This took forever and now makes the fourth time I am posting this chapter.

A note about the lyrics:

‘A Feast For the Crows’

These lyrics are mine, written by me.

’TrappedInside’

The second set of lyrics (the song Jess is listening to) are from the song Trapped Inside by A Killer’s Confession. The lyrics are very fitting for the character and thematically, plus I couldn’t not give AKC a shout out because Waylon Reavis is one of the sweetest human beings I’ve ever met.

Content warning: Language, brief alcohol consumption, mention of anxiety, brief mention of drug use related to something being watched on TV.

Word count: 2,859

Enjoy!

Chapter 2: Glitter

Jessii

Stockholm, Sweden

The whiskey is ice cold, but it burns on the way down. Somewhere off in the distance over the din of the backstage commotion, I hear Tygo call that it’s five minutes 'til showtime. Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly, reaching for the bottle of Jack that’s sitting readily within arms reach on a road case. It trembles as I pour another shot, shaking no matter how hard I try to keep my hands steady. 

It’s like this every night; the shaking hands, the near crippling nervousness that makes me almost sick to my stomach. The alcohol helped to take the edge off, if only a little bit. It quieted down the voices of criticism, the careless words that have haunted me since I was a teenager, and that sinking feeling of not being good enough. 

Nearly four years of touring, and the anxiety and borderline stage fright had hardly improved. Nevermind two successful albums, or the shouting and praise of the crowds of people who came out to see us play. 

Every show, it felt like I was splitting my ribcage open and bearing my heart, my soul, for all the world to see. It was terrifying. 

But it was also exhilarating. 

“You okay, Jess?" 

Turning to see my tech, Caden, standing at the ready to hand over my guitar -a crimson red King V- I flashed him a quick smile. At this point, we had a routine. 

Knocking back my second shot, I quickly chased it with one of straight honey to coat my throat. Physically preparing to sing and play what was nearly an hour and a half long show was significantly easier for me than mentally preparing.

"Yeah, I’m good, man,” I reassured with another smile. “Ready to kick some ass." 

Caden grinned. "You do it every show. I don’t know why you worry so much." 

"Old habits,” I replied, bowing slightly so Caden could throw the leather strap over my head. “You know those little bitches die hard." 

"Don’t I know it,” he chimes back, briefly checking to make sure my guitar is secure. Caden had joined us as a tech on the last leg of the tour for our previous album, and by now I was pretty sure he adored my guitars as much as he adored his kids back home. 

Hearing the first notes of Metallica’s 'Orion’ being hammered out first on Oblivion’s bass, and then on Avaalon’s drums, I took another deep breath and let it out. Shaking my hands as a last ditch effort to steady them, Caden tugged on the sleeve of my leather jacket. Grinning, he gave me a quick thumbs up. 

“You got this, chick. Go kill it!”

_

“And now,

You can reap what you’ve sown.”

I was pretty sure one of my fingers was bleeding, but I kept playing, strumming out the riff of one of my favorite songs to play.

“Years of agony and empty hope,

Shredded flesh and broken bones.”

This was one of the hardest songs to play live, too. It was fast, aggressive. The rage that I had poured into this song’s lyrics had resonated with a lot of people. It hadn’t been a single, but it had become a crowd favorite. 

“A bloody feast…" 

I held the note, taking the pitch of it as low as I could, a chill crawling down my spine as the anticipation of what would come next hit me.

"A bloody feast for the crows!" 

The music cut out, all of us silencing our instruments as the crowd sang the final line of the last song of the night. The volume was nearly deafening; I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my ears would be ringing for hours after this, but I couldn’t help but smile and applaud, grateful for such a response. 

Such an experience. 

"Thank you, Stockholm. You guys are the best." 

The cheers and chants went on for a while even after the others and I bowed out and made our exits from the stage. Caden grinned at me as I met him backstage, and I grinned back, still trying to catch my breath as I handed him my guitar. 

This was part of our routine, too.

"See, I told you, you always kill it!”

-

“Fate tears down what I create,

While laughing in my face,

And it will decide when it’s over…”

Absentmindedly singing along to the music playing from my headphones, I carefully ran the thin little brush coated with liquid band-aid over the tips of my middle and ring fingers, hissing at the burn as I patched up the first, but definitely not the last, two wounds of the tour. Judging by the timezone we were in, it was nearly two in the morning, but none of us planned on going to sleep anytime soon. 

Not that we could. 

We were all wired; completely on cloud nine. At this point, we were used to it, but the adrenaline high of the first show of the tour -especially a world tour- always seemed to pack twice the punch. Every show came with its own set of chills and a surreal break from reality, but the first was a special one.

It also came with the most alcohol. And some of the funniest stories

“Jesus, that’s a lot of cocaine." 

I glanced up, face scrunched in confusion as the song I was listening to faded out and I caught part of the conversation I’d tuned out. Oblivion grinned, blue eyes sparkling in amusement as he noticed the look on my face. 

"What? It is,” he added, and it was only then that I noticed the remote in his hand. Following his gaze that was now fixed on the TV, I realized he’d put it on a documentary about Pablo Escobar’s drug empire.

“I just tuned into the conversation at the wrong moment,” I replied quietly, setting my finger repair tools aside and tugging my headphones out of my ears. A moment later, there was a creaking of leather as Oblivion flopped down next to me, letting out a wistful, content sigh. I smiled as he threw a tattooed arm over my shoulder, leaning against me. Fresh from a shower, his face was framed by black tendrils that made his pale blue eyes -eyes he shared with his twin brother- seem all the more bright, and judging by the smile on his face as he rested his head against the back of the couch, he was still feeling ten feet tall.

“How many did you slice,” the bassist questioned, angling his face towards me. 

“Just two,“ I answered, shaking my hand to get the liquid to dry. "Why are we watching a documentary about cocaine?” Oblivion shrugged.

“Because it’s the only thing interesting,” he replied. “I mean, I knew there was a lot of cocaine going into the US in the 80s, but I didn’t realize how much of the shit they consumed.”

“And that’s not even getting into the theory that the government played a part in it all,” River quipped from her spot near the door, pausing in the middle of typing -probably Isaac- a text message. 

Oblivion’s eyes rose in surprise.

“Really?”

The blonde guitarist simply nodded before remarking, “It’s just a theory.”

Oblivion let out a low whistle, eyes still fixed on the TV screen. The documentary was detailing Escobar’s political aspirations. “That’s crazy.”

I let out a laugh, cutting a glance at River, who had dropped her phone into her lap and was now watching the TV as well.

“Well, Americans are crazy,” I replied.

At that, River rolled her eyes, raring back a slender hand and chucking a pillow in my direction. Oblivion catches it easily, dropping it onto his lap.

“Fuck you,” she bit back, feigning offense at my jab of her nationality. I grinned.

“It’d be the highlight of your life, Blondie.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy now,” Oblivion interjected, sitting up to create a buffer between myself and my best friend. “Let’s not change the subject. Is that true?”

“What,” River questions, a slight grin spreading across her lightly freckled face. “That fucking Jessii would be the highlight of my life?”

“No, smart ass,” Oblivion quips back with a glare, throwing the pillow that River had launched at me back at her. “Is it true that the CIA were involved?”

River shrugs as she catches the pillow, long, pale blonde hair shuffling about her shoulder as she does so.

“Maybe?” She answers half-heartedly. “Honestly, it attracted people because it was a cheap, intense high, or an easy way to make money. All it takes is using it one time, and then it has a hold of you. It takes hold and it’s hard as hell to get it to let go." 

"I get that,” Oblivion replied. “We all have our vices,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. The two looked gazes, and River flashed a quick smile at the bassist. It was a cheerful thing, deceptively bright and innocent, but all of us knew that Riv was anything but.

I wonder how she’sdoing.

“It sounds like one hell-”

Oblivion was cut off by the sudden opening of the bus door. There was a shock of bright red hair as Oblivion’s identical twin brother -Memento Mori’s one and only drummer boy- came marching excitedly into the main area of the tour bus. Kristian followed in after him, an amused smile plastered on his face as he made his way to the table to sit next to River. 

“Guess what the venue gave us!” Avaalon practically screeched, wedging his way in between where Oblivion and I sat, effectively separating us. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t remind me of a small kid. 

Grinning like a madman, which was pretty much Avaa’s default state, he plopped a large red and white plastic cooler down on his lap. 

“The venue had a bunch of extra bottles of alcohol that the bar didn’t serve, and they offered it to us!" 

"And it sounds like you’ve already drunk half of it,” Oblivion quipped without missing a beat, feigning annoyance at his twin’s excitement. It was no secret that most of us in the band were fond of alcohol. There were countless stories of our drunken antics from over the years we’d been together. Hell, we’d met Kristian in a bar in Denmark while on vacation.

“Not yet, but you best believe if there’s a bottle of Jameson in here-" 

I saw it before I heard it, just a glimpse of something stuck to the underside of the cooler lid. There was a loud pop, and then a shout from Oblivion. 

"Fuck!” I spit out, scrambling up and away from my seat as quickly as I could. There was a bang and the bus shook as Oblivion dropped to the floor on his knees, trying to avoid whatever was now flying in the air. Glancing back behind me, small particles flickered about, catching and reflecting the dim overhead lights as they floated through the air before settling on Avaalon’s shoulders. 

And his hair. His clothes. His face. The couch. 

Everywhere. 

It took a moment of stunned silence, but then the laughter began to bubble out, first from me, then River, then Kristian, who had a decidedly smug grin on his face. 

From the floor only a foot away from his twin, Oblivion groaned, realizing exactly what the cooler had been rigged with. 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me." 

All eyes turned towards the back of the bus and what we called bunk alley to find our manager, Tygo, standing there, looking like he was two seconds from losing his shit. Bowing his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose, obviously trying and failing to hide his laughter.

"Fuckingglitter?" 

Avaa threw his hands up, subsequently launching glitter even more all over the place, and Ty paled. 

"I’m not responsible for this!" 

"Outside,” Ty commanded sharply, pointing at the door. Avaa stammered, trying to process that he, for once, was the one getting pranked instead of being prankster. His accusatory glance fell on each of us as we all laughed, but they narrowed when he locked eyes with Kristian. 

“YOU,” the drummer practically shrieked, jumping to his feet as he did so. “You did this, you little shit!" 

Glitter scattered everywhere as Avaalon marched towards Memento Mori’s pianist, who was quick to move away, even as Tygo interjected.

"Outside, now!" 

"But he-" 

"You can kill him later,” Ty snapped, “when you’re not fucking covered in glitter!" 

-

"I hate all of you,” Avaa growled, shaking like a dog to free some of the glitter from his clothes. It scattered into the warm night air of Stockholm, shimmering like stars. “There’s no holding back now. I’m gonna prank the shit out of all of you." 

"Quit complaining and just give me your clothes, Avaa. We have to get on the road soon and I am NOT letting you back on the bus like this,” Ty replied as Avaa stripped off the sleeveless Misfits shirt he was wearing, revealing numerous tattoos. 

“You could’ve at least put some actual alcohol in the cooler, Kris!" 

"Would that have made getting glitter bombed worth it?” Kristian questioned with a grin. 

“No,” Tygo groused. “It wouldn’t have." 

"I don’t know, Ty,” I laughed. “I’d suffer some glitter for a bottle of Jack.”

“I second that,” River replied, much to Ty’s chagrin. 

“Issues. You all have so many issues." 

Avaa let out a laugh as he yanked the belt free from his ripped jeans. Following it up with his shoes, the red headed drummer stepped towards Ty with outstretched arms and a huge grin, proclaiming, "you know you love us, Ty! Come on, bring it in for a hug!" 

Ty rapidly backed away, warning the drummer to back the fuck up, but he persisted. 

"Pardon my French, but what the fuck is going on?” Turning my attention from our drummer’s hilarious antics, I was greeted warmly by Elize, one of Amaranthe’s three incredible fellow vocalists. The brunette had changed from her stage clothing, but somehow still managed to look as fabulous as ever.

It was no wonder Avaa had a massive crush on her. 

“Glitter bomb,” I explained, unable to keep from laughing as Avaa practically chased Tygo, who was threatening to kick the drummer in the face if he got glitter on him.

“Orchestrated by yours truly,” Kristian added with a grin, amber colored eyes twinkling with mischief. 

“Hell yeah,” Elize laughed, reaching out a hand to give Kris a high five. “It’s about time someone gave him a taste of his own medicine." 

"This is payback for the itching powder last year,” Kris responded, and I burst out laughing. The incident Kristian was referring to had happened at the end of our last tour; Avaa had apparently put itching powder in some of Kristian’s clothes, and it had resulted in the pianist nearly stripping off his clothes on stage.

“Now,” Kristian remarked, an uncharacteristically evil smirk on his face. “We’re even. Well, almost.”

Elize lifted a delicately maintained eyebrow in confusion.

“Almost?" 

Taking in a deep breath, Kristian lifted his hands to his face and yelled for the drummer. Stopping dead in his tracks, Avaa fixed his brilliant blue gaze on us. A grin spread across his face as he took notice of Elize. 

"Hey, Elize!” He called and Elize flashed a  brilliant smile back. I couldn’t help but wonder if she liked him, too. She’d never admit it, if she did.

“Put some clothes on, drummer boy,” the singer yelled back. “No one wants to see all that!" 

"Oh, bullshit!” Avaa chimed back with a grin as he held out his arms, spinning slowly in place. As he turned away from us, his grim reaper tattoo came into view. Done simply in black and red, the tattoo took up nearly his entire back, with 'Memento’ spanning the width between his shoulders, and 'Mori’ across his lower back in Old English font. All six of us had the band’s reaper logo tattooed on us in some fashion or other, but Avaa’s was the largest. “You know you like what you see!" 

"Yeah, yeah, you keep telling yourself that, drummer boy!" 

"Oh, come on,” Avaa answered, laying a hand over his heart as he turned back to us, feigning hurt at the brunette’s words. Behind him, an incredibly disgruntled looking Ty, who had retreated safely into the bus thanks to Elize’s distraction, suddenly reappeared with a bucket of water in hand. Kris’ expression shifted from amused to downright smug and I struggled not to bust out laughing as I realized exactly what was about to happen.

“You can see all of this and mo-" 

The shriek that came from Avaalon as Tygo emptied the bucket of water over the drummer’s head was high pitched, shrill… 

And hilarious.

If tonight was any indication of how the rest of the tour was going to go, then this was going to be, by far, one of the absolute best.

Tag List:

@1zashreena1

New chapter!

Content Warning: Alcohol consumption

Word count: 1,540

Just as a side note, Jessii’s face claim has always been Sarah Anthony from The Letter Black, while River’s has always been Taylor Momsen.

Chapter 3: Jack & Jameson

River

Stockholm, Sweden

The last of the Coke trickled into my cup, mixing with the extensive amount of a Jack Daniels already at the bottom. My head was afloat, motor function slowing as the thrumming adrenaline from the concert was lost to high levels of Tennessee whiskey.

Nearly everyone was packed into the two connecting suites, one belonging to us and the other was Amaranthe’s. We were only missing Epica, who were on their way back from the venue. Drinking and discussing the oncoming tour settled for a relaxed environment to gain familiarity with our future bus mates, Arch Enemy.

Personally, I was intimidated by that prospect; sharing a bus with Arch Enemy, a female-fronted death metal band whose lead singer looked like she could chew me up and spit me back up within seconds, even though she was a good five inches shorter than me. In general, they were an intimidating band. Tall, burly men who towered over blonde Angela Gossow with looks of pure aggression. Until you started talking to them and discovered they were friendly people. Sharlee—the giant of a bassist—and I had a similar sense of humor, dryly bantering back and forth until we could no longer hold straight faces.

“Why don’t you slow down there, søster?” Kris commented, standing beside me. “That’s like…what? Your fourth glass?”

I took another swig, never taking my eyes off him, quirking an eyebrow in challenge as I nearly chugged the entire beverage. The slight burn from the Jack didn’t hinder me. When I finished, I gave a satisfied sigh, unscrewed the bottle of Jack and filled the glass half way. “I’m pacing myself.”

“Like a racecar driver.”

I kissed Kris’ cheek. “You’re a sweetie for worrying about me. But I’m fine.” By the incredulous look on Kris’ face, I knew he heard the fumbling in my lips, the extended “f” on the last word. “Really!”

“You’re almost as bad as the twins.” We looked over to see our drummer and bassist completely plastered. It had only turned midnight. Oblivion was chuckling over something with Sharlee, his blue eyes glazed by the vodka in his own cup. Avaa was talking a million miles an hour to Johan and Andreas as he stood unsteadily on top of the bed. And still very glittery from Kris’ prank earlier in the night.

“Not quite that bad,” I snorted. In truth, I was just as bad as the Swedes, if not worse. I hid it better by drinking my fill in a corner, only exposing my drunkenness when I tried to move from that corner and totally face planted. There was our first show in Finland, when the Finnish spirit got a hold of me and I passed out in the middle of a busy sidewalk. In Madrid, some Spanish twat tried to get me into his taxi when I couldn’t even count to two. I stumbled around the streets of London for hours, asking anyone and their dog if they knew of the glory that was Slash. Supposedly. My savior during all those unfortunate situations was Kris, our delicate and impassioned keyboardist. He was my parole officer, conscience, and guardian angel. He didn’t get paid enough.

Kris’ expression was—again—incredulous. I smiled and meandered away to make conversation with some of the other musicians we’d be touring the next month with.

There was Jess’ and I’s long time idols—Kamelot. Their guitarist, Thomas Youngblood, became a large influence on my playing when I agreed to join Memento Mori. Prior to diving into the symphonic metal scene, I’d primarily played in the styles of classic rock, what’d I’d learned on. Roy was one of Jess’ influences as far as singing.

Amaranthe, the Swedish power metal band, was also present on our tour. They were brand new, having formed the year prior and recently been renamed from “Avalanche”. Their most notable trait was they were fronted by three vocalists: Elize Ryd (Avaa’s heartbreaker), Jake Lundberg, and Andreas Solveström. Elize was a little spitfire with an energetic presence both on and off stage and—dare I say—she was beautiful with her crystal eyes and outrageously thick chocolate hair.

It was Jake who approached me, a slight smirk on his lips, handsome face framed by long, brown dreadlocks. I could smell the whiskey on his breath when he opened his mouth. “You played awesome tonight.”

“I do every night,” I answered immediately, offering my own smirk as I took another sip of straight Jack. I had to blink more frequently to counter the blurriness in my vision.

Jake’s smile only grew and he stepped closer to me, closer than my liking. “What else could you do good tonight?”

I was taken aback, thrown by the clear suggestiveness in his tone, his expression, his whole body language. But my drinking had slowed by reaction time and I simply smiled, unsure how to respond. Thankfully, I didn’t have to. Like always, Kris appeared at my side, his usual open and smiling face clouded with a glare.

“You’re a little closer than what’s appropriate there, Lundberg.”

Jake grinned drunkenly. “What? She your girlfriend, Stjerne?” His own lips stumbled over the Danish surname.

“No, but she’s Isaac’s and he just walked in the door. So I’m saving you from some broken teeth.”

My neck cranked to see around Jake. Sure enough, the six members of Epica were filing through the door. Among them was their gorgeous lead singer, Simone Simons, fiery hair looking damned perfect for having just performed a concert. From behind, I heard a squeal and Jess was rushing past me before hurtling into the band’s rhythm guitarist and founder, Mark Jansen.

“Mark, it’s been so long!” Jess wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. The two grew up together in the Netherlands, best friends for several years. They hardly saw each other anymore. Clearly by the way they began speaking hurriedly in Dutch, grins lighting up both their faces.

I approached my own favorite member of Epica, grabbed the back of his head, and laid a good, long one on his lips. Isaac happily returned the kiss, but was far from prepared for the intensity of it as I felt his reluctance, wanting to actually give me a verbal greeting. I wasn’t so willing as I continued moving my lips against his.

“Someone missed you, Isaac,” Arien, their drummer, chuckled.

Isaac finally had to take my shoulders and pry me off him. His white teeth flashed in a God-given smile. “Good to see you too.” Isaac was a beautiful human being, both inside and out. Long, dark hair a shade lighter than black was tied back from his round face, a matching soul patch dotting his chin. His smile reached that of his liquid browns and I nearly melted, the unsteadiness of intoxication making my knees weaker. I forgot every hurt and wound from the last month, everything that would otherwise keep me away from him.

“I missed you,” I said, echoing Arien’s words as I leaned in for another kiss.

Isaac leaned away, eyebrow quirking. “You smell like you inhaled a whiskey bottle.”

“She practically has,” Kris answered, a tinge of disapproval in his voice.

I ignored it, smiling at Isaac with a lazy smile, my hands running down his front. In my growing inebriation, I missed the look of uncertainty coming from my boyfriend. Hardly was I ever like this, only when plastered and inhaling whiskey. In my mind, I figured Isaac enjoyed it.

We had been together since January of the previous year, making our relationship almost a year and half. Jess, the boys, and I went to 70,000 Tons of Metal as spectators rather than performers, and God Dethroned—Isaac’s previous band—was on the lineup that year. The use of some connections and friends and we were meeting any of the musicians we wanted. I was completely hammered (not surprising) when I first met Isaac, but apparently I made an impression because he sought me out the next day and asked to go on a date when we hit the shore again. Obviously it went well.

Isaac seemed off about something, however. My drunk mind couldn’t wrap my head around it because I was too busy trying to show him how much I missed him. He seemed off-put by my advances. At one point during the evening, I confronted him on it in a slur of mashed together words.

“Because I haven’t seen you in four months and when I get here, you’re completely hammered,” he said, dark eyebrows knitted together.

I shrugged my shoulders as I tipped back my cup. Jack was gone; I’d moved on to my Irish companion, Jameson. “Sorry,” I managed to get out before I burped behind my hand.

Isaac just shook his head and drunk me pouted as I reached up to play with his hair. “Babe, come on…”

“The only time you’re like this is when you’re drunk,” Isaac said low enough that only I could hear. His brown eyes turned on mine. “Are you still going to be this happy to see me tomorrow when you’re sober?”

I grinned, leaning heavily against him so my chin propped on his shoulder, falsely promising him that I would.

This is just a bit of an intro to the band.

This story was first created between myself and a dear friend of mine. We wanted to write a fun fanfic story about a bunch of different metal bands. We created our own characters, picked a band name, and decided we wanted to try and write the wildest story we could following the characters. Ten years later it’s evolved into this thing that lives rent free in our hearts, mine especially. We got some 40 or 50 chapters in on the original draft and after complications of the site it was originally posted on crashing, which caused us to lose 5 chapters, plus getting caught up with life, it sat and collected dust for a while.

While it was shelved, we still constantly discussed ideas and characters and finally, about 5 years ago, we sat down and really plotted the story out, revised some things, and created a new character or two. We got so far into a re-write before life got in the way again. With permission of my lovely friend, I’ve taken the story over, because we didn’t put so much love into this for it to just sit and not have anything be done with it. That said, for the first 12 or so chapters, anything that’s written from River’s POV, I cannot take credit for.

Everything from about that point on will be written by me, though it was planned in great detail by myself and my friend.

As I said this is a fanfic, featuring more than a few of our favorite bands. We’ve taken some liberties with this, of course, and therefore I feel a need to ADAMENTLY state that nothing in this piece of writing has ever happened and that everything is entirely a work of fiction. This piece is meant to be a love letter to heavy metal, to these bands, and to the art of storytelling. Maybe one day I’ll take the time to sit down and reimagine this little world that my friend and I have created and turn it into something completely original, but it is definitely not this day.

All that said, I do hope whoever picks this up enjoys it.

Content Warning: this has a little bit of language. It’s just a bit of an intro.

Word count: 695

River

Stockholm, Sweden

The lights dimmed in such a way that made the energy peak in a matter of heartbeats. The crowd’s voice rose as one, a mighty roar with a chant echoing behind it:

“Memento Mori!”

A mantra repeated again and again. 

Remember that you will die. 

Harsh, but undeniably true. We all succumbed to the harsh realities of life with the only certainty being that everyone would, in fact, die in the end.

But though that was the only certainty of the future at this point, I chose to divert my eyes to the present, to the sliver between the curtains where thousands of emotional faces conjoined with their chanting. Bodies of all ages and sizes and backgrounds here to marvel at our gift.

Scott handed me one of my guitars, a Kirk Hammett signature ESP (fitting for the song about to be played), customized only to feature my signature camo paint job. I looped the leather strap over my neck, letters scrawled “RY”. River Young. The joke was that the initials were my name so the crew found it appropriate to identify me as Ry. But the strap was my first, worn and scathed from years of travel, given to me by a man I owed my life to. “Good luck,” Scott said and we clasped hands in a second of comradery, guitarist and the tech who kept her life organized.

Low thrumming came from Oblivion’s bass guitar and I forced myself back to the present again, the screaming of the crowd demanding my attention. The first of our brigade had snuck up on stage without their detection. I made my way up the ramp to the back of the stage, Tygo—our fearless and indescribably patient manager—slapping my hand in a low-five as I went by. The drums, a steady beat of snare and symbols, joined the thrumming, the pulsing, my own heart rate picking up to match the tempo.

Before I was even fully on the stage, I began strumming out the solid riff of Metallica’s iconic Orion. Jess’ guitar doubled mine as we both strutted onto the stage, the lights coming up in a blinding wave. The screaming intensified.

“Are you motherfuckers ready to party?” Jess called into her microphone as I took a stand to her right. The crowd’s volume rose. In a Children of Bodom tank topped with a leather jacket, black tendrils falling down her back, she looked like a well-entitled member of metal royalty. “I can’t hear you!” More clamoring for recognition.

I begin to strum out the chords, fingers dancing down the neck of the guitar, letting the strings sing. Oblivion hammered on his bass across the stage from me, the humanized representation of his instrument. Broad shoulders, long thick pitch black hair, chiseled facial structure. This song was one of his favorites; you could see it by the intensity in his expression, tightness in his shoulders.

His twin brother, Avaalon, matched the pace with his drums, crimson hair whipping around his head as he jammed out from the back of the stage, our insignia proudly displayed on the bass drum. A grinning grim reaper, Memento Mori painted in blood red across it.

Kristian had appeared last, tapping out the notes for his own keyboard arrangement, making the whole song sound a bit more on our end of the genre. Symphonic metal with the traces of death metal that Jessii thrived on. Kris, the only one with short hair—almond colored—already grinning like it was Christmas morning as his fingers charged away across the white surface of his keyboard.

As my own hands continued their job, I marveled at these individuals as if it were our first time performing together. All so different, all so very wounded and beat up from life. We were a little fucked up and alone to start with, but what brought us together is also what helped us heal. And that’s what came from the guitars, Oblivion’s bass, Kristian’s keys, Avaalon’s drums, and Jessii’s voice; the music we had been making together for the last four years. I was not looking at band mates or even friends. They were my family.

Musicians are a very specific type of people.

Oh, you just got to be

We all have one distinct thing in common.

Up high where the whole world’s watchin’ me

We have this insatiable fire in us, driving us on.

‘Cause I, I’ve got the guts to be somebody

And that force leads to all kinds of great stories…

This is ours.

To cry out: I wanna be somebody, be somebody soon…

“Hey, we’re Memento Mori and we fuckin’ rock.” -Avaalon

Who’s down for a story about a fiction heavy metal band?

MASTERLIST

Chapter One: Memento Mori

Chapter Two: Glitter

Chapter Three: Jack & Jameson