Chapter 6

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Green Day – "American Idiot"

A few blocks from "The Echo," within the walls of an abandoned industrial warehouse known as "The Noise Box," the air pulsed, heavy and anticipatory. Sky stood on the improvised stage, her fingers gripping the microphone stand, a storm already brewing inside her, ready to be unleashed. She felt that electric charge, the energy that always built up before a performance, like the feeling of an approaching thunderstorm.

But today, there was something else in that anticipation—a subtle, barely perceptible itch under her skin, as if something from the outside had touched her usual, deafening harmony of chaos. In her thoughts, as fast and jagged as punk riffs, the pale, gaunt face from the bridge flickered. She tried to swat it away, but the image wouldn't leave.

Then she exploded. No holding back, no choosing notes. Her voice, piercing and furious, tore through the air in "The Noise Box." The walls around them, plastered with old posters of long-forgotten punk bands and covered in bright graffiti, seemed alive, vibrating to the rhythm of the deafening drum beats. A creative chaos reigned everywhere: scattered cables, worn-out amplifiers, grimy drums coated in a layer of dust. The thick, heavy air was filled with the acrid smell of cigarettes, mixed with the scent of sweat and beer.

The scream of guitar riffs, distorted basslines, and powerful cymbal crashes—it all merged into a single, deafening symphony of chaos in which Sky felt completely free. She was on stage—an improvised platform made of wooden pallets—and this was her element. There was no conservative mother, Caroline, whose words, full of passive aggression, suffocated her, trying to force her into a box of "normalcy." There was no shadow of her father, Thomas, whose abusive hands had beaten her for being "different," leaving scars not just on her body but on her soul. Here, there was no pressure, no expectations, no phoniness. Only pure, primal energy.

She poured out her anger, her pain, her disappointment through every note, through every scream. This was her way of self-expression, her sublimation of the pain caused by years of abuse. Her light ash-blonde hair, slightly longer than a bob, disheveled and damp with sweat, thrashed to the rhythm of the music. The tattoo on her right wrist—a stylized broken piano engulfed in flames—seemed to pulse in time with her furious vocals, symbolizing not only her protest but also a hidden trauma.

She closed her eyes, surrendering to the flow of sound. This was her personal therapy, her way of survival. In every scream, in every riff, she burned away a piece of her past, hoping that something new would grow from the ashes. Here, in this chaos, she felt truly alive, unlike in those moments when she faced her parents. This was her place of power, her fortress, where she could be herself without fear of judgment. Ethan, the guy from the bridge, flickered in her thoughts but was immediately pushed out by the torrent of sound. Right now, there was only music. Only her and her rage.

The shriek of guitars and the roar of drums filled "The Noise Box," but through this wall of sound, Sky felt a growing irritation. Liam, the band's guitarist, stood opposite her, his fingers flying over the fretboard, but his gaze was fixed not on his guitar, but on her. He was talented, Sky couldn't deny that, but his ambitions seemed to grow with every rehearsal. To Liam, she was the heart of the band, his muse, and any shadow cast upon their, in his view, perfect tandem, provoked a dull, venomous fury in him.

Liam had always considered Sky "his" discovery, his voice, and now that someone else had appeared in her head, he did not approve. He could feel her attention slipping away. This jealousy was not just toward a potential rival, but toward a change in his control over her creativity. He showed his jealousy by trying to push her into the background, playing louder than necessary to drown out her vocals, or dominating the rehearsal.

Today, his aggression was particularly noticeable. When Sky missed the rhythm by a fraction of a second, distracted by a fleeting memory of the bridge, Liam immediately shot her a displeased, incinerating glare. Undisguised accusation was written in his eyes.

— Sharper, vocalist! Are we playing punk rock or lullabies for preemies? — he barked, his voice, amplified by the microphone, cutting through the noise. He impatiently strummed the strings, creating an unpleasant, ear-splitting dissonance.

His words were a direct jab, an attempt to force her back into her usual role, where she was merely his instrument. Sky held back an angry reply. She could feel Liam, like an invisible predator, breathing down her neck. She couldn't stand it when someone tried to control her, especially in her "place of power." She kept him at bay with her signature audacity, brushing off his comments, but she felt his pressure, heavy and constant. It was like her mother's pressure, only expressed through music and ambition.

Her gaze shot an icy dart at Liam, one that said, "I'm the one singing here, not dancing to your tune." She didn't answer him directly, instead fixing her gaze on Chloe, the drummer, who, as always, was silently observing the scene. In Chloe's eyes, Sky saw a faint, almost imperceptible understanding. Chloe, unlike Liam, didn't push.

Then Sky focused again on her bass guitar, her fingers gripping the neck tighter. She poured her fury into the music, each note an answer to Liam, to his jealousy, to his attempts to subordinate her. This was her method of resistance. She would not let him destroy what she was building, especially not now, when someone had appeared in her life who seemed to be starting to see her, not use her.

The deafening roar of the rehearsal still echoed off the walls of "The Noise Box," but for Sky, it was no longer the all-consuming wave that usually washed away all thoughts. She felt Liam's irritation, like a sticky web, entangling the space, but her own attention was fixed on something else—a thin, new note that had suddenly appeared in her usual cacophony. It was something that broke the general rhythm of her life.

When Liam finally turned away to bark something at Marcus, Sky caught Chloe's eye. The drummer, as always, sat behind her kit, calm and focused. Her stick movements were precise, but her eyes seemed to see much more. There was no jealousy in them, no indifference; there was only a quiet, understanding concern. Chloe was the only one in the band who truly saw Sky's hidden pain and her vulnerability beneath the mask of a rebel. It was as if she could sense the fine cracks in the armor Sky had so carefully built around herself.

She had noticed Sky's pensiveness after the night on the bridge, her unusual distraction during rehearsal. Chloe saw how Sky lost her rhythm, how her gaze turned inward when she was usually completely focused on the music. She didn't ask direct questions; her gaze was eloquent enough.

After the song finally broke off, leaving only a ringing silence behind, Chloe set down her sticks, their quiet tap echoing in the vast warehouse. She looked at Sky, and her gaze held the very thing Sky so carefully hid from the world—understanding.

— Everything okay, Sky? — Chloe's voice was low, calm, without any accusatory notes. She didn't ask "What happened?", she asked "What's wrong with you?".

Sky shrugged, trying to brush off her words like an annoying fly. Cynicism was her usual shield, and she used it without delay.

— It's nothing, just ran into a weirdo, — she tossed out, not looking at Chloe. Her voice held its usual carelessness, but she could feel her anxiety hiding beneath the mask. — Found a great time for a stroll on a bridge at night, right. — She tried to laugh, but the sound came out strained, as thin as broken glass.

— That's not you, — Chloe shook her head slowly, her gaze locked on Sky. — You never freak out about 'weirdos.' If you're thinking about him, he's not just 'weird.' And this doesn't sound like your usual 'screw him.' — She stepped closer, her shadow falling over Sky. — You've been… lost since that night. And don't try to brush it off, I can see it. Your hands were shaking when you sang 'Anarchy.' You never shake, Sky. — Sincere, undisguised concern was in her voice, which made Sky flinch.

Sky tensed. No one, except Liam, dared to criticize her so directly, let alone see her like this, penetrating her defenses. And certainly no one ever noticed when she was shaking. She took a deep breath, trying to regain control.

— Just tired, Chlo, — she forced out, trying to change the subject, her gaze sliding away to avoid the drummer's perceptive eyes. — Too much of this 'fun' lately. You know my parents, they don't let you relax.

Chloe just nodded slowly, not insisting. But there was no judgment in her eyes, no typical punk-rock bravado. There was something else—a promise. A promise that she saw her, Sky, for who she was, behind all the audacity and cynicism. And that she would be here when Sky was ready to talk. That gaze, full of quiet, calm understanding, pierced Sky through and through.

She felt a light, unfamiliar tingling in her chest. It wasn't irritation, not anger, not her usual emptiness. It was something else. Something warm and slightly frightening. Something that felt like… trust. She didn't know what to do with it, but the feeling, like a thin, barely perceptible thread, stretched out.

An echo of the conversation with Chloe remained in Sky's chest—a fragile glimmer of trust she hadn't felt in so long. This feeling was vibrating somewhere deep inside when Marcus, the band's bassist, suddenly interrupted her thoughts. He was a "classic" punk rocker: straightforward, carefree, driven only by the rhythm. Unlike Chloe, who saw the cracks in her armor, Marcus was less sensitive to subtleties.

He walked over to Sky, his massive bass guitar slung over his shoulder. A genuine but superficial confusion was written on Marcus's face. He had obviously heard her spat with Liam, and then the quiet conversation with Chloe.

— Hey, Sky, what's with you today? It's like you're not even here, — Marcus's voice was loud, devoid of any subtlety. He tried to joke, but his joke was harmless. — Usually, you're screaming your head off like a feral cat, but now… what, did you fall in love? — He laughed, his laughter sincere and booming, but he didn't even notice Sky tense up slightly. He just didn't get it.

Sky shrugged. Unlike Chloe's perceptiveness, which made her feel exposed, Marcus's naivety only intensified her sense of loneliness. His reaction was superficial; he saw nothing beyond the outer shell. It made Sky feel even more isolated. She couldn't explain to him that her "strange behavior" wasn't the result of falling in love, but a collision with her own pain.

— Very funny, Marcus. Get back to work, — Sky snapped, her voice sharp, but it lacked its former fury. She turned away, her fingers nervously strumming the strings of her bass. He was part of her crew, but he didn't understand her internal struggle. His carelessness, which was once so appealing in punk rock, now seemed like just another layer of isolation.

The deafening roar of drums and shriek of guitars finally gave way to the ringing silence of "The Noise Box." Liam, still muttering something under his breath, slammed the door and headed into the night, followed by Marcus, who left humming carelessly. Sky was left alone. The air was still thick with the acrid smell of cigarettes, sweat, and beer, but now, without the music, it felt heavy and motionless. This was her place of power, but now, in the ensuing silence, it no longer offered its usual comfort.

She slowly slid to the floor, leaning her back against a cold, humming amplifier. The metal felt cool through the fabric of her oversized leather jacket. Her gaze was unfocused, fixed on the ceiling, where faint shadows danced in the dim light of a single bulb. Fragments of thoughts raced through her head, not forming a coherent melody. They were about Ethan—his devastation on the bridge, his almost physical apathy, his strange submissiveness when, to her surprise, he had taken the cigarette from her hand.

She couldn't explain why this guy had gotten to her so much. He was the complete opposite of everything she knew. No energy, no rebellion, only a bottomless anguish. But his extinguished eyes, in which she had seen a reflection of her own, so carefully hidden pain, wouldn't leave her mind. His image, pale and gaunt, like a shadow, kept flashing insistently before her inner eye.

The silence around her was oppressive, forcing her deeper into her thoughts. Usually, after rehearsals, she felt drained but also a sense of release. Today, however, there was only this strange aftertaste—a mix of anxiety and inexplicable curiosity. Her heart, that drum that usually beat to the rhythm of protest, was now beating differently, as if a new, unfamiliar syncopation had appeared in it. It was something that went beyond her usual understanding of the world.

Sky ran a hand through her hair, her fingers getting tangled in the light, ash-blonde strands. She felt a slight irritation building—at herself, for not being able to just forget about him. This guy, this "weirdo," had broken the familiar rhythm of her thoughts, and she didn't know how to fix it. His image had taken up residence in her mind, and she understood that their meeting on the bridge had not been accidental. It was the beginning of something she had yet to understand. And that made her feel uneasy.

Sky slowly rose from the floor, stretching to loosen her stiff muscles. The clock on the wall showed it was late, but she still needed to get to the record store. She had an evening shift there. She sighed. The store wasn't the best place for thinking, but there she could hide from herself and this obsessive image. She grabbed her leather jacket from a chair, threw it over her shoulders, and, with a final glance at the stage, walked out of "The Noise Box," heading toward the store.