Graffiti Casanova

Choke

My dad always told me being on stage, blinded by the lights and deafened by the music and screams, was the biggest rush he'd ever get. Doing what he loved in front of thousands of people screaming for more fulfilled him.

My experience wasn't even remotely the same.

When I closed my eyes and played my music, it didn't matter where I was or who was in the room with me. The realization that I was part of creating something beautiful, something magical-- that was what gave me the rush. That was why I kept coming back.

But that wasn't why I was about to step out onto this stage.

I was in a cramped hallway, stuffed with gear and people and flickering with fluorescent tube lights that ran the length of the hall and gave me a headache. The host of Write, Sing, Star was shouting out the introduction to the show, riling up the audience, who I could hear clapping and whistling back with excitement. But all I could focus on were the words on the small screen in my hand that burned into my mind.

It's stage two Alzheimer's, Claire.

Someone took the phone from me and handed me my guitar.

Alzheimer's. It wasn't possible. He was too young.

"You ready?" They were smiling at me but I could only stare blankly back. I should have told them I couldn't come. I should've gone with him to his appointment. "You're up!" I was gently shoved from behind and suddenly I was on the stage.

The applause was a dull roar in my ears and I struggled to stretch my lips into a smile that ended up feeling all wrong from my end of things. The tension in my body pulled tighter-- a rubber band ready to snap-- as I moved to the middle of the stage and tried not to think of how alone I was up there. Or why I was there in the first place. I tried not to think about those words that had just ripped my silly hope in half.

One of the judges was speaking and the applause died down.

"Claire De Cecco, we're glad to have you on the show!"

"Thank you," I turned my fake smile into the blinding lights, hoping it was in his direction. My voice trembled a little and I gripped my guitar tighter. "I'm excited to be here." Easily one of the falsest things I'd ever said.

"Well you wouldn't be here if you didn't have an original song to play for us today, so what's this one called?" he asked.

"This one is called Forever." There, that was definitely true.

"Great, let's hear it!"

And the first notes resounded from my guitar.

The lights surrounding me felt more like floodlights than spotlights. The room was supposed to be huge, I'd caught a glimpse on my way in before it had been filled with people. From here, I couldn't even see the back of it. I couldn't really see anything, but I could feel the eyes and the cameras fixed on me, and it made my stomach twist.

Dad always told me whenever I was distracted or nervous to imagine I was playing to him. It used to work like a charm, and I imagined him with me at every show my band had played last year. But I was desperately trying not to imagine him now. I couldn't help it though-- the song was about him.

I knew the magic in music was its ability to make people feel. And it seemed appropriate to choose this song at the time I picked it-- I was doing this for him, after all. But those words on the screen changed everything. I needed to be numb. I needed to be numb or I wouldn't make it through the audition, and I promised him--

Focus, Claire. Focus on the notes, the fingerings, the stage presence, am I playing too fast, is this intro too long?

No. Don't go there either. I gritted my teeth and blocked my thoughts, forced myself to breathe evenly. And I closed my eyes and began to sing.

But it felt all wrong. No magic and no rush and I felt like a fake.

I knew it was because I wasn't letting myself feel the music, but there was no way I'd make it through the song if I did. Only two minutes. Another verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, chorus. I only had to hold it back for two more minutes.

I only made it thirty seconds before I started to slip.

My voice caught in the back of my throat but I pressed through, coming back in stronger than before. I can do this for him.

But I really couldn't.

The tears started then, and my voice caught again. The quality of my voice was gone, and I knew I wouldn't hit the higher notes. It was just my song carrying the weight of my audition at this point-- I lied to myself that it was enough but I'd never been a very good liar. My face twisted and my fingers trembled on the strings and I knew everyone had noticed.

Right there, in the middle of the chorus, the rubber band snapped. I couldn't hold back the floods anymore. Whatever analogy you wanted to use, I was screwed. My voice faded into a silent sob and my hands faltered on the guitar and I stepped back, trying to escape thousands of eyes fixed on me. There was no way to salvage this, and I didn't care. Screw this promise. It didn't matter anymore-- nothing here mattered anymore. Only Dad mattered, and I needed to be at the hospital.

So I turned and walked off the stage, giving up on the promise I had made my dad that I would go through with this audition, that I would pursue my dream of music with everything I had.

There was a good chance he wouldn't even remember it anyway.

_________________________________________________________

Cas stared at the card in his hand. He never thought he'd have business cards. He hated business cards. He hated his real name that laughed up at him, permanently in bold, black ink. He hated himself for selling out.

His phone dinged. Mark. Again. The crew had all texted him occasionally, asking him to come back. Cas knew what this one would say. They'd been through it all before.

He flicked the card back onto his cluttered desk and slumped back in his chair, closing his eyes. He hated this room, too. It used to be his haven, his escape. He'd filled it with sketches and inspiration, the walls were covered end to end with bright splashes of color. There were years of different tags and practice pieces on the walls-- starting from when he was twelve. Before he'd been ready to go out to the streets.

But nothing in this room had changed for over a year. He hated how stagnant everything had become.

His phone dinged again. Give it up, Mark. Cas sighed and swiped his phone from the desk, opening the message.

You gonna just sit by and let her do this?

He frowned and scrolled down to view the image attached. His eyes narrowed at what he saw.

He recognized the wall-- it was where he'd done one of his earliest pieces that had gotten him noticed. But over the piece were slashed stark yellow words:

WHERE IS "KING" CASANOVA NOW?

The tag beside it was one he knew well-- Sirena. It was a clear challenge, a clear declaration of superiority.

Cas dropped his phone in his lap and ran his hand through his hair. It didn't matter. It didn't sting as much as it would've a year ago. But something in the bottom of his stomach still twisted. Okay, maybe it did matter. But it shouldn't. It couldn't.

His gaze slanted to the bottom drawer on the far side of his desk. The one he hadn't opened in at least six months.

But before he could think too much about it, Cas shook his head and stood. He couldn't do anything about it. So he grabbed his phone and his jacket and headed out the door. He would go to work and be a real man at his real job, because his fantasies were just that. Fantasies.

Thanks for reading! Every vote helps, so hit that star if you're into it <3 

Song of the chapter is Forever My Father by Go Radio.