âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Jim Morrison (VI) •

I think Jim Morrison may be my niche.

This is based on a real event in The Doors history, where Jim riled up the crowd so much they started throwing chairs and injuring each other. Jim brought a fan backstage to tend to them himself because he felt so bad about it. And The Who were their support act.

Here's audio of the full concert: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7zjErsv6ruM

And here's Jim backstage looking after the poor girl (blood warning!):  https://www.instagram.com/27._club/reel/C297lhfrsHp/?locale=zh-hans&hl=am-et

Don't ask me why this is in present tense, it was just the vibe.

Warning: Blood (A lot of blood)

--☆--

When you come to, you seem to be floating and look at the far-away ground in panic. Oh God, that fucker killed me.

Instinctively, you struggle, desperate to get to the floor. "Hey, chill out, kid, I'm taking you backstage." The deep voice sounds dream-like, ringing through your foggy mind. Still, you look around to see its source. Because a little voice in the back of your mind, a voice that sounds eerily like your mother as she'd cursed you for going to see the Doors at the New York Rock Festival, whispers, God?

Of course, it's not. You look up to see the security guard who had parted the masses as you'd fallen to the dusty floor of the Singer Bowl stadium what feels like hours ago. Still echoing in your head are the screams and cries of the crowd, reverberating like ocean waves as you sank beneath them, along with the sound of wood splintering like thunder.

The events come back in pieces. You'd been knocked out for mere seconds after some rowdy fans had started smashing chairs against the floor and stage in a frenzy. When this did little to ease their anarchy, they'd started throwing them. And you, unfortunately, were caught in the crossfire.

Your whole body aches. With a shaky hand, you reach up to your head, where pain sears each time you breathe. You pull your shaking fingertips away and they're drenched in blood.

Bodies move all around you; voices bouncing around cavernous hallways. It takes some moments to realise they're gathering around you, talking about you. You try to see them, but your head throbs every time you move. So, you surrender, watching the ceiling sway from the cocoon of the guard's arms, focusing on staying conscious.

It's only a few seconds before he stops, shifts your weight, and shoulders open a red door painted with black letters that coalesce as you're carried inside. The room's hot and smells of sweat, leather, and cigarette smoke.

"Here's the one you wanted," the guard says, as he maneuvers into the room.

"Oh, great." A soft, familiar voice echoes. There's a rustling sound like a hand tapping a cushion. "Hey, Frank, can you get some warm water? And a shot of Jack." Someone hurries out of the room, and suddenly, you're being placed on top of a cabinet, softened by a thick cushion.

A steady hand anchors on your shoulder. Blood rushes around your body, tipping from your aching head, and you hiss in pain at the stinging sensation. Your hand instinctively flies to your injury.

"Are you okay?"

That voice again. So familiar.

"Here." Gentle fingers clasp your wrist, lifting your blood-stained hand away from your hair and replacing it with a cotton cloth.

Confused and disorientated, you open your eyes.

The ragged breaths still left in your body abandon it immediately. The soft, deep voice speaking to you, the lithe fingers holding your hand and mopping your head, belong to Jim Morrison. The lead singer of the band that your mother damned you for following.