Page 27 of Doesn't Count

Khaos’ brows dip in contemplation, trying to decipher my analogy. It’s not that I didn’t want the kiss to count, it’s that if I let it, then the small, tedious steps I’ve taken to rebuild my glass heart will shatter into a million pieces and I’ll be left devastated. He doesn’t need to know that my lips are the kiss of death.

Before Khaos can open his mouth to presumably argue, a balding man in his mid-forty's storms through the green room, snapping his fingers. Then I hear it, the sudden roar of the crowd, chanting for the band to come out on stage.

The manager doesn’t introduce himself, but rather directs me exactly where he wants me to stand backstage for the best view. I thank him, my appreciation wasted on deaf ears telling me he’s already onto more important things.

As they walk out onto the stage, the crowd goes absolutely wild. I zoom in, filming the front row of fans, their faces all painted white with red symbols, similar to Khaos’ mask. They’re crying, hands raised, desperate for his attention. Little do they know, once they have it, it’s nothing but a black hole.

I’ve heard every song on every album, but nothing prepares you for the real thing. The guitar and bass are heavy, so heavy that it weighs your soul down, drowning you in a despair that bleeds from their fingertips and out into the world. Khaos’ voice fills the venue, light and graceful, the complete opposite of the chords greeting him. It’s entrancing, hypnotic, just like the man himself.

It’s a show that embodies a sacrifice, making you feel like a goat being prepared for slaughter. You’re spelled, worshiping at their feet, begging for more of them. For more of their stories, their fear, their hatred, their love. They start by coaxing you to them, luring you in with beauty and gentle words, only to slit your throat and rip you to pieces with guttural screams.

Khaos hunches over as a low growl echos through the room,hitting each and every person here. There’s so much pain in the mixture of instruments and song, it makes my heart ache.

He’s on his knees now, pleading to the crowd. He’s begging for peace, for a happiness he wishes he had. His hand is raised, his eyes follow, and everyone is a mirror image. They pray with him, they beg with him. It’s haunting the way he moves a crowd and these people, they believe. They believe in every word he says, every feeling he gives them. He is their God.

The strums of guitar and the beating of the drums die down to a slow rhythm. Their last song of the night. The guys are sweating, Khaos’ body paint smeared all over his abs, his skin peeking through behind his open cloak.

This one, I know by heart because it happens to be my favorite. You can only assume it’s about a love lost. At least the way I interpret it, but getting to know Khaos these last few days, it could be about anything.

“And I blee-ee-eed all over this floor for you-u-u. I blee-ee-eed all over, all over this floor.” I look up from the camera and Khaos is facing me.

The music dies and the crowd goes insane again, begging for more. But a true fan would know, they don’t do more. There are no meet and greets, no merch signing, no encores. You get what you get with them.

Chapter Eight

Khaos

Irip my cloak off the second I'm backstage, the heat unbearable. Before I can even get to Ash, Hypnos has his sweaty arm wrapped around her neck. She laughs but shoves him off and aims the camera right at him.

“How do you feel after your shows?” She asks him.

“Like I just fucked myself to completion.” He laughs, his breath heavy.

“Shut up, you idiot!” Than yells at him, rolling his eyes.

“There’s not a high in this world that would feel the same as when we’re on stage. The fans, they’re like food for our souls. Just keeps us going.” Kokytos says into the camera.

“Khaos?” She directs herself towards me as I lean against the wall, avoiding their post-show adrenaline.

“I feel like I just sold my soul.” I answer her coldly.

“You don’t enjoy your shows?”

“Does one enjoy going to church? No, it’s something you do because you have to. It’s an obligation you have because of what you believe. I do this because it’s the shit part of what I love.” I admit for the first time.

“Yo, dude. That’s dark.” Than tells me, his hand on my shoulder.

“You guys know how I feel about this shit.” I remind them.

They just don’t know to what extent I actually hate it.

“Turn that shit off now. It’s time to do things we shouldn’t be filming.” Kokytos shouts out to Ash as he sucks another line of coke up his nose.

He yanks his mask off, and my eyes nearly shoot from their sockets. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

My eyes dart between Ash and Kokytos, her camera pointing toward the ground. Her eyes are like glittering pools of greed, soaking in the features of his face. I panic, rushing toward her, ripping her camera from her hands and shutting it off.

“What the hell? I didn’t film him, I swear!” She shouts.

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