This is one-shot and very random in my twisted sort of way, though there are worse (or better?) ones out there. Anyhow, this is a somewhat dark, nonsense piece that I had to get out of my system. Review, please… if that doesn’t sound too selfish. Tell me what you think; is there really a meaning behind what I’ve written or is it merely senseless ramblings as I tend to come up with?

You can contact me at: fluffy (at) stayontrack (dot) com

So here’s “Tomorrow”…enjoy.

Chiclets

Keila stared, enthralled, at the young man on the stage, pouring out sweat and blood and voice and discordant chords from his guitar, capturing the entire audience in a world that was…was what? Keila couldn’t decide. There was so much raw emotion, that more than song, if it could be called song at all. Whatever it was, it had her and the meager gathering at the nightclub, sweeping them up in this emotion and taking them along.

When the song ended, the entire place was quiet for a long moment before any sort of talk or conversation began again, and for a nightclub, that was unusual.

It took Keila longer to regain her bearings, and when she had, the singer had disappeared. She sighed, disappointed. She had wanted to talk to him, or maybe, even, to just see him again. Keila decided that she wanted to know better what made someone like him be able to pour out so much visible, tangible hate and darkness that could make her shiver.

Shaking her head, she made her way over the bar, taking a seat on one of the barstools while she waited for the bartender.

“‘Ello, pritty miss,” he said when he saw her. “What’s it ya want in a place like this?”

Keila shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothing much. Maybe a drink, something light, and a bit of information, that guy singin’? Wond’ring who he is, mebbe where I can find him…”

The bartender jerked his thumb towards a corner booth hidden in the shadows. “He’s Richard, don’t go by much other than that, hides in the corner for a drink and a rest mostly. Don’t take kindly to fans I hear.”

“Oh, I’m not a fan, not really, I just wanted to talk to him,” Keila said. “Thanks for the info.”

She wandered into the corner with a glass of light beer, making her way towards the singer sat, scribbling something on a napkin.

“Hello,” she said boldly, and watched as his head jerked up. His eyes were masked by dark glasses, and his bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat.

“Go away, I detest fans,” he growled, and looked back down to his napkin.

Keila stopped and stared. The bartender hadn’t been kidding. “But I just wanted to – I’m not a fan, really, I’m not.”

“Then what do you want.” The question was flat, more statement than question.

Keila sipped from her glass, trying to disguise the fact that her hand was trembling. “I was hoping a few answers.”

“About what.”

“Life.”

This time he looked up and sat back, shaking damp bangs out of his face. “Life? I wouldn’t have much to share on that – ”

“Life, and death,” Keila finished.

She assumed the singer stared at her for a moment, because his eyes were not visible, then he said, “Sit down.”

Keila sat.

“Now, what’s your name?” he demanded.

“Keila.”

“Talk.”

Keila fidgeted for a moment before deciding to just run off whatever came to mind. “Your songs…there’s a lot of emotion in there.”

He stared at her impassively, not saying anything.

“A lot of hate.”

“It’s my way to vent.”

Keila sensed that it was thin ice she was treading on. “Why? All that hate…and it’s like they – we – I – want it? Love it? I – why?”

Oh, yes. SO tactful.

“Either I am never born, I die, or I hate. There’s nothing in this life for me because life never holds anything for me and life never WILL hold anything for me,” was Richard’s cryptic answer. “If it weren’t for the music, I’d probably kill myself. In fact…”

“Nothing to love?” Oh, goodness, what WAS she rambling on about?

“Why?” he shot back. “What I don’t get I very well can’t give, can I?” He reached for Keila’s glass and she let him take it.

Keila jumped topics as quickly as she had spouted off her questions. “Are the glasses to hide your eyes or emotions?”

“Emotions,” Richard said tersely before sipping from the glass. “I frighten most people when they see all the ‘darkness’ ‘emanating from me’.”

“Really?”

The glasses came off. His pale grey eyes were so dark with anger and near loathing that Keila almost jumped.

“See?”

He moved to put them back on, but in one bold move (as if she hadn’t already been being bold the entire five minutes) Keila stopped him with her hand over his.

“Don’t. You startled me. I’m not scared. But you lied.”

Oh, good grief. Accusing him of lying? He almost looked like he could kill someone.

“Is that so?” Richard drained the glass and set it down so hard Keila swore she could hear something crack.

“There’s something you’re hiding, and that’s why you wear the glasses, because you’re not hiding it as well as you should be. You’re lonely, lost, and sad.”

“You’d like to think?”

Keila snorted and released his hand, rolling her eyes. “Denial. If you’d smile, I bet your eyes would be beautiful.”

What the heck…was she drunk or something?

Richard was literally struck dumb, the unfazable one.

The red-rimmed eyes blinked before they disappeared behind dark plastic once again and the singer looked away.

“Why do you hate fans?”

“Because they think they love me. It’s that simple.”

“What about me, do you detest me?”

“I loathe you.”

“I’m breaking your shell.”

“You are bursting my personal bubble, and I hate that.” The statement was emphasized as he leaned so far forward that their noses almost touched.

She went the rest of the way and kissed him.

The singer jerked back so fast he hit his head on the back of his seat. “Wha– !”

Keila didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. She stood and slid out of the booth. “Are you going to be here tomorrow?”

Richard was looking up at her, two fingers touching his lips, where she had kissed him. “I – I’m here Fridays and Saturdays…” he choked out.

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Keila said, and left.

Irony at its best. It was two weeks after that Richard learned, from the bartender, that the girl had committed suicide the night she’d confronted him.

She had never come back ‘tomorrow’.