Drown the Night

ONE

The strange mixture of sweat and weed sneaks into your nose and gains your attention. You can't help, but feel the dense excitement linger in the air. The wave of a powerful bassline breaks against your chest. You want to jump higher, get closer. The flickering lights and the noise are fucking with your braincells, as you're dancing like a maniac. Fuzzy riffs intertwine with massive drums. It is the ultimate balance between beauty and reckless destruction.

#1

Ninety minutes of brutal escalation have left the concert hall looking like a war zone. The crowd was young, exhausted and probably drugged out of their minds. The disordered movement of their silhouettes was forged into one giant black mass, which stood in heavy contrast to the glaring light show of the stage. A banner in the back displayed the name of the band. It was accordingly fucked up and only the informed could have guessed the deep blue letters standing against the dirty-old, orange background. It was a proclamation, the defined pledge of a wild bunch, to those, who would hear their call.

The band Drown The Night was in the last bars of their show and the enervation was clearly written into their faces. Mike, the frontman, delivered the performance of a lifetime and shredded his final solo in ultimate perfection. Sweat was consistently dropping down onto the fretboard of his guitar, only to be instantly swept away by his dashing left hand. He completed the last riff in full exertion and was suddenly relieved. The amplifiers pressed another burst of notes into the hall and then fell silent. The sound reverberated long, before slowly merging with the eccentric cheers of the crowd.

Mike handed his guitar to a roadie and fled the noise of the stage. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey on the way and took the stairs into the backstage area. His shaking hands lit a smoke, he leaned back against the wall and devoured the golden distillate. Aaron jogged down the stairs and dumped down right in front of him. Mike made him stop.

"Backstage meeting in thirty!"

Aaron nodded and went back upstairs. Mike staggered through the dimmed hallway and finished the whiskey. The bottle dropped down, slowly scrolled over the floor and dipped against the wall. Mike took a sudden turn into the restroom and instantly vomited into the sink. His brown, sweaty hair dangled in front of his young, but already consumed face. He threw up again. Saliva and chunks of partially digested pills dripped from the corner of his mouth. He drank from the tap and sat down on the floor. The shivering of his hands made it hard for him to get to the dope, he so desperately needed. Mike managed to take a hit out of his small vial and the mist in his head slowly faded. He got up and found his stale, green eyes staring back at him in the dirty mirror. It was about time, that he got what he wanted.

Mike witnessed a young girl running away in tears, just as he came around the corner to the VIP room. Dom was seemingly pissed by Aaron's ruthless behaviour and pushed him through the door, talking more to himself then to anyone else.

"Just ten minutes without terrorising someone. Do I ask too much? He? You're fucking unbelievable!"

Dom discovered Mike and went over. His arm set out to guide him.

"Mike, your performance was just marvellous today. Are you feeling good? Do you need anything?"

Mike shook his head and aimed for the sofa. He sat down and scanned his pockets for weed. Sharyl crossed the room and gave him a kiss. Her looks were absolutely captivating in her desperate attempt for Mike's attention. Her blond hair fell smoothly over her shoulder, as she tried to sit down next to him. She caressed his head. He moved her away. Careful, but distinctive. She finally resigned and went back to the buffet table across the room. Aaron already lingered next to her and pretended to be picky with the food. She discreetly increased the distance.