Burning Dreams

At the first soft murmur of the singer's voice, the crowd's conversations die to an exited hush of whispers exchanged. I slide between the imposing manikins of anticipation until I am a bare metre from the stage, and of course the man that stands upon it. Slight and almost frail at just over 5'5, his soft feline features, honey powdered to cream, are sweet as a kitten's, large brown eyes innocent as a doe. Full lips are parted in silence, brushed with black turned to silver. He blinks, once, and a ghostly smile tugs at the corners of his elegant eyes, outlined tonight, as always, in smudged liquid black.

"Welcome…" He repeats himself, but for no need. Every pale haunted face, every bruised pair of eyes are turned his way. He bows his head over the microphone he grasps so negligently; soft white-blonde hair slashing shadows over his laughter, echoing deliciously round the walls of the room. "I thought to start tonight with one of our newest songs…" he sweeps us with his dark stare, to be certain he is the full focus of our adoration. "But…now, I think I shall instead start with one our oldest…the first song we ever wrote…" His voice, rustling like velvet throughout the crowd, fades to a dramatic whisper. There are no screams, no cries of love or excitement from the blackened audience, but I can feel their silent pulse in my veins.

The singer steps back, pushing the microphone back into its stand, stretching his arms out as if he would embrace every single frail heart arrayed in front of him. His slender frame is swamped in shimmering folds of black fabric, belted harshly in the middle with a group of neon coloured plastic belts, skeins of bright plastic gossamer draped from his clothes like the viciously dangerous wires of some foreign machine, wrapped like vines up his body to tangle in his lustrous hair. He freezes for a second, before arching forwards in obeisance to us, praising the flicker of our souls. I barely notice when a guitar roars into life behind him, the guitarist's hair streaked scarlet to enhance the ruby that glitters so becomingly on his instrument.

"Kiss me," Chants the singer, dress flashing to reveal glistening black boots winding sinuously up to his thighs. "Kill me," he lifted a pale hand to caress his own cheek, trailing a finger down his neck, "Love me," Leaning forward to offer a devilish grin as his benediction to us, eyes dancing with fire.

The crowd would scream into the silence that has no sound, straining to hear every panting shouting word that drips like syrup from those poisoned lips. The drum crests a pause in the song, a fast heady motion that carries our hearts away with its tide, the wail as the bassist drags a finger down the neck of his guitar, an infectious little melody, before yet again the singer surges forward into a crazy dance around the microphone. Screaming words I cannot understand, crashing the mic against the floor in time to his stamping feet, to our stamping feet. "Child prey,"

The strobe lights flicker on and off, silver light bathing us in glitter to freeze, the flicker scenes of a movie, puppets to be lead by the blonde on the stage. "Kiss me deadly," the crowd is swelling forwards against the railings, narrow arms weaving patterns in the smoke filled air, fishnet gloves hiding fingers tipped in black. "Child is burning…" The song slows as the singer's voice reverberates throughout the shell of the building, before cresting upwards to a roar, a mad turmoil of guitar and drums and words. Again the beat, the pause, the chanted roar that fills our ears like the crackling of fire, "KISS ME KILL ME LOVE ME!" and the singers voice rises on a scream of defiance, a roar of life and passion – to fade to a whisper and then to die. He fixes us with his stare. Behind him, his band are backing from the stage, instruments seeming to crumble. The bassist's flash of pink hair is cloaked as he disappears behind a door; the singer offers us a last smile – terrible in its beauty – and turns to stride away from us. Head held high, blonde hair swaying, dipped in the night. The stage collapses beneath him, as flames begin to devour the instruments left behind. The structure disintegrates under the brush of dancing oblivion, and the singer looks back once, his gaze a glance, a caress. Then he too is gone, and we are alone with the hiss of the fire. I step back from the girl's body that crumples beneath my feet, charred skin giving way to scorched bones. I am surrounded by a sea of fire and smoke, hands blistered, reached in one final desperate plea towards me. I walk forward, turning away from the destruction, towards the door and into the curls of smoke – the sea of screams that is outside, the chilled brush of night air, gaping accusing mouths. I walk through them, unseen in their panic, and behind me the door is motionless. Slowly, the fire begins to consume my bones, devouring the memories of that final private performance. Dead from the beginning, we were all mute witnesses to the final climax of a band now and forever silenced. Soon, I will be no more than ash, to be blown perhaps on the last breath of a singer's voice?