Bullet Proof Chest (Sonny Moore/ Andy Biersack/ Kellin Quinn)

Two: Sonny

I'm staring at my reflection. I can't look away in fear that I won't look again. There will be a hair unintentionally out of place. There will be some blemish that I hadn't noticed before. The tour is starting to circle Florida. We're in West Virginia tonight. Or is it just Virginia? I have no idea. I should know. I just don't.

"Sunny Day," Matt pops his head into the living quarters. He's smiling, but he doesn't even have to say anything for me to know that he's still worried. He looks at the map I have pinned to the cork board over the sink, full of little flags that show no victory, no hope. He sighs.

Matthew Good is my bandmate, but more importantly, my best friend. He plays lead guitar; I sing. I wish that I could just say that the way our friendship started was a cool story, but it's not really. We met online. The band was looking for a guitarist. I was a guitarist looking for a band. I auditioned for guitar, but the guys heard me singing. WHAM-BAM, I'm the singer for this band.

"Yeah?" I look at Matt. He laughs. I'm not sure if I did something that he finds funny, or if he's laughing at me.

"This is North Carolina. You're working yourself up for nothing." It's the latter.

I suppose he's right. They're not here. By "they" I mean my beautiful ex of a girlfriend Nicole and, more importantly, the girl of my dreams; and when I say girl of my dreams, I don't mean my ideal girl, although there could be a good argument for her being that, too. She quite literally is the girl that actually haunts my dreams. It's always the same scenario. It's always the day I saw Her. I know it's Her because of those crazy gorgeous blue eyes. They're this kind of blue that screams of seawater and gemstones. There are nights when I fight off sleep so I can be free from this internal prison, this midnight siren. Those nights are most nights. I haven't slept in what I think is going on seventy hours.

"C'mon, dude," Travis pops in now. He screams and plays rhythm guitar for the band. We don't get along very well, but we're cool with each other. "Matt, we're on in 6. Tell the midget," he says, and then leaves.

Yeah, by midget he meant me. No, I'm not a miniature human. I'm just short compared to Matt, Travis, and Derek the drummer, and basically most adult men. I'm only 5'4", so I get made fun of for my height shortcoming all of the time.

We head over to the stage. It's loud and hard to concentrate. I feel my eyes cross over each other, and I need to take a step back before stepping forward. There's no way that I'm getting by without another night of sleep. I try to focus. Even after doing this hundreds of times, my heart still pumps like crazy. I grab a Monster off of a refreshment table and chug it down as fast as I can before crushing the can and tossing it in the trash. Let's do this.

5,4,3,2,1... Matt and Travis run on. Derek's already settled behind his drum set. There's screaming, but I can feel the crowd holding back. They're waiting. They're waiting for me. What if I didn't go on? What if I just packed up and called it quits right now? Travis would find me and gut me, I'm certain of it. Girls would be pissed, or maybe even heartbroken. Don't kid yourself, Sonny-- they'd live. My eyes widen as the caffeine and ginseng hit me.

This is it.

"What's up, Motherfuckers?" I say, grabbing my black and white striped microphone. The screams and the instruments are so loud; it hurts despite the ear plugs. I already know I'll be deaf by 50. Immediately, my eyes scan the crowd, desperate and hungry. It doesn't even matter where we play, Nebraska or Miami, it's all the same. I'm always looking for Her. It's an obsession. It never ends. It's not even just dreams anymore. It's my waking thoughts that she haunts, too. "How are you doing tonight, North Carolina?" I yell.

More screaming.

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