Godless

The beat was power. It soared into the starless night sky, and sank into the earth, shaking the ground with its strength. It was the driving force that enticed thousands of bodies into movement and voices to rise in song. The thunderous drum strokes, the heavy hum of the bass, the strobing lights, and the roar of the crowd all wove together with the one steady beat.

A masterpiece. Just one vital element was missing. A gaping hole that left the spectators wanting, shouting in demand.

He stood in shadow on the edge of the stage, a dark figure briefly illuminated, only to be hidden again by teasing laser lights. The focus of thousands of eyes hit like a physical blow. There wasn't anything on this earth that could compare, nothing would ever come close, to the magnificance of this moment. The need, the anticipation, it was an addiction about to be sated. Fulfillment was within his grasp.

The beat was life. It pounded in his heart, surged into his muscles, and vibrated in his bones. He let it consume him, allowed it complete control of mind, body, and soul. He was the music's instrument. He took a deep breath then jumped onto the center stage.

The crowd went wild, the guitars exploded into a complex rhythm and the lights blasted to reveal the stage to the eager masses. He let out a howl, reveling in the glory of it all. The beat remained, not buried but magnified by the layers of sound and movement. He was no longer a being of flesh and blood, but of the music and energy that drove him. His heart went berserk, like a crazed bird trapped inside the cage that was his ribs, threatening to burst through his chest. He sang, yelled, cried, and screamed. He danced, jerked, clawed, and pounded. The crowd feed him with their need, eyes focused on him, riveted by his performance.

In this moment, he was god.

They worshipped him and paid tribute to see him, to bask in his voice and body. Fans travelled from all over the world to be at the stage that was his alter. They sang his verses and cried out his name. Desperate hands and eyes reached out to him, begging a touch, the feel of his skin on theirs in sweet benediction. In return he gave them everything. Their chant-like prayers, empowering him and allowing their god to answer with his voice. Still, they demanded more. He clawed his chest, drawing blood. Song gave way to screams. Dance gave way to something more primal. As the lights went out, faces and limbs disappeared in the darkness. Only their god stood illumated, revealed to all. Sweat coated his pale skin, blood oozed from the ragged paths his fingernails took on his torso.

The crowd roared, thousands united in a giant force of chaotic energy and hunger. It transformed in to a shadowed monster lurking in the night. He stood before it, answering its call and soothing its frenzy. Hands reached out, no longer satisfied with a touch but seeking to grab and pull him in, to tear him apart. He fought back, his exhausted body now enslaved by the beat and the beast. Sanity slipped away. He was not a man of thought or action, but a puppet on a string. A string that the beast threatened to snap so that he would collapse before it and be devoured. He lost himself in the darkness and the all consuming, conflicting emotions flooding the stage.

Gently, the music slowed and quieted. The lights brightened, the beast disappeared, and in its place stood thousands. Faces emerged, drenched in sweat, and eyes wide with excitement. The roar dissolved in to individual voices, cries of his name, and pleas for more. Tears shown on the faces of some, their eyes begging with arms still outreached straining for something to hold.

He stood before them, no longer a god, but an empty husk.

His chest heaved, his body felt rigid and encapable of making its way off stage. Somehow he managed with meager dignity to escape into invisibility beyond the shadows. His eyes blurred, his skin burned. His heart slowed, but nausea churned in his stomach. He leaned on a nearby wall for support, the cool brick at his back eased the fire in his muscles. A heavy hand touched his shoulder, and he flinched away. The ball of nausea came instantly, forcing a gag from his parched lips.

He made his way to the restroom, eyes focused on the cement floor for stability. He pushed open the heavy door and entered a cramped stall where in he collapsed, an exhausted heap of flesh and bone. The nausea tore from his throat and emptied into the toilet. His vocal chords felt raw and throbbed with pain, his skin felt cold and clammy, but heat still broiled his insides. He leaned away from the toilet, rested his back against the stall, and allowed his head to hang between his knees. Focusing on nothing, thinking nothing, feeling nothing. Nothing.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he heard his stall open. He looked up into the pale face of his drummer, Ren. The drummer's exotic eyes were framed in black eyeliner, black hair glistened in the florescent light and clung to the sweat on his forehead.
Ren leaned against the stall door in elegeant nonchalance, "You going to live?" he asked. The singer nodded in answer.

"Aw, Alex. You were great but you've got to pace yourself. I won't be surprised if one of these days you give yourself a heart attack on stage. Then how will I pay my bills, huh?" Ren gave a slight chuckle, lips painted a ruby red lifted in one corner in a slight smirk. He shoved away from the stall door and went to inspect the damage the show had done to his appearance.

Alex hung his head, reached for the stall door with one hand to close it. This time he locked it. He rested his arms on his knees, head on his hands, and had his first thought in a long while.

Am I god, or am I the sacrifice?