'The Encore' by Chris Albin

I’m a masochist. I could be anywhere in time and space, yet I come back here to this moment. I know it by heart now.

There’s the Kid at the front of the crowd; fifteen, overweight and with long curly black hair. He wears a black trench coat even though it makes him sweat like a pig. On his wrist is a black Naruto- bracelet, he still thinks counts as Metal. Currently, he is headbanging his little dweeb heart out.

In the back, there’s me; thirty-five, still overweight, slightly less black, and slightly more red plaid. I’ve been nursing the same lukewarm beer for a while now, watching him go at it. Avoiding eye contact.

God, he looks so happy.

I want to leave, but the envelope in my pocket keeps me anchored. Then, on cue, the final riff dies off and the crowd goes wild – the Kid is the loudest. I cringe and take one final swig, before moving in for the kill.

I elbow my way through the crowd unnoticed because I’m a tourist in the Kid’s world. In here music only matters when it’s loud and screaming. In here having a depression makes you interesting and the only place to show positivity is in the crowd and nowhere else. Here rebellion is conformity.

I hate how happy he looks.

But I’m just a ghost. I slide the letter into the pocket of the coat, and he doesn’t even notice I’m there-

Then the band breaks into the encore, I take a final beer to go and step into the December night. I don’t fade away, nothing timey-wimey. Just another tourist to the Kid’s world, leaving.

Only the letter in his pocket remains – two sentences. 

Keep trying, bud. Maybe you’ll find it for both of us.