You had the world in the palm of your hand. A thick crimson ribbon was draped between the webs of your fingers, along with a corsage to match around your wrist. It felt like just yesterday, the smell of your parents’ garage, the sight of him strumming his guitar, the promises you shared. You were each others’ muses, summers spent passionately attempting to grow the band locally. There were moments when your drummer, bassist, and even him, the guitarist, were close to dropping out.

However, you were the glue that held everyone together.

Now, you stood backstage. A long black dress hugged your curves, a slit in the design allowing for a black garter around your thigh to be visible. Layered studded belts emphasized the angular cut of your hips, the sleeves of your dress flared out in a manner that was reminiscent of a bats wings. You could hear the audience chanting your bands name, you felt the weight of your glossy black heels keeping you in place. You’ve dreamed of this very moment time and time again, it was all you’ve ever wanted.

Suddenly, a firm hand graces your shoulder giving you a reassuring squeeze. “Isn’t it amazing?” he whispered, lowering himself to reach your ear. “They want us, we were their first choice.” He was right, your manager mentioned how tickets for your first concert had sold out almost immediately. All of these people made the choice to come and support, that thought only served to ignite a fierce fire within your heart. Its orangey and reddish embers set your soul ablaze. You were made to perform, to perfect your art.

Setting out onto the stage, a Shure 55SH microphone awaited the warmth of your palm to cradle it. You raised your hand, beginning to slowly wrap the microphone with the thick crimson ribbon you had prepared. Swinging the crimson corsage over the head of the microphone, you gazed over at him. He was already looking at you. With a single nod of his head, a strum from his guitar rang out. “Give them hell.” he mouthed in your direction.