He was two when he'd first felt guitar strings under his fingers, five when he started learning how to play. By fifteen, he'd finished his first real, complete song. But that song soon led him down a path he'd only once dreamed of, and at twenty-four, the music had fallen silent. Even in his sleep.
"Hollis," his name came again, cutting through his subconscious.
He forced open heavy eyes, squinting. Ash loomed above him, blonde hair falling in Ash's green eyes. Hollis frowned.
"You have to get up," Ash said.
Hollis grumbled and rolled over, burying his face in the couch.
"Dude, let's go. This Side Up is already on."
Hollis winced inside the crevice of the cushion, from both the news and the thought of the opening act for their tour. This Side Up was nothing but a group of ragamuffins barely out of high school. They'd been lucky enough to release one single worthy of their shared label to send Otto an email saying, "Why not let them open for Willow?" But the idea of the newbies being an opener to their headlining tour made Hollis's head throb, both then and now, at their double bass shaking the walls. Along with it, clangs, thumps, and laughter resounded outside the door to their room backstage—deafening sounds that made Hollis's stomach turn. Within the hour, those sounds would follow bright lights and thousands of eyes. Phone lenses to record, capture, zoom in, and pick him apart piece by piece, whether or not a mask covered his face. So he remained motionless, his arms crossed, inhaling the scent of liquor clinging to his breath and the plastic-smelling fabric of the couch.
"Hollis," Ash urged. "This is our last show—this is it. Just don't do this to me tonight, man."
Hollis said nothing, shifting his weight. The couch thumped in protest. Overhead fluorescents battered him along with sweat, Ash's strawberry milkshake vape juice, and strong liquor. A grim cocktail that seemed to hang just for him.
Hollis finally dragged himself upright, blinking through the fog of a lingering stupor. His wrinkled clothes matched his disheveled appearance. A slow hand raked through his unkempt hair, failing to tame the chaos while bloodshot eyes attempted to focus. His elbow hit an empty bottle on the table beside him, sending it clattering to the floor.
Ash's frustration cut through the air. "Dude." He stepped back, quick and restless, eyes flicking to the industrial clock on the wall. "Those kids are already on stage, and you look like shit. You have to—" He stopped, scratching a hand through his hair and trying to steady his breath. His jeans and tee hung loose, fitting his easy nature even in anger. But now, they were strained with tension.
A silent pause stretched. Ash ran a palm over his face, the urgency pressing back into his tone. "Look, I know you're..."—he hesitated, searching for the right word—"processing things. But you can't do this again. Not tonight." He crouched, grabbed Hollis's jacket from the floor, and threw it at him.
Hollis caught the jacket, wincing at the thud in his skull. "We needed different openers," he mumbled, avoiding the topic of himself.
"Or a new front man," Ash shot back, heat rising in his voice. But guilt flashed through his eyes, softening the blow. "I'm just... damn it, Hollis. I'm worried. About you, about us." He exhaled, reaching into Hollis's backpack to retrieve the infamous blue mask, its delicate monarch paint contrasting with the muted grays of the room. He extended it toward Hollis, almost pleading.
"Can you even do this anymore?"
Hollis's eyes hovered over the mask, indecisive, his expression twisting with conflict. "You don't get it," he said, bitterness edging his voice.
Ash straightened, masking frustration with forced calm. "Then explain it—explain why you're doing this again."
"You sound like Otto," Hollis deflected, flinching as if he'd taken a punch. The walls seemed to close in with each heartbeat, with each echo of the distant music seeping through the cracks in the door. "You can't save everyone, you know."
Ash's eyes searched Hollis's face, fighting between sympathy and exasperation. "And you can't keep burning out." He tossed the mask into Hollis's lap. "Not if you want this. Not if we're still doing this together."
They stood at an impasse, tension snapping between them like live wires. Hollis looked away first, breaking eye contact—breaking whatever resolve Ash might have hoped to have been forming.
Ash's jaw tightened as he stepped back, putting on his own mask. "Whatever, dude. Just... figure out your shit."
Ash slammed the door behind him. His muffled voice, along with the others outside, carried underneath the crack in the door. Their shadows moved around momentarily, and Hollis watched them until they left.
He exhaled and collapsed onto the couch, his arm resting atop his forehead. He lifted the mask above him, its intricate design seeming alive in the quiet. He stared into its hollow eye-slits that seemed to stare back at him, mocking him.
This is what you wanted, after all.
He clenched his jaw, wanting to throw it, burn it, bury it with the rest of his regrets. It wasn't that he regretted the band; he especially didn't regret making music. It was his calling, his home. His mother had always told him that his songs could heal people, and perhaps they could. But as it had turned out, healing others had become nothing more than a slow death for himself.
The crowd outside's murmur rose suddenly like an undertow beneath the music, growing louder with the final song of the opening band. It seeped through the door and reverberated through the walls. Their excitement pressed down on him, amplifying the pressure already coiling tight. They cheered and surged, faceless voices already hungry for a version of Hollis he could barely recognize anymore.
He shut his eyes, wishing the sounds away, but they were relentless, urging him to slip on the mask and the promises it held. His shoulders sagged under the weight of it all, but still, he clutched it, knowing it was both his poison and his cure. Knowing he couldn't live with or without it.
Scenes from the past flickered in his mind like damaged film. Late-night jam sessions with Ash, pure and full of dreams, before the complications of life and criticism layered in discord. His mother's voice, offering them wisdom and warnings cloaked in humor: "Don't let them paint you into a corner, darlings," she'd say, covered in acrylics and primer, pale green eyes twinkling. He heard his own voice, a voice of certainty he no longer knew. The whisper of old lyrics taunted him, clearer than what waited impatiently on the other side of the door:
It's my song, but I'm the echo.
Time slipped away, and he found himself still frozen, clutching the mask like an anchor. His grip tightened, and the tremor in his hands became matched only by the tremor in his heart until bangs on the door shattered his thoughts.
The door swung open with explosive force, rattling the stillness and nearly jarring the mask from Hollis's hands. He jolted, eyes wide, like a fugitive caught in the spotlight. Their manager, Otto, stood in the doorway, one hand clutching something small, the other holding a water bottle. The sudden intrusion punched through Hollis's cocoon of solitude. Before he could find words, Otto was on him, unrelenting.
He dropped two ibuprofen into Hollis's palm and thrust out the water. "Who was it?" Otto asked.
Hollis blinked, still caught in the undertow of his thoughts. The harshness of the lights above seemed amplified, his hangover a deep bass thrumming through him. Otto's presence was a solid block of urgency against the delicate tension in the room.
"You hear me?" he pushed, his voice rising above the dull roar in Hollis's mind. "I didn't fly in just to watch you self-destruct."
Hollis stared at him, his expression a battle between defiance and defeat. A dark laugh escaped Hollis's throat, merciless and broken. "What, Otto?" he snapped, sarcasm frayed at the edges. "Come to save me again?"
Otto said nothing as Hollis popped the ibuprofen and kicked them to the back of his throat. He took several sips of water, washing it down. He replaced the cap and set the bottle down on the table.
"Answer the question, Hollis."
"What question?"
"You know damn well what question."
Hollis glanced over Otto's shoulder. Ash stood under the threshold, Linden and Kai behind him. They all watched silently while Otto waited, arms crossed, for Hollis's answer. Finally, Hollis sighed.
"It wasn't any of them if that's what you're asking."
"I'm not. I'm asking what kind of person wastes all our time and money to get them back on their feet only for them to go gallivanting around cities chasing liquor all damn day a year later."
Hollis said nothing. He removed his sweatpants, losing his balance while pulling on his jeans. Otto huffed and shooed the others away from the door, slamming it shut.
Hollis stood straight and took another gulp of water, avoiding Otto's eyes.
"What's it gonna take, Hollis?"
Hollis dropped the empty bottle on the floor, looking down at the mask on the couch—enough to hide himself from the people within the crowd, but not enough to hide from Otto.
"Talk to me," Otto said.
Hollis forced out a breath of air. "I'm fine, alright?"
"You're not alright, Hollis! You have a sold-out show tonight, eight thousand people in this arena as we speak, and you're laid up in here, dead to the world."
Hollis exhaled, his eyes lost in a blank stare. Otto moved in, crowding Hollis with expectation.
"You think you're the only one dealing with this?" he gestured around, taking in the room, the situation, and the past and present laid bare. "Everyone has sacrificed for this: Ash, Linden, Kai, me. Even your mother—God rest her soul."
Hollis's jaw tightened, but he gave no retort, the words stalling in the chasm between bitterness and acceptance. He searched Otto's face, looking for some sign of weakness or wavering, but found none. Instead, he found himself—the version that Otto and the rest of the world want him to be—reflected with stubborn clarity. Hollis shook his head, picking up the mask, but Otto touched his shoulder.
"I made your mother a promise." His voice came out softer this time. "I intend on keeping it, come hell or high water. And if she were here now, you know it would break her heart to see you like this."
At this, Hollis gritted his teeth, eyes growing hot.
"If things are too much, then let's call it quits for a while," Otto continued. "Go home, think things over. Maybe it'll be good for you to have some time off."
The words hit Hollis like cold water, and his initial anger morphed into something deeper, something wounded and raw. He swallowed, this pill a bitter lump he wasn't ready to choke down. He frowned.
"The second you take time off, people forget about you," he said, and Otto took a breath to speak, but Hollis's voice was louder. "They stop streaming and posting, and suddenly no one cares about you because you weren't good enough to make it to the top."
Otto drew back a bit. "Hollis, you—"
"Don't you dare say I already have," Hollis spat. Otto stepped forward.
"Hollis, I didn't mean—"
"And I'll barrel over anyone who tries to stop me because I'll be damned if I'm remembered as no more than a sorry waste of talent!"
Otto blinked. Silence hung thick, filling the cracks of the argument until it swelled. Otto's gaze shifted between Hollis's eyes as if he didn't know where to look. He opened his mouth then closed it again, and Hollis knew there was history and care and something more dangerous behind Otto's eyes: belief. Belief in Willow, in Hollis. And it pushed at Hollis harder than anger ever could. So he clutched the mask like it might slip away, its edges sharp against his skin, but softer than the ultimatum Otto was hammering into him.
A knock on the door split the tension down the middle, and Otto's head spun.
"Give us a damn minute!" he shouted over his shoulder, but the door cracked open.
"It's me," Ash called. "They're ready for us."
"Fine," Hollis snapped, bumping into Otto's shoulder and exiting through the door. He slid the mask into place with the precision of ritual—a shaky hand and a soldier's determination—both his safety and his curse. He pulled up his hood as he brushed past Ash, Linden, and Kai, who still huddled around the door's side. They never strayed too far, none of them ever did, whether Hollis wanted them to be there or not. So he'd shaken it all off, forced himself up, and donned the mask anyway, just like he always did.
Even still, he trudged down the backstage corridor with forced resolve, wondering what would give out first—the determination to maintain his fractured self, or the desire to let it all come undone. But his posture straightened, his eyes holding onto what he could not let slip: the fragments and pieces still cutting him inside.
The mask clung to him—a second skin—as he moved toward the door. The four of them waited for their cue in the sudden stillness. And in those moments, only the mask knew if it was Hollis wearing it, or the other way around.