Free Take Me in the Dark by Karina Ashe Page A

accidentally lock eyes with that creepy man. I shiver.
    No, don’t even think of that. You’ll psych yourself out.
    Though I do my best to push that thought from my mind, I can’t keep my eyes open. The light from the back of the room blinds me. My skin flushes.
    You practiced for moments like this—moments when you want nothing more than to disappear .
    I hear glasses clinking. People mumbling. They’re having dinner. I hope I’m entertaining enough. The gathering isn’t large, but it’s definitely the snazziest small gathering I’ve ever performed at solo. Hell, even with my ensemble group Bruigh na Boinne we didn’t perform at places like this.
    Hey, when all else fails, think of the cash. They really want you, Laura! Lots of artists aren’t paid what they’re worth. Just remember you’re worth every cent.
    Cassie’s encouragement gives me strength. I adjust the mic. My lips brush the metal netting and more static erupts. This time it doesn’t faze me. I’m already focusing my thoughts on me and my instrument and the music.
    I arrange my bow on the strings, open my mouth, and began to sing.
    The sound of breathing and coughing from the audience bleeds into that first note. I think only about the moment. Instinct from years of practice guide me as I fluidly move from one note to the next. I no longer think of technique or style but only of cultivating these beautiful sounds and allowing it to live through me.
    It’s an old song, and so possesses that warm, impressionable, and fragile sound that only songs that have been sung for centuries contain.
    The rest of my anxiety dissipates into memory. I’m back in the forest. I’m running home to the small place my mother and I lived in for years because I’ve stayed out too late.
    I keep my eyes closed. I don’t trust them to open. I can still feel the spotlight heating my eyelids, but I pretend it’s dappled sunlight streaming through the leaves above as the forest gives way to the clearing. Blades of grass slice my shins. My chest hurts from the exertion, but I don’t stop. These minor irritations mean nothing; I’m going home. I rush through the door and grab my mother’s legs. I look up into her face, laughing, as the scent of cookies fills the room.
    I sing louder. The room begins to fade. It frightens me at first, and then I let it go as my mind turns to the sound itself. I let myself dissolve into the music, allow the song to live through me. I think about the music, about how my voice should sound at that moment.
    I sing like that, soaring as I move into the next song without stopping, and the next, until I’ve reached the end of my set.
    I lean back, breathing harder than I should, the comforting weight of my cello leaning against me. I’m not a very experienced singer. If I was, I would have moved or at least done something to give the audience a more interesting show. I hadn’t done anything except close my eyes and sing. I should have at least made use of the water bottles the stage crew left next to my chair, but I didn’t. My throat is sore.
    I look out for the first time, but can’t see anyone. The spotlight is still shining in my eyes. I tuck my chin into my neck and lower my cello.
    The sound of applause and chairs being pushed out erupts, conjuring within me an odd blend of self consciousness and relief.
    It’s over. I can go home .
    I glance around, trying to see where I can leave the stage, but it’s hard to think with all that light in my eyes. It’s hard to see. The stage is so big. I focus on packing away my cello as people begin to shout things from the crowd.
    Something touches my shoulder—a dark figure. I hear a soft, reassuring man’s voice. “That was beautiful.”
    I murmur thanks as I look up, finding the announcer’s happy face smiling down at me. I pick up my cello and stand.
    “Take a bow,” he says.
    I freeze.
    “They expect it,” he continues.
    Reluctantly, I comply. I don’t understand why my cheeks are