Band On The Run

Red Heart

The fluorescent lights were working in the room, but I left them off. I'd have more than enough lights on me in a mere minutes.

With the only light to guide my feet shining from the slightly agape door, I moved forward across the dressing room covered in ghostly blue sheen until I reached the sink on the opposite wall. Bracing my hands on the porcelain, I just looked up into my reflection, my skin taking the same eerie glow the room possessed.

It was really incredible what makeup artist could do when you were forced to give them a half an hour of uninterrupted work time. They'd managed to whisk away any remnants of the road worn face I'd had just an hour before, leaving a smooth, and rather unemotional, palate beneath the professional styled messy ginger curls framing my face. No one would guess that beneath that so well put together persona all that existed was a girl who had bypassed tired and was reaching exhaustion that had built up over three years.

But that was not what the program wanted, they wanted to have a smiling, happy, witty and well spoken rock star to show to the world, not a weary musician that had spent months on tour with only five days for a break during the entire trip. So that's what they'd get.

All I have to do is slip on the mask, the metaphorical one of course though the makeup one put on for me always helped to hide behind.

Slowly, one breath in, one breath out; repeat.

Following my own thoughts, I focused solely on my breathing, dropping my eyes from the mirror. As I swallowed a breath of the stale television studio air, my gaze found its way down to my hands gripping the edge of the sink. With the spooky light creeping into the darkness from the doorway, my hands looked much to fragile and pale, almost matching the sink.

The room was abruptly showered in light with the squeak of the door. Without so much as looking, I closed my eyes, dropping my head and allowing my hair to hide my face as I pulled in one last breath.

“What?” I asked, immobile.

A suspicious voice answered, “You're not thinking of blowing this off, are you?”

An unamused laugh bubbled out of my chest, and I tipped my head back, letting out the noise. Finally opening my eyes, I looked into the mirror, my gaze meeting the cold blue one flat on. “When have I ever let you down, Mark?”

He just sent me an evenly flat look as he stood stiffly in the doorway. “Do you want me to name the times?”

This time I just snorted. “I never fail in making you money, and we both know that's the only reason you stick around.”

“Most artists aren't so ungrateful to their managers.”

I smirked, shoving off the sink steadily as I kept him in my eyesight, though I'd long since named Mark with his black greasy hair and patchy beard one of my least favourite people. “Most artists aren't as intelligent as me; they don't always know when their managers are just in it for the money.”

“Every manager is just in it for the money.”

Memories flickered across my mind, but I held them at bay, answering simply, “Not all.”

It was his turn to snort. “Well, thank you for doing this show, anyways.”

Sending a sharp glance in his direction, I stepped to the side momentarily, picking up my guitar familiarly by the neck. “I'm not doing this for you,” I told him shortly, brushing past him.

Not bothering to stop to talk to the people crowding the halls who were either lounging around or running about wildly, I walked evenly through the halls. I knew exactly where the stage was, I'd done this show before in different times, but it was still me in the end, despite the euphoria or depression that the shows were played in.