An unfortunate accident has sent Grace Reeves spiraling out of control. Having lost her voice, as well as her closest friends. , she returns home to recuperate. But as time passes, Grace's family grows concerned with the severity of her depression...
I breathe deeply, listening to the static feedback in my ear.
Devon taps a slow, steady beat on the cymbals.
Phil strums a single, long note on his electric guitar.
Orwell rests his fingers on the neck of his bass, waiting for my cue.
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I take a sip of water, looking out at a black sea swarming with lighters and cell phone screens. The noise breaks on the stage in periodic tidal waves, so loud it's a whisper.
"Disgrace, Disgrace, Disgrace."
I step up to my microphone, grabbing the stand. "Did you guys want one more?"
The audience has been here for hours, but you can't tell from the way the explode with energy. The floor of the stadium is standing-room-only. Bodies are packed tight, from the bottom row of seats to the heavily guarded barrier on the other side of the amps. The crowd surges forward, pressing toward the stage.
"Easy," I warn, keeping my tone amused. By this point of the tour, my voice is raw, but people tend to appreciate it more like that. The rugged quality adds texture to the music. I glance back at my bandmates, giving them the 'ok' sign. "I think we have time for another."
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When I return my gaze to the stadium, the lights have gotten stronger, burning my eyes. Devon's drumbeat becomes a dull electronic beep. A breeze picks up, chilling me to the bone. I squint against the onslaught of sensation, raising my fingers to block my face. But my hand is stuck by my side. As a matter of fact, I can't move either of my arms. Panic grips me. I lurch forward, and a familiar palm presses against my chest.
"Hey, hey, hey," he whispers, speaking quickly. "It's okay. You're okay. Just breathe, baby. I'm right here."
