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“Lift up your hands.”
Yitzhak-- No. Krystal, now, in all of her unfettered glory, finally released from the chains that bound her. My chains.
Krystal and the band sing on, even as I remove my in-ears, set my mic down and start for the rear of the stage. They’re urging the audience to join in solidarity, to be represented, united. Just to be in that moment. With them. With me.
“Lift up your hands.”
And they do. People in the orchestra, the mezzanine and balcony, even the poor fucks that opted for standing room only at the back of the house. More and more hands go up each time the band implores them.
“Lift up your hands.”
I pass through the curtain of falling, metallic magenta confetti, ascend the stairs and head toward the wall of light in front of me. I can’t recall the last time I felt so unbound, so free. Being stripped down to next to nothing might have played a small part, but it was more than that. It’s as if the crushing weight of years upon years had finally been lifted. All the hurt and rage. Gone. Luther and Tommy. My father, that doctor.
The wig.
I leave it all behind and I don’t dare turn back, even as I wonder if all of that pain and anguish has possibly manifested into something tangible behind me as it all fell away. Was it all there, scattered on the ground for the audience to see? Twisted and jagged and black. Still, I don't look back. There’s nothing for me there anymore. Nothing worth keeping onto, anyway. The now, the next, what lies ahead – that’s what matters.
“Lift up your hands.”
The chanting continues, though it somehow sounds distant now. I can feel the warmth of the bright lights on my skin as I approach, but, then, suddenly that’s gone, too. The band, Krystal, all of it.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from still seeing intense orbs of lights from those bulbs, and when they do I find myself outside. In an alley, more specifically, and definitely not one behind the Belasco Theater, but that’s where the specifics end.
The heady daze I can’t seem to shake doesn't help with my bearings. Perhaps I should be in a panic, but I’m not.
What I am, however, is fucking cold, which is much harder to shake than the notion of potentially being lost.
Yitzhak-- No. Krystal, now, in all of her unfettered glory, finally released from the chains that bound her. My chains.
Krystal and the band sing on, even as I remove my in-ears, set my mic down and start for the rear of the stage. They’re urging the audience to join in solidarity, to be represented, united. Just to be in that moment. With them. With me.
“Lift up your hands.”
And they do. People in the orchestra, the mezzanine and balcony, even the poor fucks that opted for standing room only at the back of the house. More and more hands go up each time the band implores them.
“Lift up your hands.”
I pass through the curtain of falling, metallic magenta confetti, ascend the stairs and head toward the wall of light in front of me. I can’t recall the last time I felt so unbound, so free. Being stripped down to next to nothing might have played a small part, but it was more than that. It’s as if the crushing weight of years upon years had finally been lifted. All the hurt and rage. Gone. Luther and Tommy. My father, that doctor.
The wig.
I leave it all behind and I don’t dare turn back, even as I wonder if all of that pain and anguish has possibly manifested into something tangible behind me as it all fell away. Was it all there, scattered on the ground for the audience to see? Twisted and jagged and black. Still, I don't look back. There’s nothing for me there anymore. Nothing worth keeping onto, anyway. The now, the next, what lies ahead – that’s what matters.
“Lift up your hands.”
The chanting continues, though it somehow sounds distant now. I can feel the warmth of the bright lights on my skin as I approach, but, then, suddenly that’s gone, too. The band, Krystal, all of it.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from still seeing intense orbs of lights from those bulbs, and when they do I find myself outside. In an alley, more specifically, and definitely not one behind the Belasco Theater, but that’s where the specifics end.
The heady daze I can’t seem to shake doesn't help with my bearings. Perhaps I should be in a panic, but I’m not.
What I am, however, is fucking cold, which is much harder to shake than the notion of potentially being lost.