What He Left Behind

Nineteen

I haven't been to the bar to watch the guys play on my own since the very first time I saw them, but in a way, it's nice. I like doing things on my own sometimes. Judging by my bad mood that I've been unable to shake, I doubt I'd be good company anyway.

The area in front of the stage is crowded so instead I find a seat at the back of the bar and make conversation with the bartender who I know quite well now from having seen him in here so many times and at parties the guys throw.

The band comes onto the stage later than usual, and instantly, I know something is wrong. Harvey, Adam and Mason are first onstage. They look flustered and stressed, which is weird, because all five of them usually look so comfortable and excited when they perform. Stan appears a few seconds later. He forces a small smile at the audience and at his band members, but I notice that his jaw is clenched, as though he's angry. He chews nervously on his lip, glancing to where I assume Charlie is waiting in the wings, and then nods at his band members. They begin to play their first song just as Charlie stumbles onto the stage. He reaches the microphone stand but his shaking hands struggle to grip the microphone. He looks up at the audience and I see his bloodshot hazy eyes, and I already know this night is going to be a disaster.

---

For the first time ever, I'm actually relieved when the guys finish their set. The past thirty minutes have been a nightmare, with Charlie doing nothing but mess up: tripping over, forgetting his lyrics, missing his cues, and acting generally erratic. I get to my feet and find my way to the side stage area, just as all hell seems to break lose. Charlie is the first to storm down the corridor, his usual euphoric post-performance grin replaced with a twisted scowl. That glow that he always has after performing has vanished without a trace, and instead he just looks a mess.

Seconds later, the rest of the band appear, their faces adorned with angry and defeated expressions.

"Charlie, what the hell was that?!" Stan yells, before I get the chance to say anything.

"Fuck off," Charlie snaps, waving his arm in a dismissive manner as he continues to march down the hallway towards the room they use as a dressing room, not even bothering to look at his band mates or acknowledge my presence.

"That was our last fucking gig here and it was a complete disaster."

"Who the fuck cares?" Charlie rants, as he proceeds into the dressing room, "We're onto bigger gigs now. This place doesn't even matter." The door slams shut before anyone is able to respond.

"Fuck!" Adam yells, kicking the wall.

"Dude, calm down," Stan orders, "The last thing we need is you losing it as well."

"I'm gonna go and talk to him," I decide.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"What other option is there?"

"Noelle, you know what he gets like. He's unpredictable at the best of times."

"He won't hurt me," I insist, walking towards the dressing room door. The fact is that yes, I do know what he gets like but I trust the jerk not to lay a finger on me, even when he is in this state. Besides, I can't leave him. I wish I could just walk away but I care too much to leave him to make a mess of everything.

"Charlie, it's me. Open the door," I demand, upon realising the door is locked. There is silence for a second, before Charlie opens the door just an inch, allowing me to force my way in. He sits down on the couch, leaning forward with his head in his hands.

"If you're here to give me a lecture then go the fuck home."

"Don't talk to me like that," I snap, "You fucked up. Not me. Not your band. You, Charlie! Don't take it out on everyone else."