    |
|
Charlie readied a chord on his guitar and prepared himself. An introduction was hardly in order, but Charlie attempted one, before being harshly reminded of his infamy by someone in the crowd. He looked out at his audience, his friends front and center. He was extraordinarily lucky. No dream person to speak of, at least not immediately visible in the crowd. Maybe the whole thing was nerves after all. Near the back wall, though, a familiar spot of orange caught his eye, very real. Molly was watching too, surrounded by her friends, Bryce's arm draped over her shoulder like it had always been there. She was far away from Charlie, but the look on her face struck him. He couldn't read Molly, or if he could, he didn't want to believe what he saw; Charlie had many reasons not to trust Molly in light of recent events, and the doubtful parts of him that bubbled to the surface told him that she was gloating, trying to wear him down into being OK with how things played out and into never holding her accountable, demanding this new reality to take shape. Charlie didn't want that to be true; he wanted things to really be OK, and not in the one-sided way Molly seemed to be forcing upon him. The more his sense of reason told him that hidden agendas are silly to presume, and probably the situation wasn't that deep, his feelings took over. Molly may have been fine, but Charlie hadn't gotten there yet; out of spite, he almost didn't want to. Charlie didn't care if his perception was accurate anymore. He knew this was dangerous, and how easily people could be misconceived, but he had spent too much energy guessing and struggling to interpret her when they were together; he wasn't going to now that they were apart. Charlie didn't want to be told how to feel, because he felt terrible. He couldn't give her credit anymore, for what felt like his own sake. Charlie's fingers changed places, readying a different chord; he decided to play a different song. Charlie wrote the song so recently that he wasn't sure if he remembered the words, but before he could give it another thought he was in performance autopilot. He hardly opened his eyes during songs; most of the time he could just belt one out without needing much consciousness. The peacefulness of Charlie's performances contrasted his abrasive taste in music; Charlie was a punk, indulging in the full spectrum of its sub-genres, though anything powerful and ugly-sounding suited him fine. This song leaned on indie-rock, but it built to cathartic, crushing crescendos with each defiant, arm-thrusting strum, and Charlie needed that now more than anything. Only power chords and nasty singing faces would provide him release. Charlie was putting his doubt and frustration into words; things long left unsaid were being declared, confidently and inescapably, for better or worse. Charlie felt like he had something to back him up, like all of his white hot energy and aggravation meant something and was being discharged into blaring bolts of vexation. It wasn't a resolution, but it was a scream into the void; venting with rhymes. It was something he needed to say. Charlie opened his eyes to make sure he'd hit these last few chords right, but he looked up and saw Molly, and the whole thing shattered. Her face hit him like a ton of bricks. It made him realize he'd just called her out in front of almost everybody they knew, and suddenly any justification he surmised for his song disappeared. Doubt, like a snake, threw itself at Charlie and buried its teeth. One look, one tear like a bead in the corner of her eye, and Molly had the upper hand again. Charlie forgot who made this a fight to begin with. His heart was pounding and his thoughts became a scream in his brain... and his shirt glowed red. As if he could be more petrified, Charlie's hands shot to his chest, masking the indecency. The meter inside him had filled. His guitar strap slipped off his shoulder and in his sudden and extreme urgency to exit the stage, it fell off his person entirely, landing with a hollow clang, a shot to the silence of the room. Charlie bolted through the crowd, out the door, and left it there. |