Fire & Ice

Fireflies in the Garden

Taking the mic, she stepped carefully onto the compact, shabby stage. Her blunt-cut, fiery red bangs and long rosy curls with dip-dyed aquamarine tips hung in her eyes as she looked at her shoes, the heels were killing her but she knew that in order to get in to this club she had to dress the part. At her young age, it was technically illegal for her to be here, but her innocence usually only aided her as she plead with the bouncers. This was too often where she could be found on weekend nights, but she wouldn't be here if she had a choice. The owner knew her age but he also knew her story, he therefore allowed her to preform on their busy nights for cash.

No one had yet taken notice of the small, ginger girl on stage. She enjoyed the moment of loud, raucous laughter filling the room as conversations flitted in and out of her focus. Nobody was bothering her, but that wouldn't last. It couldn't be allowed if she was to get the money she needed. She ran a hand down her face, her pale fingers tracing over her eyebrow piercing, nose ring, and spider bites on the left side. The mic in her hand was getting slippery as her palms dewed with sweat. She had to get on with it before they kicked her out for wasting time.

"Ahem," She called into the mic, pulling a few audience members to her attention, though most remained oblivious, "Hi," more heads turned to face her at the sound of her soft, silky voice vibrating the club's speakers, "I'm here to sing a couple songs for you tonight. I hope you don't mind."

The majority of the crowd faced her now, ready to hear what this young girl could do. Beads of cold sweat raced down her spine, running between her sharp shoulder blades and dampening the orange and aqua curls at the back of her neck. She worked to keep her eyes from staying glued to her shoes, taking a quick sweeping look at the crowd before her. They wanted to hear something, anything. She forced herself to turn toward the mic stand, stool, and beat-up acoustic waiting behind herself. Upon strapping on the guitar and popping the mic into its place, she took in a shaky breath.

"Here goes. This is Hands on the Radio by Chris Garneau." The audience was fairly attentive as she began to strum, but the real reaction occurred as her voice first filtered into the mic.

xXxXx

His head was pounding at the obnoxious level of volume with which his friends joked. Their words all began to blend into one long murmur of sound and their faces became one solid expression of joy. In his current state, he couldn't understand their happiness. The ever-present depression that seemed to haunt him in the last few weeks had clouded his vision so thoroughly that he couldn't quite remember what it felt like to be 'normal'. He only knew that whatever 'normal' was it was not himself, and that he craved it a little bit, if only to get a break from the constant sadness that hung over him like a storm cloud.

"C'mon, Andy!" CC called over his shoulder, pulling Andy out of his thoughts and into reality. He stumbled after the drummer as they made their way into the small club.

The rest of the group was at the bar in a heartbeat, but Andy couldn't make himself do it. He knew he wouldn't, but part of him was screaming to just get shitfaced and forget all of the pain that he couldn't understand. Even with that intriguing idea, his feet drug as he shuffled reluctantly toward the bar. He sat atop a stool and asked for a bottle of water. The bartender looked annoyed, wanting to serve a drink and get a tip, but Andy couldn't care less. His sole focus was getting through this weekend in one piece. He was just anxious to get on with the tour and hoped that getting back to it after their month long break would help him get back on his feet. There was too much noise for such a small area of space, it was making Andy feel increasingly claustrophobic. He excused himself, though the guys took little notice what with their increasing level of alcohol intake, and took the bottle of water with him to find himself a place to smoke.