking rang out into the cavernous stadium, and for the first time all night the crowd leaned in.

“Mercantile angels of lust, sell me heaven in a box…” My voice floated back at me, fragile and raw. It reminded me of Darker Days in the Boston clubs, except Scott wasn’t here to share the coda. It was just me, alone, soloing and singing into the void.

And for a moment, I actually felt connected again.

The applause and screams were strong for a moment. It could have rang out longer, I could have appreciated the moment, but I didn’t. I pushed straight into Kill Your Darlings.

The last two shows were polished and reasonable. This version of the song was raw, but focused. I didn’t try to add lead work like I did in Philly, but I played a loose harmony around my singing. It wasn’t precise or practised, but in a live environment the crowd couldn’t tell the difference.

My self-doubt was crushing down on me through the performance. The artificial high of the Modafinil and caffeine was wearing off. Over forty-thousand screaming fans in my home state, and all I saw was how miserable I felt.

Powering through the song, the only thing I could think about was Skye, and how it would all get better when I saw her again. When did I get so weak?

Walking down the tunnel to the dressing room, the noise of the crowd carried on long after our set ended. Ariel was stretching as usual, but she didn’t have anything to say this time.

I sat in the dressing room, staring into a large mirror, not starting to change right away. I looked terrible. Even with all of the make-up, you could see the bags under my eyes stretching deep. My eyes were bloodshot, the right one slightly twitching.

“Sorry guys,” I said to no one in particular.

My drummer turned his head, acknowledging that I said something, but didn’t engage. This was as much as I expected.

After Ariel’s set was over, I finally changed into street clothes. The rest of my band had long since left for the hotel. Walking down the tunnel to grab a ride back, I ran into Ariel and her manager, both making their way to her limo.

“Hey, Wes, why don’t you go back with us? I didn’t realize you were still here,” Ariel said, not really asking.

I nodded sheepishly, “Sure.”