Deception (Michael Clifford)

Eight

Insanity is a curious thing.
A state of mind which prevents normal perception, a derangement of the mind. Someone who behaves eccentrically and transcends the limitations of the society they live in. But people with insanity don't necessarily realise that they are mad, because in their own mind, everything they see is imperfectly real. Maybe everyone in this world is a little bit insane. I mean, we all have emotions, some slightly more severe than others, but in the end everyone has suspicions or delusions about the world they live in. Always worried about trying to fit in, whether they will be judged for wearing a certain accessory, what music they like, or even who they hang out with. Maybe we should be proud about being a little bit insane, of having deadly imaginations, proud of being different to the next person.

I stand incoherently to the side of the hotel lobby, unmoving and unspeaking. A crips chill fills the air in the room and the babble from the crew echoes against its sterile walls. We're waiting for everyone to gather down here so we can set off down the road, we're heading for a radio station I think, so the band can do an interview. But there's no point climbing into the van outside for everyone to just spill back out again the next street over, so we're walking, plus apparently they don't want to draw extra attention to themselves. Yeah right, I look at the ever gathering number of paparazzi and teenage fans outside the tinted glass of the lobby, like they're going to get out of here unnoticed.

My attention is caught by something out the corner of my eye, and I look up from my phone to see a group of people spilling out of the elevator. The first dressed in well ironed black clothing and decked out in walkie talkies and the sort, instantly I think, security guard. A second and third figure step out, dressed in black skinnies and ripped singlets, I remember them from the in the dressing room last week, I think the blonds name is Luke. The 3rd guy emerges from behind them, his friendly face and calm air making him more approachable, his name clicks in my mind, that would be Ashton. He gives me a friendly smile to acknowledge my presence and I return the favour, before the final mute shape steps out of the elevator and I instantly wipe smile from my face. A distinctive figure with striking crimson hair, like the colour of blood, he gives me a quick inhospitable glare and walks over to join the group. He remains unsociable though, not giving any input into the conversations going on around him. I've never heard him speak. He just stands there, silent and distant, observing all the activity around him like a hawk, but never contributing. I avert my eyes, feeling like I shouldn't be so consumed by his presence. What's his problem though I swear, I think to myself, then look around at the rest of the group. A decent gathering of about 9 or 10, including my mum, a manager, another tall man... a publicist maybe? 2 friendly (for now) looking security guards, and the band. I still haven't had the guts to ask anyone who exactly this band is, or why I had to come along. I guess I could approach Ashton about it later, but I don't want to seem rude, I mean... I look around at the security guards and the paparazzi waiting out side, it could be taken as an insult.

"Okay everyone," someone speaks up from the back of the group, "You've all been briefed on how this is going to work today," I peer around the lobby, and spot the short man with brown hair, he's the one that stormed into the dressing room last week. "Once we move on from the crowd outside we're going to continue until we get to the junction, at which point we take a left. Now it's possible that this group outside will follow us the whole way to the radio station, if so, we will accompany them as best we can, but it's important that we keep moving, were on a tight schedule people." With that he turns to face the door and the group follows suit, bracing to leave the safety of the building. The band is directed by security to the centre of the group, walking past me on the way letting delicate breeze stroke my skin, I can't help but to look up. There all laughing amongst themselves, talking about some amusing dog video the tanned guy found online, except for him. I train my eyes on the cold and withdrawn company of the pale figure with dyed hair, and he follows in the shadows behind his pack. Everyone in the lobby thats coming with us then surrounds them and starts moving as one towards the glass door. I let them advance a few feet before I start moving, so I can follow reclusively at the back, unnoticed. Then the automatic doors open and screaming drifts into my ears, making me flinch. I follow the crew as they gradually spill out onto the busy streets, a tight mass of protective bodies pushing through the sea of screaming fans. I look to the front of the group, where security is silently but sternly keeping back paparazzi and crazed teenage girls so we can pass, then blinding flashes of light fills my vision, making me squint and raise my hand protectively in front of my eyes. Gradually, we all file out onto the sidewalk, still holding a tight circle around the band and making an effort to keep moving through the crowds. The screams are deafening, and I wonder how they do this day in day out. I look at them, being photographed and screamed at, yet they just smile politely and keep walking.