There's a certain feeling one gets while at a rock show. More than the anticipation of getting inside. There's an explosive or sulfuric quality combined with the heat of vibrating bodies. The tone is one of electricity and primal need. Stepping into 'The Basement' on this dusky summer night was like entering a religious revival in the middle of a group exorcism. There were screams of "Yes God!" and wild shrieking in tongues. But Jesus never knew what hit him. It was sudden and violent and over so fast that most of us in the crowd had no idea something was awfully wrong until those backstage came flooding out in a panic and the lights came up...
30 MINUTES BEFORE
The halls backstage are dusty. Sadie thought as she meandered under blinking neon lights and throngs of drunken groupies and roadies. Sadie had a 'thing' about cleanliness. It wasn't exactly a phobia or maybe it was. When she was little she rarely went outside because coming home meant an hour or more of washing and rewashing to get clean. Maybe it was compulsive and probably even weird but in Sadie's eighteen years being clean was was and will always be on the forefront of her brain. And when her fingers bled and shook raw. Or when she could barely keep from crying when scrubbing yet again after going outside, she always knew to just stay indoors. And always wear gloves-which were presently in her bag that just got stolen twenty minutes ago. That's what I get for taking the metro. She thought. It was never safe full of the unsavory and always unclean. But it was cheap and for somebody with no job and staying at the luxurious local park apartments, the metro was the only option.
Now walking the dank corridors choked with bodies, Sadie felt like a cat in a box. Her long raven hair matted down in places she could feel the sweat bead on her forehead and neck. Her feline green eyes trying not to make contact with anybody who might use a tired pick-up line or slurred innuendo. She knew she was pretty. She had been told so since she was fifteen in sometimes not so subtle ways. Her lithe tan body always brought attention from both sexes. Getting a tattoo last year had only made matters worse.
She had been drinking the night when the tattoo became a part of her temple. Picked up at the park by one who by night's end would be another fling she regrets, it had been raining in the city when the florescent sign of the parlor caught her eye. She loved rain in New Los Angeles. Rain in the city was nothing like rain in the country. It made more noise. There was something about the water echoing off buildings and windows and battering against sidewalks that reminded Sadie of the classical music she used to listen to at the orphanage. More than once she had found herself sitting on a street-curb and humming along with the sounds all around her. There was also the feeling of the water dripping down her back, As erotic as anything Sadie had ever known, there was something about a raindrop running down the center to the small of her back that made Sadie sigh.
It was this feeling that carried her past the florescent sign and into the semi-dark parlor. "Hey darlin." The artist has remarked when she turned and fixed her eyes on him. "Have an idea of what you're looking for?" Sadie smiled. "Not really." As she thumbed through a book of lettering styles and calligraphy, an image of the Grim Reaper holding a scythe caught her eye. "God that's morbid." The artist snickered and said, "It's called 'In Mourning'. Are you mourning my dear?" Sadie glanced quickly at him. "Aren't we all? Besides it looks like a black-light poster in a teenager's bedroom." She turned away and began studying the wall of angels and devils when her back arched and a tiny moan escaped her lips. "What is that?" She pointed to some ornate cursive lettering on the back wall. The artist smiled. "It's called Angel Script." It's supposedly the style of God's Angels." "Which God?" Sadie whispered. She got closer and traced the lettering with her finger. The artist stood behind her and said, "It says 'Love the Angels." Sadie grinned as the artist picked up his his tattoo gun. "We don't often get an angel in mourning here." Sadie took a step closer. Twenty minutes later 'Love The Angel Of Mourning' was inscribed on her ribcage in the language of the angels.
And now months later, Sadie wound her way backstage of 'The Basement' hoping to catch a glimpse of the rock god who was just now finishing a set that from what she could surmise, the crowd had revered....
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