Heavy guitars thread the air like a heartbeat. They thrum, carrying a downtowned rhythm straight into my chest. I orbit the outer edge of the crowd with a couple of new friends.

I tilt a glass of something reddish brown and it sears my throat on the way down. I suddenly remember the torment I put my voice through. I remember why I cried so much. And why I'm here. The ticket I found and the reason why I found it.

I can't exist but for so long before the ache comes back. Even if I don't think about it, the ache is there, taxing my gross emotions until I'm left with a net despair. 

I take another drink in spite (or maybe because of) the intense burning. Rachel notices and asks me what I think of her recommendation. 

"It's spicy," I tell her.

"So does that mean you like it?"

"I don't know how to 'like' anymore."

"What?"

"Nevermind." I take another swig. She takes that as a yes. Good enough for me.

I try to dance like the others are dancing. Specifically, I imitate the tattoo faced girl I just met named Catherine. It seems to be a mix of hips and headbanging.

My throat hurts and I'm not sure I can talk anymore, even if I yelled. All I can do is dance, even if poorly. I dance without feeling, a marionette of the moment, pulled the energy of those around me. 

The bat wings on my purse tickle my sides as I move. I don't know why, but I think about my silly purse. I used to think it was so cute – now it just seems like a purse that tickles me. 

I want so much for it to be as cute as the day I bought it. I think about that and I cry. I cry and I dance. The movements start to make sense as I whip my body around to the music. I still don't really feel the music,  but I finally understand it.

By the end of the song, I'm panting. I wipe my eyes before the lights settle and my peers can see me. I feel better. 

The band is made up of guys in tight clothes covered in chains, belts, and tears. One guy with orange braids raises his hands and a cheer erupts from the crowd gathered in front of the stage. He is the singer.

His singing is gravelly and he also screams. Both sound similarly like a wail, though this is strangely enough a good thing. There's a sort of controlled, tactical grit when he sings or screams. It was jarring at first but now, I think I really like it. Not as much as Terry, the guy with the nose ring, but no one can compete with Terry. His passion for this band and its singer is near religious.

The singer is called Daze, according to Terry. To be a vocalist for a hardcore band with this much flamboyance, I think you have to have a silly name as a requirement. I don't think they'd let you play with them otherwise. 

When he sings, Daze's voice soars over the music like it has wings. It suits crying and dancing very well. I think I managed to strain a few extra drops of angst out of my soul just because of how he sounds…. he sounds like he's sad, but he's angry at how sad he feels. 

I couldn't agree more, mister "Daze." Even if your name kinda makes you seem like a goober.

I don't know how much time passes. I don't know how many songs The Dead Drop Kids have played. Could be 3, could be 10.

I don't talk that much to the people I've just met. The two boys are up near the stage, braving the moshpit. Oscar isn't as intense as Terry yet he seems to really enjoy the music. I learned tonight that he's a drag queen in his free time, and he's wearing a beanie because he had his hair curled and wanted to preserve it.

"Most queens wear wigs," he informed me, "but my hair is long and it is gorgeous. So why wouldn't I use it?"

When he left us to head for the crowd, I asked if he was worried about messing up his hair in the pit. He assured me that the bit of violence would only add to style. Something about "messy loose curls" or something. 

I have no idea. My hair is straight, but I'm glad for him.

Me and the two ladies- we're just taking things at a steady place. We're far enough back that the music is only a wall of sound and not a sonic semi truck.

I move when there's music, listen to Catherine explain whatever song just played, and I drink whatever Rachel hands me. It's a simple, automatic existence.

Oscar ventures out of the writhing mass of moshing to talk with us. He asks me what I'm drinking. I shrug and point to Rachel. She tells him some long drink name with the word "hammer" in it.

"You're going to get the poor girl wasted!"

She shakes her head. "Only the first 2 had any alcohol in it, and not even much. The last 3 were virgin." She looks at me and says, "Sorry I deceived you friend."

"I don't care as long as it's free," I try to say. I'm surprised how my own voice rattles around when I open my mouth, though. The actual sounds I just made sounded like some dialect of squeaky door hinge.

"What's the matter?" asks Rachel. "Blow your voice out screaming with the songs?"

I lie with a nod. It's as good of an excuse as any. I clear my throat, hoping to retrieve my voice. "It's fine," I manage to say. It even sounds mostly intelligible.

Rachel asks Oscar how the show was up front. He pantomimes a look of pure bliss, rolling his eyes back and sighing breathlessly. He proceeds to describe it as a religious experience.

"Frankly, I just don't know how the rest of my life is going to compare after tonight. At least, my life as my secret identity. Only my life as my alter ego, Chanda Lyria could compare." He punctuates the comment with a melodramatic pose – left hand on his hip, right hand braced against a troubled brow.

Looking down at the whatever non-alcoholic drink I was handed last, I watch the little bubbles lined around the edge of the glass pop and split and dissolve away. 

I wish I had some other person to become who had some better future in store for her. Why am I me? Do I have to be? Why can't I just be someone else just for a little bit? Just until the pain of losing my best friend numbs and scars over. If that would ever even happen.

Oscar sets a hand on my shoulder. "...Oh but that's not directed to you, Kyrie! Please don't take it like that."

"What?" I croak. Something happened while I was having an early life crisis. Oscar's smile fades. Not from his face, it's still wide. His smile has lost that natural, giddy shape like when he was talking about Daze. It's more awkward now, the smile doesn't even touch his eyes. 

I don't even know what just happened. Have I done this? Did ruin this moment? He was so happy just a second ago.

"You're scaring the children, Chanda," says Rachel, giving him a playful nudge with her elbow.

I clear my throat again. Hope it buys me some clear words. "The 'children' watch spooky movies," I say, downing all the distracting bubbles from my glass. "If I am who you're talking about."

"Spooky movies?" he asks. "So, horror right?"

"Yeah, horror," I say relatively clearly.

"I love horror, too," says Oscar, the guy with the nosering. "You ever seen The Reddening?"

"No. Well yes, for about 30 minutes." The last word squeaks, but I keep going. "It was a lot of jumpscares. But I don't jump, so I get bored."

He looks a bit deflated and just says, "Oh." I don't know why I am like this. I'm supposed to be using my limited words to fix this situation. My social instincts suck.

"But," I offer, "I thought the design of the witch was awesome."

"She was," he agrees. "I like how her eyes just kinda… hang outta her sockets. But not like all the way."

"And her red wedding gown was gorgeous, even if a bit grave-worn…" throat clear, "...and maggot eaten."

"Yeah! I love it, I'd buy a replica and wear it if I could afford it."

"Do it," says Rachel. "Chanda Lyria's adoring fans would love it." Oscar's enthusiasm looks to be restored. I'm glad.

Catherine comes back. She slipped away at some point during the talking and grabbed the other guy in the group, Terry.

"Daze is coming this way!" heralds Terry.

Behind them, a halo of fans floats through crowd, with two big men in the middle. Somewhere between the two masculine masses, I see a thin guy with bleached orange braids hanging in his face.

"He has a plan," says Catherine when she approaches. "It's a stupid plan, but Terry will not rest until he seduces his crush."

"I don't even like guys! It's not like that – can't a man just appreciate another man for being amazing?"

"They can," says Catherine. "It's called being gay."

"Or it's called being a fan," says Rachel. "Don't let them bully you, Terry. You enjoy yourself." Terry nods agreement. "Now, what is your plan to seduce your man-crush?"

"Hey!"

"Kidding."

"Fine, well… I'm going to wait for him to talk to some fans, sign some stuff. He's gotta sign something, and I bought their EP at the merch booth so–"

The crowd comes in a tide. We have to move to avoid being bulled aside or trampled by the more fervent elements in the swath.

I step around a tall guy in a jean jacket covered in patches and lose sight of the others. I gain sight of stranger after stranger. Shoulders and new faces appear no matter what direction I turn. I swim through the bodies to find a break in the press. I have absolutely no idea what direction I'm going.

The herd parts suddenly. I'm not expecting all resistance to abruptly stop so I stagger and bump into a guy. I headbutt his…. shoulder blade I believe. Rubbing the pain out of my head, I look up at a man I can describe only as pretty. He Has a narrow face with smooth cheekbones that swoon against his hazel eyes. The man is wearing eyeliner, and I'd normally be confused by that. But it suits the narrow, feather shape of his eyes pretty well. He sweeps the bleach-orange drape of braids out of his face and addresses me. "Can I help you?" he asks me plainly.

Of course this is Mister Daze. I half expected this would happen given my luck and – yep, his oversized bouncer buddies have just spotted me. I bet one will scream "She's got a knife!" and fold me up like a lawn chair any second now.

A massive hand reaches for me. I try to retreat, but bounce off a wall of people back towards the hand. I raise my hands and make a panicked plea of "My bad!" My voice fails me though and a scraping sound barrels out of me.

The Daze guys stops the bouncer man. Bodyguard? I suppose he would be a bodyguard. Anyway, he puts a hand on his shoulder and the guy pauses. Looking at me, Daze goes, "Please watch where you are going in the future," followed by, "Thanks for coming to the show." A sly smile creeps across his lips as he turns his pretty face away from me.

I don't know why this pisses me off. It does piss me off though. I try to say something I know will come out garbled – that's why I even decide to say it. I attempt to say, "You the one who can't see through all the eyeliner – I have glasses, I see fine." Then I make an effort to squeeze between a pale girl with dreads and a short guy in a white long sleeve and escape.

I stop when I see their faces. They gape at me, not allowing me to sift between them. I look around me. Wide eyes and slack jaws, every direction. Bodyguards, included. The singer stares at me, appalled. Everything is quiet.

It hits me. Like a wet cod to the face, I realize that my voice was crystal clear just now.

All I can hear is my own heart. It drums with thick, lobbing pulses. It feels like it's crawling up my neck to try and leave my body and the awkwardness it's being subjected to. I think I'm going to choke. It's still quiet. I can't breathe, my heart is wriggling against my windpipe.

My heart lurches free of my mouth. It comes out into the open world as the words, "What kind of a name is Daze, anyway?" 

What have I just said? Why did I just say that? And for the love of all that is sacred, when is this silence going to end? I… hate that I am me. 

A sharp laugh cracks through the quiet. Daze the singer is bent over, laughing. His fancy metal necklaces shake around from his laughing. What is  going on? And why am I looking at his collar bones and thinking how nice they look with the little chains and the boat neck shirt he's got on? Is that a tattoo of ocean waves under the left collar?

"You got me there," says Daze. "My real name is DeAndre."

"I can't believe it," says Terry later on. "I simply cannot. I will never forgive you."

Catherine scoffs. "Forgive her for what? Your jealousy?"

"Exactly. I cannot. I just met this chick tonight and she is already better than me in every way."

Rachel laughs. "Yes, every single way. She probably even codes better than you and could take over your job in a day."

"She's better than me in every way that matters." To me, he says, "The Daze follows on you on Trippy."

Trippy is a terrible app where you just share and follow status updates on friends and celebrities. It has no other function than to share what inane crap a random person gets up to. I have one only because of peer pressure. I gave Daze my handle only because he asked me in a crowd full of people while having the audacity to be pretty. I am only human, and lonely enough to like a guy's attention. I admit it.

Still can't say I am inspired to get on Trippy. Daze is only pretty, not a wizard. It would take supernatural force to make me care about that app.

"So," says Rachel. "You follow Daze, does that mean you are too good to follow us or can we get your Trippy handle too?"

I shake my head no. My throat hurts too much to talk, so I just pull my phone out and point it. The message gets across to them and we all share numbers. 

Terry and Catherine leave together. I didn't pick up on them being a couple, but it makes sense in hindsight. Oscar gives us a deep bow before leaving in some blocky, pink muscle car. 

I walk with Rachel to her car and she compliments me a lot. I smile as best I can, trying to be pleasant, but at this point I have no energy. The only thing keeping me upright is spite for the universe, as much as I genuinely appreciate her kind words.

Rachel figures it out, that I can't really talk anymore. I try to thank her for being so nice and welcoming me into her group. It doesn't really work, though, I just kind of make a bunch of clacking syllables. 

"I understand, Kyrielle. You're welcome." I'm so relieved that she understands me, it makes me want to cry. I'll hold off though until I'm driving home. Man, that will be one cathartic cry.

We wave, she leaves. Her car is a cute blue coupe that suits her personality. Watching her car leave, I feel like I want to see her again.

She's not quite Henrietta -- no one is or ever will be. But I want to be her friend. I want to heal even if I don't want anything else in the world.

I hear something. Then I remember the evangelist from earlier. He had heavy, flat footed steps that sounded like this.

Why must you test me, O Lord? Can you please just keep your servants to yourself for at least a little while? This is not how you turn hearts to your light. 

The steps come closer, louder. I spin reflexively to avoid the – nothing. No one. No pamphlet, no evangelist. Just an empty parking lot.

I'm alone. I was so sure that was the church guy from earlier, but I'm totally alone.