Theirs To Desire

FOUR | DEVYN

"What has crawled up Wyatt's ass and died a horrible death?" Dexter's deep accent pulled me out of my daydreaming.

The metal chair beside me screeched against the white floor as he occupied the vacant seat.

"He kicked your ass too?" He asked again, without waiting for me to respond to his previous statement.

I followed the direction of his glare and found it digging holes at the back of Wyatt's head. Not only Dexter but practically every member of our 'Scarred Knights' band was glaring at him while either oblivious or ignorant of the fíasco behind his back, Wyatt strummed the chord of the guitar, matching the melody of the classic rock.

I shook my head with a chuckle, making Dexter's deep green eyes narrow in my direction. Possibly, he wanted to throw a snarky comment my way, but in contrast, he simply continued the topic, "that bastard doesn't know how to talk like a human. He only barks or grunts." The scowl on his angular face deepened, giving him the look of a pissed kid.

"Dexy," I nudged his thighs with my elbows, earning a nasty look in return. "You know how Wyatt is. He takes a long ass time to accept the defeat and we have just lost our chance to enter the sparkle-band competition this year. It's hard for him."

His glare intensified but this time it was directed at me. "Yeah, only he had lost. Rest of us have received a rose-wrapped invitation to perform." An abrupt cloud of exhaustion rolled over his face while his anger got replaced by a defeated sigh. "Come on Devyn, our whole band has lost this chance but no one is pushing and growling at each other like Wyatt. I get that he is off because of the competition but he needs to sort his s**t or Mr Adrez is going to kick his sulking ass outta the band."

Before I could get a chance to defend Wyatt, Dex left the practice hall and strolled inside the cafeteria. His countenance gave a loud and clear hint to leave him alone.

And I did.

The low buzz of conversation met my ears instead of the usual pre-practice stillness. I blinked at the scene in front of me. My fellow band members, who should have been in their respective spots for the back-to-back playlist practice were clumped in a small group around the exit door, heads together. The visible sadness on everyone's face made my stomach turn in knots while after being sure of the dismissed practice session, I closed the lid of my piano and walked around the corner in Wyatt's direction.

He was sitting with his guitar in the farthest corner of the square room, behind a glass separation. The way his shoulders were hunched and his hands slumped on the top of the guitar case, was enough to tell he was physically there, but in mind, he was afar. I couldn't blame him. Had I been in his shoes at that moment, I probably would have reacted in the worst way possible.

"Whole band has lost this chance but no one is pushing and growling at each other like Wyatt."

Whole band had lost last night but no one knew or realized the effect one loss had done on Wyatt's self-esteem.

Two years before this exact day, we both had auditioned for the Scarred Knights band, trying to move on from the incident. I had never doubted my piano skills as it was my passion since childhood but Wyatt's shattered self-esteem was a hard nut to c***k. We had to squeeze and twist each sane cell inside us to rise against our competitors. Nevertheless, in the end, Joseph Adrez, the leading figure of Scarred Knights somehow saw our homeless-struggle and gave us the spot in his group.

I, being the smughead, never faced an ounce of self-consciousness and rocked the pianist spot with an enthralling grace! Wyatt was another story. The only thing he gave any fellow member in return for a question was, growl or scowl and in an extreme case, a middle finger salute. Though his routine didn't last for long and he came around.

Wyatt had always been the more sensible and reasonable one among us and one of the most soulful guitarists in the music industry. It didn't take long for him to take his spot in the top ten lead guitarists and hoisting his success flag, but being an insecure dimwit, he failed to accept his achievements.

Six months after our acceptance in the band and the collective ass-scrubbing hard-work of us five members, our first album 'Your Soul' reached its unimaginable heights. Records were broken, we shone as a group, but there was always a different craving inside us. I could still remember the special night just after we had received our very first award as the rising shimmers in the music industry, we five had partied hard around a campfire, on the outskirts of Chicago.

Dexter, our drummer–– insanely famous because of his 'd**k' image–– had been weirdly quiet that night amidst the loud shouts of our success-toast and blaring songs of our album inside the lined up limos. I was sitting by his side when he abruptly sobered up and whistled for our group to gather.

"What's up, Dexy boi?" Lucas, our lead singer and frontman, chimed in his musical accent.

"I had an epiphany–"

A snort interrupted Dex's words. "Seems like d**k is drunk!" Four pairs of eyes glared in our lead bassist, Jules' direction to which he held his hands up and did a fake bow show in front of Dexter.

Yeah, we knew who was drunk!

"Whatever. So as I was trying to say," We sat around the fire and fixated our gaze on Dexter, who was in a composed and professional countenance, which itself was a matter of concern. "Lads, we won the award, our album became superhit but," he fidgeted slightly, spiking our anxiousness, "we can't stop. Not now, not yet. I want our album on the Billboard chart and..."

By that point, all of us were open-mouthed gawking at Dex. It was Jules who broke the lingering silence. "A bit clear in your point, will ya?"

"Sparkle-band Grand competition."

For a long moment, everything was covered by a knife plunging silence and suddenly the hootings intensified as we, as a band, set our new goal. The sizzle of a new aim thrummed across the horizon while we dived into an unnamed bliss–– that childish delight–– which was lost somewhere in the chaos of competition.

I was through the seventh bottle of beer when my peripheral caught Wyatt, slipping towards the shadows of the outskirts. I remember following him and asking him how was he holding up and the faint, uncertain, confused, with a hint of determination in his voice when he replied me back, somewhat distracted.

"I am not sure how I am. But whatever this strange feeling is... it's overwhelming. I want this, Devyn. I want to win. I want my name back." A tint of sadness passed his face as the faint crackles of last flickers of fire roared up the sky and bounced its shadows across the side features of Wyatt's face. "I want to live again. I want to face that hustle. Anything, which gives me a reason to look forward to." Shifting on his feet at a small angle, his stare found mine. "We deserve this success, mate. This is an opportunity for a fresh start. We just need to leave the past where it belongs–– behind us–– and not allow it to ruin the present. But I won't be lying if I say I am afraid. Afraid if this is a mirage and everything will shatter, just like–"

"No." My voice came harsher than I had intended, making Wyatt flinch slightly. The next time I spoke, my voice had softened considerably, "we can't let our past demons ruin our chance to achieve a successful future. Grand award is still sixteen months far, we have a lot of time to pull our heads out of this past s**t and bury them aside. Have faith man. We deserve this. We deserve this second chance that life is giving us."

His whole demeanour visibly relaxed as a wide grin adorned his shadow-engulfed face. "f**k yes! We will win. We all will win this grand award and then everything will change, nothing will be there to pull us down. No past, no demons. Only a path of success to look ahead. Sixteen months. . . starts now."

Only, after sixteen months. . . we have lost.

Now, after sixteen months, standing outside the glass door and watching Wyatt slumped in his seat defeated and broken, it was enough to convince the selfish part of mine to dump everything and walk away, but another part of me wanted to try again. Harder this time.

The vows we both had made on Chicago's outskirts, I wanted to invoke it again. I wanted to feel that adrenaline rush again when we all five were pumped up in our practice sessions, practising non-stop on weekends, just for that small twig of hope that a night of success will give back me and Wyatt those months, which stole our lives from us.

Standing there, after losing the grand award by a thin margin, I didn't want to tip my chin down and move on. I wanted to try again.

Kicking back the negativities inside my mind, I put on my–– as everyone had named it–– s**t-eating grin and pushed open the glass door, with an intention to holler at the top of my lungs and snap my friend out of his misery.

My hand covered the silver doorknob while my mouth was parted as the words were dancing at the tip of my tongue, begging to sprout out. I didn't get a chance. A strange noise wretched Wyatt's slumped form while his mouth uttered out those words, which made my plans bounce in backstage, leaving me numb momentarily.

"I can't hold it anymore, Devyn. We can't escape it. I am fading. I don't know what to do anymore. My music, my career, everything is at stake and. . . and I don't know anything anymore. We lost, Devyn, we lost!"