by Izzy Matias
Lewis. Lewis is opening for Marmont!
My ex-band mate was now a national rising artist.
He must have had this lined up for months—even when we were still together!
This is what he left me behind for.
It’s a massive punch to my gut. Every time I put myself—my music—out there this sort of thing happens. And here I thought I was over comparing myself to other bands—other artists.
"Cameron…" Cassie begins, but even her gentle, calming voice does not help. She leans in for another kiss, but I don’t need a kiss out of pity. I can’t do this now.
I let go of Cassie’s tight grip.
"Now, mate… take it easy," Benji says.
"We should have left," Eric says, but this only makes it worse. They saw Lewis and were trying to shield me. They knew I’d blow up. They knew I wouldn’t be able to handle it. My own best mates…
The voice I thought I’d shut in the deepest corner of my mind resurfaces. The kraken unleashes. The darkness ready to engulf me once again. I turn back to the crowd, shutting out everything around me.
You’ll never be enough.
Lewis left you for this.
Look where you are.
You’re nothing but a sod loser.
A fake.
Everyone is making it but you.
"Cameron!" My mates and Cassie call after me, but I shake my head. I need to be alone. I need silence.
Lewis must have gotten this slot even when we were a duo.
"Leave me alone," I shout, sounding like the world’s biggest arse. "Enjoy the set. Stay."
In this moment, I can’t bear to be surrounded by music. It’s too much.
I push past the crowd. Shoulder against shoulder. Against the current moving, moshing forward, the cheers and screams. It’s as if their cries of joy are the ropes tightening around my chest and neck. The heat slows me down.
Once I reach the campsite, I find no solace. The empty tents make me lonelier. There is the distant echo of the music festival.
I hike uphill, away from the music, the crowd, the camp. Up and away from everything. I walk until my legs are about to give out and almost pass out on the grass.
Be the better lad, I tell myself, but it’s so hard when the world is red.
I lie on my back for what seems like hours observing the sky.
My heartbeat is back to normal and my head clearer than the cloudy sky looming above. Every time things get tough, I retreat to nature and seek clarity. It’s then I realise the most important thing in my music career: what if things haven’t been working out because of me?
My College band with Alex saw its final stint when majority of the band decided they’d had enough of uncertainty. On our last day of practice, one of them said to me, "When things get tough, we can’t just quit, but everyone else has given up, so what’s the point?"
Elliot had lied to me about settling down, but I was the one who suggested to call it quits instead of working around Elliot’s change of priorities.
And then there was Lewis. He and I always clashed musically. But it was more than that, too. He hated the way I reacted when things didn’t go the way I envisioned them to be. Had I given up on my band with him, too? What if they all left or kicked me out because of my fight-then-flight attitude when it came to roadblocks in music? Because I react and make excuses instead of being proactive to situations that are beyond my control?
It is my own bloody fault things haven’t worked out, then. Not Alex’s. Not Elliot’s. Not even Lewis’.
What time is it? How long have I been up here?
My left hand pats my pocket only to find it empty. I check all other pockets, but they’re empty as well. I start to panic, but then remember that I left my mobile in the locker area. I rely on the colours of the sky to tell me that it’s been a couple of hours, since the sun is setting. It would be reckless of me to stay when it gets dark, especially with no light source on hand, so I begin the slow descent down.
I look for the signs pointing to the parking lot to grab our gear from the van. Once in front of my locker, I open the combination and reach for my mobile to message Eric to give me the keys and meet me at the van. There are more than ten missed calls and seventeen unread messages.
Alarm kicks in. Benji, Cassie, Ella, and Eric have all called and messaged me.
Benji: WHERE ARE YOU?
Cassie: Come back, Cameron. You won’t want to miss this.
Eric: WANKER! COME BACK.
Ella: I know you’re off beat and on a funk, but this show will be the best night of your life!
Benji: THE GRAMOPHONES ARE BACK WHERE ARE YOU
Eric: THE GRAMOPHONES PLAYED RIGHT AFTER MARMOT
Benji: MATE WHERE ARE YOU?
Ella: This is the best festival yet ever! Callum even gave The Fortunate Only a shout-out during their set! The universe conspires with you!
Cassie: You’re missing out on a historical music moment. Cameron, don’t let your anger and bitterness get the best of you. We are here for you. Let the music call you back home.
Their messages are from two hours ago.
I throw my mobile down and it hits my right foot. "Ow!"
No! No! No!
I missed The Gramophones comeback show! I’ll never get a chance like that again.
I punch the metal door of the locker and cry out in pain as my flesh collides with metal. After I grab my mobile—covered in mud and grass—from the floor, I message Eric to meet me at our van.
What a lovely day this has turned out to be.
Get over it, Cameron. The Gramophones are back. There will be plenty of opportunities to catch them live. Callum thinks I’ve got potential. If there is a silver lining in all this, it’s that Callum gave us a shout out in front of thousands of people because he believes in us.
I drag my feet to the van, but as soon as I approach, I sense that something is off. There are shattered bottles in front of the car hood. There is a dent in the trunk where the lock is. My hand—trembling—rushes to check its status. It’s unlocked.
I unlatch the doors and they fly open with a swift movement.
I cry out in despair.
It’s empty!
I grab a broken empty bottle beside the flat tire and throw it at a nearby tree. It shatters into a thousand pieces. I look down at my trembling, blood-stained hands and crumple to the ground, mud splashing on me. My mind is a blur of red and grey.
"Cameron!" Eric screams in alarm as he runs to me. "You all right?”
"It’s all gone," I shout. "Our gear has been nicked!”
"What?" He stares from the empty trunk to my bloodied hands, too stunned to say anything more.
"The van’s trashed," I point out. "Flat tire, dented, scratched."
Eric speed dials the rest of the lot to meet us at the van. "It’s an emergency. Yeah, I’ve got Cameron here. He’s all right. It’s the van. And our gear." He gives me a strong pat on the back and plops beside me. "Best of luck to us, eh?" he says and lights a cigarette. "You’ll want to get rid of the evidence." He teases as his head points to my bloodied hands.
"I didn’t trash our van," I growl.
"Oi! I didn’t say you did," Eric replies with an equally rough tone. "I was making light of the situation."
I curse. "Eric, this isn’t something you joke about!"
"Whaddya want me to do? Go on a fit, like you?"
I explode in a string of curses and get up.
"Where are you going?" he shouts back.
"None of your business!" I reply, storming off.
I don’t get that far before Cassie rushes towards me. She gasps as she spots my bloody hands. I expect her to cringe, but she doesn’t. She takes my bloody hands into her clean palms and caresses them with her fingers. "What happened?" she whispers, her eyes wide with shock.
I shake my head, suddenly ashamed of my outburst. She doesn’t deserve someone like me: an impulsive, chaotic git. I jolt my hands away from her. How can I mentor
budding young musicians when even I can’t handle the constant rejection of this life? How can I be with Cassie if I keep reacting this way? She doesn’t need another disappointment in her life. I can’t even get my shit together when things go awry in my professional life. What will it be like arguing with her?
She deserves better. Someone that’s not me. What was I thinking that I am good enough for her? She is a brilliant light and I am but a black hole of self-sabotage.
"Yesterday was a mistake," I say finally.
Cassie’s face contorts as if she’s going to pounce. In an instant her anger is replaced with hurt. "Really?" she says with a flat tone. She waits.
"What?" I ask, with a lighter tone, but my lips are tight. She crosses her arms and sighs. "I can’t read your mind."
"You think I don’t deserve you," she says.
I nod, but stay silent. How does she do that?
"So you’re going to give up just like that? I thought this was your dream. Yes, it sucks that Lewis left you and now he’s at Willowfields, but you’re better off without him anyway."
I don’t reply. He is better off without me. I see that now.
"You’ve got to stop comparing your success to theirs. It’s a self-destructing pattern, Cameron."
What does she expect me to do? Be all right with this? Because it’s not all right. There’s no switch that I can turn on or off in an instant to let me get over everything that’s fucked up today.
"Nothing I do is ever enough," I shout. "Our gear’s been nicked. Maybe it’s the universe giving me sign to finally give this up. That it’s never going to work out!" I throw my hands up in the air, as if waving a white flag.
Benji and Ella’s stunned faces are mere meters away. "That’s it, then?" Benji says in a quiet tone. Angry. "It’s over?"
"I—" I don’t know what to say. My mates don’t need a bandmate as fickle as I am, but I’m so close to exhaustion that I have no energy left to explain.
"You’re giving up because you can’t handle the success of your ex-bandmate?" Benji says louder, fiercer. "You are gonna throw away the progress in the last couple of months because of what happened today? You knew it wasn’t going to be easy. What happened to the lad who was ready to take on the world? Were you just bluffing then?"
I shake my throbbing head.
"So you’re just giving up on us because you feel like an insecure little prat?" Benji continues and his comment sparks me off again.
"Shove off!" I yell and push him away.
"Your attitude is complete bullocks."
"Cameron," Ella warns, getting in between us.
"I said shove off!" I snap at Benji.
"Every time something goes wrong, you point the finger on everyone else but you."
I spit out a string of unintelligible words.
Benji bites back and adds, "I refuse to be treated like shite. Not from you. Didn’t you ever wonder why you’ve been kicked out of bands so many times?"
Ella takes a step back and gasps in surprise.
So that’s what he thinks of me then.
"Don’t bother talking to us if you’re going to act like an arse," Cassie says. "Don’t even bother coming to the music festival. I can't be with someone who isn’t willing to fight for what he wants."
And then, one by one, they leave me alone, in stunned silence. Just like I always knew they would.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I force my eyes to stay shut once more, even if Benji’s loud orchestra-like snore drives me mad. It’s only seven eighteen in the morning. I can usually fall right back asleep, even in the wake of Benji and Eric’s snores, but not today. Eric hasn’t come back since the kraken unleashed itself and wrecked havoc on everything in its path. Benji’s been asleep since I crept back inside our tent.
I probably only have two hours of sleep in me, but how could I get some shut-eye when everything I’ve worked for and the people that I care the most about could be forever lost?
The snoring stops. The sleeping bag crunches with motion. Benji is awake. I assume that much. I open my eyes and sit up.
He nods at me, but with a tight expression. "I’m off to grab some food." He doesn’t invite me to come along. Instead, he zips open the tent and the soft, golden glow of the sunrise peeks in.
"Okay," I say. I don’t know what else to say. Sorry isn’t enough to fix this. I don’t know if anything will ever be enough.
"Benji." I follow him outside, but he’s already by the gals’ tent, and I’m in no state of mind to deal with Cassie. I don’t even know what to say to my best mates, what more her.
Eric and a redhead gal are cozy by the dead campfire. Remnants of blackened charcoal and smoke are what are left of the beautiful fire. Eric narrows his eyes as soon as he spots me. He doesn’t say anything to me, but whispers in the gal’s ear. She giggles, nods her head and they stalk away.
I’ve never had both my mates angry with me at the same time. One of them was always the middle-man to the other to placate our fights.
Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover what I put them through. They risked their dreams and our friendship and for what? I’d just made sure that a future with The Hush Society was no longer possible. What a great mate I am.
Just when I think I have a hold of my life, it slips through.
They’ll probably go on with Ear for Music without me. It’s better that way, too. There’s no way I’m qualified to mentor young musicians. I’m nothing but a massive disappointment to my best mates, my Hush Society family and even to my own kin.
I’ve nowhere to go.
I can’t stay here, nor can I go home.
What do I do?
My stomach grumbles loud. I can’t remember the last time I ate. My hands go straight for my wallet. I count my money and realise that after I give the contribution necessary to fix our car, I’ll only have enough to buy me two meals, maybe three.
I approach Cassie’s tent to give her my share. Instead of waking her up or calling for her, I use an old flyer as a makeshift envelope, put the cash in, and scribble that it’s my contribution. I then open the zipper of the tent by a few inches—only enough to throw the makeshift envelope inside.
The sooner I leave, the better. It’s a complete waste to not finish the last day of Willowfields, but I know there will be no enjoyment in catching any of the bands anymore. I grab my bag and head to the nearest source of food. I decide that I should at least tell Benji I’m leaving.
As I walk towards the food stalls, I spot Benji walk back to camp. I meet him halfway. "I’m going back to Beverley," I tell him.
"Okay." He doesn’t look shocked. It’s as if he expected me to do this, but he does ask where I’m going to stay once I get there.
"I haven’t thought that far ahead," I say and shrug. The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll be accepted back home as much as I don’t know how I can fix what I’ve done to my mates—not just Benji and Eric, but everyone with us on tour.
"Take care, mate."
I give him a weak smile, nod, say goodbye, and walk away.
This is a first for me: abandoning Willowfields Music Festival on its last day. I walk the stretch of people, tents, and the long stretch of the field until I reach the bus stop. I pull out my wallet to pay for the bus to the train station. I don’t have much cash left. I pick the seat at the end where there are the least people and pull my hoodie on. At least my mobile and power bank wasn’t nicked, so I can still listen to my music on the ride to the station. I put off listening to URadio because it reminds me of my mates, my mistakes and my regrets. I choose heavier stuff—angsty, scream-filled verses—to soundtrack this miserable morning.
When we finally reach the station, we alight in single file. My stomach rumbles louder and a headache begins to form. I grab the cheapest breakfast I can find, which is a plain, crusty bagel, and head to the ticket counter to enquire the price of a one-way ticket to Beverley. I count the money I have left numerous times—as if counting it again will make w
hat I have bigger, but the amount stays the same.
I check the balance left on an ATM. Even if I withdraw the last ten pounds there, it still isn’t enough for me to go back to Beverley.
My finger hovers over Mum’s number on my mobile.
But I can't do it. I can't even ring Mum. I don't want to hear the disappointment in her voice. What if she won't want me home either after everything I've done? I've been so selfish. I pocket my mobile and wander around the station without purpose. What if I asked for spare change? I am that desperate.
I spend a couple of minutes observing who best to approach. When I spot an old lady, I take a seat beside her and go for it. "Excuse me, madam, would you have any spare change?" The words sound foreign as they slur out of my mouth.
She shakes her head. "You poor bloke. Here, have the rest of my sarnie." Then offers me half of her sandwich.
Brilliant.
"It’s all right. Thank you." I walk away empty-handed. I don't need food. I need money to go home.
I walk further away and approach the next lot. They look my age. I hesitate, but one of them catches me approaching. "Need help with anything?" One of the lads ask.
"Would you have any spare change?" My voice squeaks at the last two words.
"Sorry, no," he says, shaking his head, giving me a solemn look.
The rest of his mates stare me down in anger.
"Get a proper job!" A gal a few seats down yells.
My head stoops low, but I continue my search.
When I’m far enough, I approach a young mum busy fussing over her two toddlers. "Excuse me, miss, would you happen to have any spare change?"
She looks up at me. I brace myself for another shouting match or anger, but her face registers surprise. She sizes me up, but her hand moves to her large handbag.
"Here," she says, handing me five pounds.
I almost don’t take it because of the way she’s looking at me: with so much pity. I can’t take it. Is this what Dad was talking about?
I can’t fully explain this feeling of having to beg for spare change. I’m ashamed.
"Thank you." I swallow the rest of my pride and take the money. If I am to make it back to Beverley, I need to do this.
