Charliegh, Part One: The Rhetorical Boy

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(Charliegh, Part One: unedited)

The room was dim, backlights throwing distorted shadows into the faces surrounding her, rendering the pulsing music electric and vaguely eerie. The throttle of the bass stirred the air falling from her limp ponytail, and the faint bashing of the drums kept tempo to the nervous thudding of her pulse.

Within moments, Sylas would be upon the stage in front of her. The thought was exhilarating and also disheartening – what if she had driven all this way, only to be humiliated?

The Coke can pressed between her palms was sweating droplets that dribbled through her fingers and formed a thick ring on the wooden countertop. Her sweatshirt slumped across her stomach and shoulders, as if the humid air in the café had rendered it as drowsy as she was feeling. For the thousandth time that day, she questioned why she had come. To make a fool of herself? An example of Sylas?

She didn’t want to flaunt her darkening bruises – hidden within the confines of her clothing – or the rings that surrounded her eyes like insomnia itself. And right now, and felt as if she was walking into a situation that could only end in pointed fingers. Regret.

This is what happens to a girl who has been abandoned twice over.

The sting that accompanied her thoughts was sharper than usual, a piercing reminder that even if she was recovering physically, the mental repercussions had not faded. She could not rid herself of Nolan, jeering, slashed shirt revealing his pale, skinny body. Her memories were on a determined loop, replaying the pain and humiliation and nausea of the night at the greenhouse over and over.

Applause began to ring in her ears. Chairs scraped, bodies moving in the dusky multicolored lighting of the coffee shop. People were leaving, coming, carrying drinks across the room, accompanied by belligerent shouts and muted laughter. She watched the band dissemble their equipment, unplugging amps and pushing sweaty hair from their eyes, wondering if Sylas would look as disheveled without the toll of performing.

Was he concerned? Or had that been the reason he walked away – because he was indifferent to her suffering? Sometimes, she felt as if she was imagining her pain. Pulling it out of proportion, morphing it into a nightmare worthy of closet monsters. Maybe that was why he had left.

Dramatic. She was being dramatic about the whole thing. Disgusted with herself, she plunked her soda down and attempted to slide down from the barstool. Her breath caught in her throat; first because of the soreness, tearing across her limbs, and secondly because she had seen Sylas.

He sauntered onto the stage, calm and seemingly unconcerned. His cherry acoustic guitar was slung behind his back. As the remaining members of the band filed onto the stage, he situated himself upon a stool in the center.  

The gentle cords of his guitar reverberated around the room. People began to quiet, and Charliegh found herself frozen, still half out of her seat. Would he look up? If he saw her, would he carry on with his performance, completely unaffected? Or – she hoped – would he jump off the stage and come running over?

Neither happened. Or perhaps they all happened at once – looking back, she could never quite pinpoint when things had fallen apart.

The sensation of eyes came before everything else. That, she was sure of. The room was crowded, people stuffed along the walls, but she felt a singular pair of eyes so intent upon her that the back of her neck prickled.

Then, there was a stirring. Sylas had tapped his microphone, murmuring something in his low, slow voice. The swishing of cymbals sounded. The music was starting, but Charliegh was deaf to the noise, silence roaring in her ears as she watched a boy slouch through the sea of customers.

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