Creep

Was it too late to just...go back home? Could he call in sick, would his boss be okay with him missing the night - the busiest night of the week, at that? Sadira stared blindly at the subtle white wavelength that bounced off the door, the walls to the bar, showing him the contours of the Khaos Bar Lounge he sang at most nights. 

The building itself seemed old. When the din rose high enough inside the building, he was able to make out the craggy exposed brick wall on one side, could barely make out the traces of ivy crawling up the walls, and coiling along the window sill. The door would creak in protest when it was opened, and seemed to sigh a breath of relief when it swung shut again. 

Finally, he made his decision - wrapping slender fingers around the weathered metal handle, pulling the exhausted door open, before stepping past the threshold. 

Sadira was greeted warmly by the inhabitants of the bar, as well as the bartenders. Regulars spoke to him on friendly terms, gave him a solid clap on the back - there were jovial laughs, offers to buy him a drink, and even some playful flirting. He returned most of the comments with smirks, or flirty retorts, before making his way up onto the stage to prepare for the night. 

The air smelt like alcohol and smoke, and the world felt tired. Another long work week for the crowd had come to a close, and this was where they had chosen to unwind. The food was pretty good, honestly. There were proper meals served here, as opposed to some bars which served, at the most, a basket of hot wings and some celery sticks. Through the sound echoing around him, Sadira’s fingers finally closed around the old fashioned microphone. 

“When you were here before, couldn’t look you in the eye...” his words begun in a slow, methodical tone, accompanied by a soft, jazzy piano. “You’re just like an angel, your skin makes me cry.”

The loud, warm chatter settled as each lyric came out of his mouth, settling the warm waves of audio to only his; illuminating tables, rustic candles, faces and the occasional plate of food and mug of beer to his blind eyes, everything else fading into a subtle, black silence. He didn’t really want to sing, but he was determined to pump all his passion into every note from his lips, to bring peace to the patrons who surrounded him. 

“...but I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here...? I don’t belong here.” His fingers curled tighter around the cold metal of the microphone, his voice beginning to rasp lightly from the strain. 

“...I don’t belong here.”