Charlie was in a band.

They were called The Death Within, and they were absolutely terrible. For some reason, the locals couldn’t get enough of them.

Every now and then, a group of drunken teenagers would band together to write scathing reviews of their performances online. It was one of the only times those angst-ridden loners talked to anyone besides themselves.

Charlie knew this, and he let them be.

‘Kids will be kids,’ was a common thought.

The Death Within played 3 nights a week at a raggedy bar south of the Mississippi. They had fans and lovers, they had haters and hecklers. But above all, they had mad fun.

Charlie hated the fact that he couldn’t remember most of the best nights of his life.

This group of teenagers started getting a little too serious with their reviews on the same night The Death Within decided to spend the night sobering up at a motel.

This group of teenagers that wore colourful bands around their wrists. This group of teenagers that spent all their weekly allowance on parking lot smoke sessions and cheap beer. This group of teenagers that all hated each other and themselves just couldn’t get enough of tormenting Charlie and his band mates.

Charlie was going to be okay.

That’s what he told himself when he saw the latest review left on TDW’s FaceBook page.

“if ur not as stupid IRL as u r on stage, u might lock ur door tonight.”

It was half-hearted, vague, and definitely not to be taken seriously.

Or perhaps, it was something much heavier.

Whatever it was, and whoever these people were, Charlie had decided he was going to be okay.

A red rubber wrist band thumped against the motel’s already-cracked window.

The door knob started to shake.

Charlie was going to be okay.

Different bands of different colours hit the same window in the same spot, desperate for the glass to break—or even bend—just a little bit more under their pressure.

The door knob kept on shaking.

Charlie’s band mates, Matt and Ben, were outside having a smoke.

Cigarettes under the stars. They wouldn’t be back any time soon.

Charlie was not going to be okay.

He sank to the stained carpet as he rolled his ever-growing list of last words through his aching head. It seemed that he was going to need to pick a few good ones, and quickly.

The wrist bands ceased to thump on the broken glass.

The door knob ceased to shake.

Charlie was not going to be okay.

Bullets came flying through the window where the coloured bands had been flung just seconds before.

“Time moves quicker as it begins to run out,” Charlie said.

He thought those were pretty good last words, even if he was the only one to hear them.

Charlie stood up and let the bullets crack through his skull, sending him back to the stain-soaked ground.

Charlie was in a band.