All Those Layers

It was her voice that first entranced me, that held the whole of my attention, and which captivates me still. She found me in my most vulnerable moment and blanketed me with a sense of That-Which-Was-Always-Meant-To-Be. She was my lifeline, my providence—or so it felt—and it was through her voice that I discovered another layer within myself. I first discovered her much in the same way as she left me: through song.

It had been a rough winter. My life was effectively in freefall, though falling would at least have felt exhilarating. I was simply existing, isolated in my own hole of an apartment, drifting ever further from the rest of the world. Most nights I lay in bed awake, my mind refusing to relent to its own exhaustion, torturing itself with ennui-on-repeat. So too did my music app repeat the same songs from the same playlists that served as the soundtrack for my spiraling descent, until I was certain that I’d heard everything there was to hear. 

That is, until I heard the thump of a kick drum at a viciously upbeat tempo: 16 beats, like a metronome excited all on its own, and then the vocals. My God, her voice. Every word born of angst and rebellion, snarled out in utter sincerity. When the guitar joined with a furious four-chord riff, overloaded with distortion, it only elevated her raw power. I didn’t even care that my app had somehow thrown what sounded like ’90s riot grrrl punk into my normal repertoire of melancholic, downtempo electropop. My heart was already thumping along with the kick drum, occasionally skipping a beat when the vocalist growled. 

When the perfect three-minute song ended, I scrambled to put it on repeat. It had lifted me up in a way that nothing else could, and I would be damned if I let any other song, or anything at all, impose on this moment. The Manix—that was the group’s name. I stared at the album art on my screen, which featured a gorgeous twenty-something woman with pink pixie-cut hair and a torn black crop top, who was raging or yelling or singing (perhaps all three). I knew it was an assumption, but I also just knew: That was her. Her screaming visage matched her tone perfectly, complementing each other and evoking a whole sense of someone I immediately wanted to know. I stared at her the rest of the night as I played the song and, eventually, the album on repeat.

In the following weeks, I managed to drag myself out of the apartment to meet with friends and regain some semblance of a social life. They were happy to see me again, if only for my own sake, though conversation was difficult. The typical touchpoints—current events, movies, mutual acquaintances, gossip—might as well have been white noise to me. I tried to maintain conversation and pleasantries, but none of it was authentic. It seemed that despite having some renewed motivation to join the world once more, all I really wanted to talk about was the source of that motivation. 

“So, this band I’ve been listening to, The Manix—have you heard of them?” 

“Only since you mentioned them a minute ago, and then a minute before that.” 

It went this way with everyone. I didn’t mean to repeat myself, but listening to the same songs on repeat all day long, and then all night long, might have driven me to hyperfixation. But how could I not want to share something so meaningful and impactful? This group, this woman, had singly pulled me out from the depths of despair and given me a new lease on life. If only others would hazard a listen to the song, they too might feel it: the racing, unrelenting beat; the full, thrashing power chords; the uninhibited emotion of her vocals and the sincerity of her lyrics. Then it hit me. Her. She. Who was she? 

A cursory web search gave me very little to go off of. There was practically no information on the band outside of their own website, which didn’t even name the members. There were some pictures, song samples, where to buy their one album, of course, and tour dates. Nothing in the way of background or biography. As I scrolled through the list of podunk towns and minor venues for their current tour, I began to wonder how she even found her way onto my playlist with such a meager following and online presence. But my train of thought was immediately derailed by the next town on the list. The Manix were coming right here, to my own town in the middle of nowhere, to play at our only music venue that weekend. It was divine providence for me to discover them when I needed them most, and now she was coming quite literally into my life. There was no force in the world that might prevent me from hearing and seeing her that weekend, to witness the seemingly magical power of her voice in person. She had already saved me. Now all I had to do was meet her.

I had been to The Barrows dozens of times before. It had always been an unassuming dive, full of quietly depressed barflies or blackout drunk college kids, even during events that should have drawn a better crowd. This night was different. The walls were a canvas of bright, eclectic colors, projected from an array of lights and an overhead disco ball. People danced, jumped, and swayed across the floor, seemingly floating among a thin purple mist from a nearby smoke machine. The whole place shook from the collective energy of its audience and, of course, the music itself.

I wanted to pump my fist in the air and stomp along with the crowd. I wanted to let the electricity in the air run through me and energize me. I wanted to show The Manix just how their music made me feel. But I didn’t. In fact, I barely moved at all. Feet planted and arms at my sides, I simply stared ahead, lost in time as everyone moved around me. It was just like when I listened to them in my room: I dared not move, for fear of breaking a perfect moment. And just like at home, she called to me. In fact, she seemed to be singing directly to me. I know how delusional that sounds, but perhaps it was precisely because I didn’t move, instead giving her the whole of my attention, that she returned the attention in kind. I could see even through the beams of light and rolling mist that she had bright green eyes; they were a whole light unto themselves. 

I couldn’t say how long the show was or even what time it ended. I was so transfixed, I couldn’t bring myself to look at my phone when the final note rang out and the crowd eventually dispersed. I remained there, standing still in the middle of a room, clinging to the echoes and memories that hung in the air. When a couple of band members—or were they roadies? I couldn’t recall anyone’s face but hers—hopped onto the stage to begin breaking down the equipment, I briefly considered that it might have been time to leave. 

A beam of light broke through the darkness, silhouetted by a pair of knee-high boots, and I saw her standing in the open doorway. I felt her gaze upon me once more, and I was stayed. Whatever else was happening in that room, whoever was there or the conversations between them, melted away as she walked toward me. All I heard was the thump of her boots on old wooden floorboards; all I saw were her shining green eyes over an impish grin. When she was but a few feet away from me, hands on cocked hips and looking to me expectantly, I could barely register what should have been an obvious cue for me to say something.

“You were watching me,” she said with a smirk. 

Hearing her speak casually was barely different than hearing her song. It was captivating. 

“Yes, but—” I summoned the strength to gesture at the space around me, though I kept my focus on her. “Wasn’t everyone?”

“Not like you. You were really watching me.”

“I-I was.” My heart skipped a beat. It must have reset something in me, as I suddenly found my voice from within. I spoke clearly and truly, now. “You’re amazing. You’re more than amazing. You’re basically perfect.” 

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow, glanced at the door behind her, then leaned in to whisper, “You wanna get out of here?” 

I don’t remember what I said, but in the next moment she had me by the wrist, leading me through a door of light and out through a back alley. There were more lights—stars, maybe, or lampposts—and the blare of a horn. The moment itself was so quick and overwhelming that I couldn’t have retraced those steps with any certainty. But in the next moment, everything was still. I was panting, almost hunched over, and directly below me was a mound of clover. It was still dark outside, but as I straightened up and steadied myself, a bright yellow moon granted enough light to make out our surroundings. We were in a grove of sorts. A luminescent moth fluttered by, catching the moon’s light on its wings and reflecting it as a rainbow in its wake. Forests surrounded us, such that I nearly wondered how we got there. But the magic of the moment and the woman beside me forbade me from questioning or caring about the details.

Without saying a word, she took my hand once more and led me through the slick grass, through clearings of trees and other patches of clover. I took some initiative then, stepping up to walk beside her so that we might experience the night together. Summoning some courage, I gave her hand a gentle squeeze, which she returned firmly. A sudden breeze rustled the leaves in the canopy above, letting in hundreds of spots of moonlight to dance and spin around us. I marveled at the scene, slowing alongside her as we found a soft patch of moss, stopping to kneel upon it.

“This is beautiful,” I whispered.

“Only for those who take the time to track it down.” She repositioned so that she was facing me, bowing her head a bit so that she could look up at me, a half-smile making her simultaneously demure and seductive. Again, I reached within myself to truly speak my mind.

“You’re beautiful.”

She might have blushed, or it was a glint of her pink hair spilling onto her cheeks, but either way it filled me with confidence. I continued:

“You saved me, you know. There was nothing else in this world for me until I heard your voice.” 

“Oh?” She got up slowly, brushing off the dirt from her stockings and strolling leisurely through the grove. Placing a hand gently at a tree trunk, she stepped along its circumference, gradually moving around it. Her eyes caught mine right before she disappeared. Her voice resounded in the air, as if it came from all of the trees at once, “What else do you like about me?” 

 I was prepared to answer her, though my mind stalled. What else was there? Her beauty, of course. But had I said that, or—

In the next moment, we were somewhere else. It was still in the grove, I believe. At least, it looked the same, but now we were sitting beside a stream. Looking down, I saw our reflections rippling in the gentle current. Her hand was upon my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as she soothed my nerves. 

“How did I save you?” 

I closed my eyes and sighed. It was a story I’d told a dozen times to my friends, but with them it was superficial—a series of events. A begot B begot C, and thus I was saved. How could I articulate how this woman made me feel? It was more than a love of her music and more than a fondness for who I imagined her to be. It was a longing, a yearning for something that I was so sure could complete a part of me that I’d never realized was missing until I found it. And now, sitting with her, making real and confirming all my ideations of her perfection … how could I even begin to explain?

It seemed that I didn’t need to, as she then followed with another question. 

“Am I really that special?” 

I opened my eyes and saw her reflection in the water once more.

“You’re the most special person I’ve known.” My voice was hushed, overtaken by sincerity. I moved closer to her, and she squeezed my shoulder tighter. “It’s like you were put on this Earth just for me.” 

Something glimmered in her eyes, and she smirked. When next she spoke, her lips didn’t appear to move in the reflection, though that could have been a trick of the water. 

“Is that all I am?”

I looked up to see her staring at me, entreating a response. She was so beautiful, so beautiful. But—what had she asked? What was the meaning in it? My mind grasped at some hidden explanation but returned nothing. 

Before I could ask, we were in the next moment entirely. This time, I seemed to hover over her. I felt the cold ground against my palms, and I found myself on my hands and knees, with her lying under me, staring up and smiling. A thin blanket of purple mist rolled over her, though her green eyes pierced it to look up at me. As the mist dissipated, her gaze and smile persisted. I stared back down at her, locked in her gaze and returning a smile, content to keep her there as long as the moment would allow. I remember little else. We might not have moved at all, and the moment held itself there indefinitely. But I do remember her voice. I knew the words exactly as they came, as if she summoned them from within the recesses of my own mind. Still, it was her voice, her song that made them manifest, and therefore they were perfect.

Do you think you know me? 

“I do. I think—I know that we were destined to meet. That you’re everything right with this world, and I’m blessed to see it. I’m blessed to be here with you, to—to be with you.” I couldn’t see it, but I felt her hand grabbing my shoulder again, squeezing it. A warmth ran through me. “I want to be with you,” I repeated, and she tightened her grip on me. “Will you be with me?” Tighter. My shoulder grew hot. 

What is my name?

Again, the question eluded me. I could no longer think straight. The heat in my shoulder spread down my arm, and the world around me grew dark until all I saw was her smiling, vignetted face. Then the heat became burning, and the darkness enveloped all but her eyes.

When I regained some semblance of clarity, I saw a familiar scene. A disco ball above, scattering a rainbow of colors through the air. The remnants of smoke from a machine. The Barrows’ floor creaked beneath my feet as I shifted my balance upon it, testing my senses. From the periphery of my vision and the deafening silence, I could tell the room was otherwise empty. But that was all I could do of my own accord. The rest of my body and faculties remained locked from my control, with only her standing a few feet away. She was not smiling now, but her eyes still watched me intensely. 

“Wh—” I could not even form the words. My jaw clenched. And then I felt the pain. Pangs of fiery heat shot up and down my shoulder, causing my arm to twitch in shock. I was able to move my head just enough to catch a glimpse of it: layers of flesh had been peeled away crudely, with deep nail-marks embedded around the wound. Then I saw my other arm, covered in blood, resting right across my chest, still picking and prodding at the flesh it had peeled from my shoulder. I was powerless to stop myself, my whole body now beginning to shake as I slowly, unyieldingly undressed my own skin. Again, I tried to speak—even if only to cry out—but nothing came. 

Oh, my. Look at how many layers a person has. Who would’ve thought? 

Her voice resonated in my mind even without her mouthing the words. But she did then open her mouth, only to reveal a grin of all-too-many impossibly sharp teeth. 

“Are you—” I found the words, or rather, she let them find me. “Are you going to eat me?” 

Eat you? She laughed in song. Disgusting. No. I only wish to see you destroy yourself over something you don’t care to understand.

And with that, she turned and headed back toward the door, humming a familiar tune in rapturous melody. All the while, my hand picked obsessively at my self-inflicted wound, forcing the gaping hole to grow ever bigger. I could not help it. I did this, and I was doing it, and if given the chance to do it again, I would. I would.