Page 69 of I Do With You

I don’t want to do it. I’m not sure what game this is, but Sean is infinitely better at it. But Roy might be right about me, that I obey too easily, because when Sean tells me to play the video, I do.

Or maybe it’s because I’m so curious what he thinks some concert video is going to prove.

A superfast, screaming guitar solo starts, and then booming drums join in at the same high-speed tempo. This is not my style of music at all. The stage is dark, with bright white, red, and green laser lights shooting across the black background. And then there’s a deep, guttural roar that reminds me of a video I saw once of an alligator growling.

Suddenly, the lights begin to strobe flash, highlighting three monsters onstage. In the back, the drummer wears black clothes and a chrome mask with horns that covers his face. The guitarist on the right of the stage has what appears to be blood dripping down his black-painted face. Hopefully, the red is paint, too, and not actual blood.

And then there’s the lead singer.

He has one foot up on a speaker, and he’s playing a bass guitar that’s slung around his body. He’s dressed in all black, wearing a tattered hooded cloak that covers his head and drapes from his shoulders to a few inches above the ground. The lower half of his face is covered by a black mask with an evil, skull-esque grin painted on it, and the paint continues on his upper face, which is solid black, including blackout contacts. The total effect is that he looks like a demonized shadow and sounds like death is consuming him from the inside out right before me, live on video.

“What is this?” I mutter, flinching at the ear-piercing, rapid-fire singing over the incessant drum beat and wailing guitar.

Is this considered music? Is that considered singing? I don’t know, it’s nothing like I’ve ever listened to.

“Keep watching. Keep listening. Wait for the chorus,” Sean instructs, and like a mindless robot, I do.

The chorus starts with a tempo change. The guitar sounds more like a cry than a screech, and the drums slow by maybe a beat or two. And then the devil up front screams a few words I can semi-understand:“Once upon a mental obliteration, there came a midnight destruction.”The pace of the delivery makes it sound like a freestyle spin on Edgar AllanPoe’s opening to “The Raven.” As the singer repeats the line over and over, the audience joins in, sounding crazed and going wild, with fists punching the air above their heads and grimaces on their faces.

After a few rounds, something hits me. “Midnight Destruction. That’s one of Ben’s band T-shirts. You think because we like different music, I’m gonna bail on him?” I ask Sean with my brows furrowed. “That’s stupid.”

He raises his right brow again. “Listen.”

I close my eyes, taking out the visual onslaught of pandemonium happening on the screen, and focus solely on the demon monster’s voice. It’s all over the place—guttural growls, higher-pitched notes, some held long and others staccato short.

“Until I am nothiiiing moooore!”

Sean’s right. There’s something about the voice. It sounds vaguely familiar, and I try to think of any singer I might know who would have a secret, second band that does this type of music. LikeThe Masked Singerbut real. I don’t think this is T-Pain in disguise, though.

And then it hits me.

“Is that Ben?” My jaw falls open as I squint, trying to focus on the small screen to see the singer better. The Demon Monster is waving one arm around theatrically, almost like he’s conducting the audience to fall under his hypnotic sway, which they’re doing while singing along with him.

Sean doesn’t answer, and my eyes jump up to his, only to find him staring at me intently, his face entirely blank and stony.

“Is that Ben?” I demand, my voice harsher. Not as harsh as the singer’s, but then, I don’t think anyone’s could be.

“What do you think?” Sean finally says.

My body’s gone numb. I click the recommended videos on the side of the screen, watching more and more Midnight Destruction videos and becoming more and more sure with each one that Ben is the lead singer of what I can only assume is a metal band.

Is that what this is? Metal? I don’t even know what it’s called, all I know is ...

“He lied,” I say hollowly. “Over and over, he lied. Said he was a business consultant. Sat at my parents’ dining table and told them that. And he was lying to them.” Another video, another concert. “He said he has stage fright and can’t sing in front of people. Acted like it was a big deal that he sang a Beatles song for me, like it was special. Like I was special.” Click—another dramatic audience-conducting move. “But there are definitely some people in that audience, and he seems perfectly fine.”

The list goes on and on, song after song, some production videos and others live concerts. In each one, Ben is front and center, pouring his evil heart out as he confidently casts a spell over the crowd.

Through blurry, tear-filled eyes, I pin Sean with a pleading look. “Why would he lie?”

He doesn’t answer my question, but rather asks one of his own. “Does this change things? Would you still choose him over anyone, over anything else?” He flashes that acid-filled smirk and raises his left brow this time. He’s laughing at me. Maybe not outright, but inside, he’s laughing. Like I’m the butt of a joke everyone knew about but me.

“You’re in the band, too, aren’t you? The drummer,” I realize, matching his body to the one in the videos.

He drums his thighs with his palms, creating a rhythm. I never even saw him set his food down when I was lost in his phone. “In the flesh.”

“Is this some sick joke? Is messing with people’s heads fun for you?” I snap angrily. But my voice is too pain-filled to hold any real venom.

Sean laughs outright at that. “Turnabout’s fair play, right? We’ve been fucked over by life, so why not spread the fun a little?” he says bitterly.

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