My rockstar watches me from the walls. He’s been taped there since I was ten, and now finds himself armed with a thousand eyes - above my bed, in mirror corners, on my lampshade. A poster paint job. In some, my rockstar is baring his teeth, in others he’s making a peace sign. Plenty are ripped-off magazine covers, where his name will rest in bold capitals: APOLLO. Then, some mission statement: APOLLO: TAKES THE WORLD. APOLLO: GETS BACK TO BASICS. APOLLO: EARNS HIS CROWN. I pull on some fishnets and smile back at the poster on my closet door, where Apollo looks at the camera through violet sunglasses. His favorite color. Glued to door knobs and embroidered upon my chest is his logo: a lavender blossom against a blue guitar. If nothing else, I can be a monument.

Tonight I’m seeing him. It will be my third concert. I resent it for not being hundredth. My best friend, Lia, has been to twenty-one concerts. I know this is because Lia is almost-seventeen and beautiful, but it doesn’t make my fourteen-year-old failure any better. Lia told me to wear something comfortable. Arrive two hours before the show starts. I told her it’s a stadium show. “Three hours,” she said. “Ask your mom to save your spot in line if you have to pee.”

I didn’t tell her my dad’s driving me instead. She doesn’t like him. Whether it’s for his stutter or hard gaze, I don’t know. I assume it’s one of the two. My dad dresses in beiges and lives in grays and I have stood next to him, full of color, too many times to not feel embarrassed. But mom can’t leave work early enough to take me, so dad it is. He’s not the standing-in-line type. This is fine. The satchel, its strap digging into my shoulder, contains Cheez-Its and juice packets and everything I will need to endure the hours alone. If nothing else, I can be a tentpole.  

A lilac headband completes my outfit. Today I am all frills, a fluffy skirt with bedazzled leggings and sneakers underneath. Tucked into the skirt, my first ever piece of Apollo merch. A tank top - a blessed tank top. Like all good things this tank top is a symbol of something greater: Apollo’s dedication. He wrote on his blog that it was the first merch he ever made for himself, and now he’s reissuing it as a “throwback.” A stack of vinyls next to my bookshelf shows his progress: from skinny teen to skyscraper-climber. I’m so proud. Tonight I will hold up a sign reading “APOLLO YOU’RE MY WORLD” and he will see it, and finally all this love I’ve been holding will be his alone. 

I flitter downstairs - I am trying to be a fairy. Delicate, worthy. Our house’s best feature has always been its winding staircase. Each railing glossy, intricately carved. A stunning thing that only leads to the mac and cheese-stained living room. My dad is there, standing just to the side of the couch, arms crossed. He is wearing a black turtleneck, like today means nothing. I clench. “Well,” he says. “Let’s get going.”

Every light in the house is slowly turned off with a tap on dad’s phone, until we are standing outside, staring into the sweatless sun. The wind tugs on my hair and sleeves. I sit down in the car as fast as I can to escape it. Dad sits down a bit later. He lets me play Apollo’s latest album, Prince of the Gutter on the speakers, and it’s a balm. My favorite album of his is Illegally Blind, but it’s not that radio-friendly. More hardcore. This new one is all pop. We drive down the winding road, full of honks and engines running, but all I hear is his voice, those kicking drums, his soft sighs, those synths -

“So, so this Apollo fellow,” dad says, hairy hands on the steering wheel. “Seems, seems like he’s got a bit of a uh, anger management problem.”

“What do you mean?” I’m examining myself in the passenger seat mirror. My hair and makeup and self wilt throughout the day. I must keep myself fresh. 

 “Well,” he exhales. “I saw on the social media, the internet last night, I saw that he said some uh, unsavory things about his ex-girlfriend. Uh, Penny.”

“He was completely in his right to say that though.” For months, Penny terrorized me, living as a reminder of how bleak humanity can be. In every picture of her and Apollo she’s gripping his arm tightly, smiling, and he’s frowning. Trapped. I wasn’t the only person to notice this. There were others, on forums and chats, sharing pictures and wondering when they’d finally break up. The size of these places was confirmation: something was off. We could sense it. One day Apollo would. Then he posted that he wished he’d never met her, that he fucking hated her, that he wanted her gone, and it was like all the clouds in all the skies had faded at once. 

“I also heard that he was, well he was accused of -”

“That was proven fake. So.” My throat is made of fists. I’d hoped - dreamed - that the lies against Apollo would not escape the online, that they would not ease into the minds of the gullible. The thought of someone believing them feels like a punch. 

The rest of the car ride is silent between us. Apollo’s songs play on. “Will you fight for me?” he belts. I love it when he belts. “Will you be my butterfly?” A logo reference. He’s so clever. If nothing else, I can be anything he wants. 

We arrive at the stadium entrance and all I see are teenagers. Shrieking girls. They have Apollo’s face on their shirts, their caps, their pants. One guy with purple hair has an Apollo cutout peeking out of his backpack. Some are huddled in groups, sharing images on phones, giggling. I feel sick. The line stretches on and on, and all I have are snacks. “They’re already here?” 

Dad parks the car. “Guess he’s really popular.” There is not even a trace of joy in his voice. 

The outside of the stadium is all pavement and metal benches. I march, a defeated soldier, to the end of the line, which wraps around the entire building. A poster rolled up in my left hand. It feels like a blood-soaked cross. Gone is the hope that I would be able to love Apollo the way he deserves. I doubt I’ll even get inside. There’s too many people, too many twenty-somethings to the side of me, spraying sunscreen on each other. I imagine a great flame rising inside of me, erupting through my fingertips and disintegrating these mindless “fans.” These drones. How can they look at this endless crowd and not weep? They must have no soul. 

I end up sitting on the ground. My back is to a concrete wall but the sun seeps into my scalp anyway, making me squint. Dust gets in my skirt and I feel like a three-year-old dressing up for Halloween. So dumb, so stupid. People line up behind me. Their legs box me in. I hate it. There’s a couple right next to me, wearing matching beanies, and they put their hands in each other’s jean jacket pockets. I open a packet of Chex Mix. Crumbs of it spill all over my shirt. I hold back a scream. Terrible things keep happening to me and I don’t know why. One half of the couple squeals something about this being their first Apollo show. It’s my first, too - why can’t I be happy like them?

“Oh, hey! Angie!”

I look up, wiping my crumb-encrusted chin. I’m greeted with Lia’s grinning face. She’s wearing two golden hoop earrings, and her Prince of the Gutter crop top matches Apollo’s theme better than my outfit ever could. I hold back another scream. If there’s anyone Apollo could love half as much as I love him, it’s Lia. What if this is why she’s here? To stand in front of me when I hold my sign, basking in Apollo’s warmth, leaving me in the cold? “Hi Lia.”

She plants herself down next to me, still grinning. “I got some last minute tickets to see him! Mind if I sit with you? This line is crazy.”

I nod. I’d look unforgivable if I refused. I wish I had the courage to be unforgivable - to finally stand up to her, and her beauty, and her perfect shirts. Instead, I reach into my bag. “Do you want a snack? I have so many crackers.”

“Oh!” Lia’s mouth opens comically wide. “No thanks! That’s nice of you to offer though. So nice.”

Lia sits with her arms wrapped around her calves, chin resting on her knees, but somehow finds a way to make it look graceful. I sit with my legs crossed, and feel useless. Two weeks ago Apollo liked one of Lia’s posts. She called me the second it happened. It was a selfie of her head to toe in his merch, and he liked it. Maybe if I posted selfies. Maybe if I was beautiful. Maybe then I would not feel this self-devouring hate every time I see her. “Did you get pit?” I ask, and pray for a ‘no.’

“Nah,” Lia shakes her head. “It’s cool though.”

The sun seems to shine a bit brighter. I inhale, and Lia gasps. “Wait! You got pit! You’re going to be in the pit tonight!”

“I am.”

“I can’t believe I forgot. I’m so excited! On your behalf. Wow.” Lia is still smiling. I wonder if her lips are sore. “I can’t remember like, half of my first time in the pit.”

There is not an atom in my body that could forget Apollo. I forfeited my mind to him long ago.  “Who did you see?”

“Sonic Monkeys. They were alright.” She says “alright” with the air of someone who has seen things, who is fine with losing a few hours because she already knows so much.

I touch a finger to my forehead. It comes away warm. “I’m not that into the Sonic Monkeys.”

Lia’s head tilts, finding a new perfect angle. “How come?”

“Their lead singer liked a post hating on Apollo a bit ago. I just thought it was really hypocritical ‘cause he says he’s all about supporting fellow artists, but apparently Apollo is an exception.” I reach for another bag of Chex.

“Oh. That’s not so bad.” Lia shrugs. “I thought it was something like, abuse.”

The visions of fire come to me again. I want to set the earth ablaze, grab Lia by the neck and shove her face in it. Maybe then, charred and molten, Apollo would finally recoil from her. To think - to think he liked her photo. I am a love interest watching my red-caped hero fall for the villain. Distress floods my every pore. I bite the inside of my mouth. “Still.”

The post had read, that apollo fellow yall love so much has a VERY weird energy. do not like him! A blatant, poorly worded attack. And it had accumulated thousands of likes, no matter how fervently I’d begged the poster to delete it. I typed he has a good soul, he deserves better over and overin the replies, tears blurring my eyes and falling onto the screen. All I received in return was mockery. Lia will never know what it’s like to be mocked for love. She is incapable of it. 

“I like your skirt,” Lia says. I use the Chex as an excuse not to answer. “Um. What songs are you hoping he plays?”

“‘Sellout of the Opera’ or ‘Dirty Jeans’,” I say. They’re two of my favorite songs he’s ever made. The former being a witty, jazz-laced retort to the people that hated Illegally Blind, and the latter being a love ballad to the fans. “You get your jeans dirty for me,” he sings in the chorus. “I’ll swim through blood for you.” A promise. A holy confession. 

Lia nods. “Those are cool. You know I’m the number one ‘She’s Calling’ fan, so.” 

I don’t care. I say nothing and let her run out of breath. The silence that stretches between us is scorching, pausing only when a phone buzzes or a snack is devoured. I can feel my skin reddening. It’s agony. I reach in my bag for a hairbrush and run a few frantic strokes through my sweaty strands, but I’m sure it only makes me look worse. I swallow more cracker crumbs. I swallow air. More people come in, with yelping best friends and cups of coffee. Every conversation I overhear is the most inane transfer of words to ever be uttered. These are the longest hours, the sunburn chronicles. 

When the line does start to move, it happens in inches. Me and Lia stand up anyway. I am stuck with dust to wipe off my skirt. A damp hairstyle. Damp chin. Lia just looks at me. “Angie,” she says. It sounds like a lament.

I can’t bear to hear whatever condescending remark will follow those two lilting syllables, so I don’t. The line is moving now. So do I, my back to her frown. Men and women in suits bark orders, and I find myself recoiling. One asks to see my ticket. I fish it out of my pocket and hold it in front of me with the grace of a baby horse learning to walk. “Okay,” the suited woman says, lets me go on. Lia is somewhere behind me, trapped between layers of legs and IDs. I’m content to make my way to the pit, poster in hand, bumping into wide-eyed little girls. Unlike them, my lids have narrowed, focused. People forget the term “barricade” comes from war. This concert is a battle. I’m fighting for him.

When I finally spot the stage, it’s empty. A cluster of teens have pressed themselves to a thin metal fence but I - I am on time, I am courageous, I am front row, belly against railing, arms close enough to touch the platform his feet will soon grace. Victory of victories! I grin and clutch my legs together. A boy to my left has an elbow perfectly positioned to dig into my side with the slightest jerk. The girl to my right is too tall for this proximity, and has a poorly-done black wig. No matter. I am still a held breath, a prayer, an absolvement of any sin that could be confessed. The lights are on. The families are filing in. The microphone stand sits in the middle of the stage, eager.

A dozen new sensations - I’ve never been inside a stadium before, never seen balconies from so far below - yet nothing amounts to a daydream of Apollo. I conjure him as I’ve conjured him a hundred times before. Standing behind the mic, crooning. Maybe “Pill Girl.” Lips parted, revealing a tasty pink tongue. Some kid behind me starts clapping. I don’t know why. The daydream Apollo returns, sitting on top of an amp, twirling the mic between his fingers. I clutch my chest.

The daydreams continue with routine interruptions of shouts and chants. “Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!” we yell over and over. Like we’re summoning him. Perhaps there is a deep fear inside these fellow pit residents that he’s not really coming, and requires a ritual. Unlike them, I have faith. The hours turn long again. Everything starts to smell like deodorant. I picture myself learning to fly and floating into Apollo’s dressing room. A pre-show embrace. “Apollo!"

The lights go down and every mouth erupts.

My mind is all lightning and thunder, all storms in the dark. The elbow sinks into my hip. Someone’s backpack jams itself into my thigh. I realize my mouth is open. Open, and spouting nonsense syllables. Here, he is here, he is here.

He appears onstage in a puff of smoke. The old magician’s trick. Dressed in glitter and strips of silk, Apollo is a platinum blonde vision. Tan and bleached. In front of me, in front of me. The very fact of his physical form proves itself a revelation. Oh god, this angel has eyes. I look at him and swear there will never be a man more gorgeous, more filled to the brim with pure light. He grins - already sweaty. Cheers engulf the stadium, rattle my eardrums, but they are not loud enough for Him, the daddy, the lover, the god, the embodiment. I yank a desperate scream out of my throat. It’s worthless. 

He stands above me, mic grazing his wet lips, and He needs more. Deserves more. I scream again, then again, then again - “Hello Barcry!” He exclaims.

My rockstar. So happy to see me. A bass line invades my ribcage, and then the drums come in, and He’s jumping around, the stomps shaking my heart. “Punk Job”, oh He’s doing “Punk Job”! An older son. I adore it. The girl next to me is headbanging. I don’t know how to headbang. There are red lasers on the stage, blue lasers now, flashing, a chorus - 

We all got the worst of luck

We all got lovers we don’t love

So let’s go out tonight and do a punk job, a punk job

A punk job, a punk job

The lyrics come out of my throat like they have a thousand times before, in backseats, in bedrooms, in headphone-encased hallways. This is also victory. Apollo keeps running back and forth across the stage. He’s so joyful. If I could do so without hurting Him, I’d siphon off even a bit of His energy, to know what it’s like to live with a purpose. My rockstar is ambrosia. I’m content to witness His golden hue. 

A new guitar riff cracks me open. Every part of my body has a heartbeat now - my neck, my wrists, my stomach, my arms. My ears take the worst of it, aching. Stinging. I resist the urge to cover them. The song ends, and everything goes dark except for Apollo. This spotlight of a man. “This next one, uh -”

Cheers. More, more, more. Our love makes him pause to soak in it all. Drips of sweat down His forehead, just like mine. Perfect white teeth, beacons through it all. “This next one’s called ‘Mornings After’ and it’s a bit of a slow jam!”

Pre-recorded saxophone explodes out of the speakers. There’s two elbows in my side now. More, more, more. I feel the wet on my earlobe before I realize it’s blood. Or, must be blood. As an audience we are relegated to the dark. Apollo is singing about forehead kisses. So beautiful. Something is dripping down my neck. A throb inside my brain. Ache, ache. I lose grip of my sign. 

For a moment I sway -

“Come on, she’s waking up!”

“Waking up?”

“Well it’s been an hour. Get the gas!”

Gloved hand on my mouth. Latex. “She’s twitching! I told you she would twitch!”

“Alright, alright!”

There is dark and there is doctors. Bushy eyebrows. I try and lift my head, I’m lying down on something soft, since when am I lying down - “Get the gas!”

A doctor with bushy eyebrows replaces his hand with plastic. White smoke. So many doctors. Doctor One, Doctor Two, Doctor Three. Doctor. Doctor Four. Doctor Two keeps yelling. His voice a constant stab to my still sore ears. Syllables. (“Do the IV. I think she’s right-handed, take that arm.”)

(“Her eyes are still open.”)

(“Still?”)

(“Sometimes they stay open.”)

There’s a patch of numb on my wrist now. Ankle too. The patches mutate - mitosis. Spread to knees and shoulders. (“She shouldn’t be able to move now. Don’t worry.”)

(“Just from the IV?”)

(“Her ears were bleeding when we got here. Now with the straps, and the gas - a kick would shock me, for sure.”) Hand on my hand. Butcher knives. All the doctors have turquoise masks. Their coats are dirty. 

I can’t blink. (“Should we start with the feet? Just in case?”)

(“Alright.”)

Doctor, Doctor Three turns around. There’s a logo on the back of his coat. A lavender blossom against a blue guitar. Oh. A bigger knife now. (“Remember, right above the dotted line.”)

(“Jesus. You’re not my dad.”)

The knife on my ankle is cold, and then it is plastic. I’m a doll. I can’t tilt my head. The urge to see what the knife is done. The knowledge, the knowledge. Blood on the doctor’s hands. Blood on me. (“Okay. One foot down.”)

Doctor Three displays my severed foot in his hands. It is a solid thing. Flushed and uneven. It used to be mine. I want it back. Mine! I am a toddler. I can’t reach, I can’t reach for anything. The only light is glancing off the knife. Mine, mine, mine. (“Her pupils are going crazy.”)

(“More gas?”)

(“Yeah, yeah. Give me a minute.”)

Smoke in my eyes. Then, my wish for fire is granted - it is coming from my leg, it must be. Warm flames. Warm everything. I cannot open my mouth. My mouth is a dead fish. I try to hum. I can - “mmm” I go, “mmm!”

(“Shit.”)

(“All the gas. All the goddamn gas.”)

(“The tourniquet must’ve come loose.”)

(“Well tighten it!”)

Whiter than white smoke in my teeth and tongue. They’re trying to make me sleep! Go sleep like those test dolls! For moms, the moms use the test dolls. Mmmm. Out, out. I need out. Mmmm. I can’t see my hands, but I feel that same coldness - 

(“Not even gonna finish the feet, huh.”)

(“Shut up.”)

Doctor Four this time, holds my hand until it’s gone. A mask on but I still know he’s smiling. He likes this. I want out, and I try to hum again, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. (“Pupils are still insane. Might be wearing herself out.”)

(“Well, he wants it fresh and we got it fresh, so.”)

(“Right.”)

Butterflies on their masks too. The IV keeps dripping, and there’s cold spots on my head now, my stomach, my thighs. Beeps on monitors. Fire is put out, replaced with nothing, nothing. Their fingers are inside my bloody stumps, grasping at arteries. Mmmm. Out, out, out. 

Then: behind Doctor One, I see Apollo. My rockstar. Out of His stage outfit, shining in some jeans. He’s come back to me. I try to wave but of course my arms are fully gone now, dissected, dealt with. No matter. He smiles anyway. Perfect teeth. He leans down and He’s above my face, with those bright green eyes. My beacons, my way home. It’s too much. I can feel my eyelids dampening. Apparently my tear ducts still work. Apollo kisses me. He tastes like spit. He kisses the blood right out of my mouth, and it’s too much.