Another note: At one point, I have the line "Better to be a false god than a god that no one would listen to." I do NOT believe this. I believe firmly in my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and to Him I am forever dedicated! I wrote this clearly out of my character's subconscious. This is where he is at this part of the book, and this will be part of his character development and lesson throughout the book. So, I will eventually prove him wrong in the end :). Just a little spoiler :).
But anyway...here goes nothing...
The roar of the crowd soared around Monster, throbbing like
the pulse of a screaming demon in his ears. As one, they writhed, up and down
in unholy worship, their hands raising signs proclaiming their undying love for
him, their leader - the props of their unholy worship. From behind his mask, he
observed them, eyes roving over his legions of faithful followers. Did they
even know what they were worshipping? Could they even see the filth of the man
imprisoned behind this pitiful façade? Desperately, his heart pounded, punching
at the walls of anonymity, but at the same time clasping his cape tightly
around his chest, as if afraid they would actually crumble, leaving his ugly
soul naked for all to see.
And then who would be there? Who would scream his name? He
hung precariously, clinging to the pedestal they lifted him on even as the pit
beneath him widened its jaws, waiting to receive him, to ensconce him in its
black depths forever. Indeed, even now his hold slipped as he wavered between
falsehood and destruction, but he clung on, fearing that if he fell, if they
saw who he truly was, that they would abandon him. At the end of the day, would
anyone ever come reach into the black depths and pull him out?
Better a false god than a god no one would listen to.
He raised the microphone to his mouth, praising the cold
metal against his warm lips as he screamed, the sound bellowing forth from his
aching heart as it trembled with every vibration, threatening to break. The
crowd went wild. Closing his eyes, he drowned himself in the darkness which
covered them, his mouth moving automatically as he sang the testimony of his
soul, his arms and legs swinging in choreographed rhythm.
He knew all of it by heart. Or rather, it came from his
heart. Written in his own blood as the feelings seeped through his fingers –
produced by the labor of his feelings as they bore a child conceived in
corruption, the lovechild of shattered dreams and desperate lies – his songs
were a part of him, wed inextricably to his identity. Tears bled from the
corners of his eyes, cutting paths through the dark circles of make-up,
shimmering for a moment in the limelight before it slipped behind the mask,
never to be seen by the naked eye. And yet he could feel it. It clung to him,
sticking his face to the mask already plastered to it.
Taking a few steps forward, he opened his eyes, holding one
arm out, embracing the limelight as it hit him straight on the chest, hitting
the notes with effortless ease as the song spread its wings and flew from his
mouth. Looking at his audience, he stepped towards them once again, reaching
down to the fans, allowing them to grasp his hands. Their empty handshakes
collided against his as he grasped each and every one blindly, half expecting,
half hoping, that one would latch onto his hand, if only for a brief instant,
with the love and care he really needed.
From her post at the crook of the stage, where the neck of
the jutting out center met the main, long body, Ha Na stood, her arms
outstretched as she held back a tsunami of surging fan girls crashing against
her body. They attempted everything; reaching, climbing upward, pushing
persistently against one another as they constantly strove to be the one to
touch the image of the god they worshipped so fervently.
With the flash of the lights, her pulse raced, stomach
suddenly fluttering. Immediately, her skin flushed, palms going clammy and face
whitening as she felt the music lifting her feet. The inaudible clack of heels
that rang so loudly in her ears. The soft rustle of dresses as the dancers took
their places, whispering apprehensively to each other.
And then the voice. The pure, beautiful voice. The voice
that made her heart skip, made her feet skip ahead of the rhythm. The voice
whose song she never wanted to end. The voice whose song ended too soon.
The face she longed to see. If she closed her eyes, she
could see him behind her, his voice echoing the smile on his face, reaching
deep into her heart, touching her deepest part.
Suddenly, she couldn’t take it any more. She had to see him,
no matter what it took. Tired of pretending, tired of forcing herself to hear
the voice buried so deeply in the grave, she looked up, craning her neck to see
the figure standing behind her.
He lowered his head quickly, obviously unaware of her. All
of a sudden, their faces were inches apart, his crisp, warm breath fogging
gently on her cheek. She went cold – his face, his entire countenance, lay
concealed behind a white, expressionless mask, painted black eyelids covering
his eyes as he sang, creating black sockets in their place.
It’s not him,
disappointed, she began to turn away.
Just then, however, he opened his eyes. For one panicked
second, they locked gazes, pinning each other in the intensity of the other’s
stares. The singing stopped as his lips came to a halt, words frozen upon them.
In his eyes, she saw a thousand tales, raw, grating, and sad, suddenly
humanizing the beast she saw in front of her. In a second, the stories of years
poured down upon her in an unintelligible torrent, the past colliding suddenly
with the present as a tear tumbled accidentally from his eye and splashing onto
her cheek, becoming her own as she caught a fleeting glimpse of his brokenness.
But only a glimpse, as panic gripped him and he pulled away,
righting himself. Fleeing hastily to the other side of the stage, he whipped
his hair down, flinging himself into the refuge of his own music.
Ha Na’s heart swirled with confusion.
Who is he?
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