The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,87
of it. She slid her guitar case down next to her and opened it, revealing not just a beaten up blond wood Telecaster but some spare clothes and an awesome pair of shoes.
Cecilia kicked off the biker boots she’d walked in and replaced them with a pair of white suede platforms that zipped up the back with eight-inch heels made of what looked like actual bone. Two tiny skulls peered out from each one, sculpted into the back of the heels. Her idea, Mrryah’s art project. How she planned to stand on them was anyone’s guess, including hers, but she felt compelled to wear them nonetheless for this one-off gig. She wore a slicked-back ’do with spackles of white hair paint on each side, giving an illusion of a virgin Mohawk. She wore a vintage gold-sequined backless minidress, and in her ears, a pair of large hoop earrings that she fashioned out of some old barbwire that she found on the roof. She gave the impression that she belonged there, so no one said anything; they just watched.
“This one’s for you, Alphabet shitty,” she said into the mic, nodding to the house drummer on stage to get behind his kit.
She plugged in and let her guitar feed back for a while, and that’s when it all started.
Cecilia strummed and sang softly at first. She was vulnerable. Her voice cracking in a beautiful mournful tone through the amplifier static.
The lights were flicked on.
She started sweating and could see her hands starting to bleed in the exact places where she was pierced by the iron maiden. Something was coming over her.
The house drummer immediately joined her on stage.
She put a towel over her head and started stomping around to her own slow, dragging beat. Then she motioned to the drummer to kick in double time.
It was like she needed a soundtrack to coax out what was inside of her.
Feeling like she was on fire, she threw off the towel.
She could have sworn that she saw it burst into flames.
She started screaming as loud as she could. Screeching like an angry banshee or a feline in heat. It looked like an exorcism more than anything, and CeCe had more than a few demons to release.
The song was unrecognizable at first. A gritty, intense, punk reading of something bluesy. Presented in Cecilia’s style. Spare and violent.
This was a place where music mattered. And Cecilia was a girl to whom music mattered. A match made in heaven. It was her heart, her soul, and her reality.
And then the song revealed itself, or was revealed through her.
“Whipping Post.”
The tiny crowd of blasé music types gasped and a murmur built in the room. As live songs go, this was sacred.
Guest-listers from the bar started to pay attention.
She clawed and screeched, doubled over on the matchbook-size stage.
People, a mix between cool downtowners and hipster music geeks, immediately started pouring in from outside—either there was a murder in progress or one killer show. In this case it was both. Witnessing either would have been worth the money to them.
Cecilia scratched at her guitar and wailed:
My friends tell me
That I’ve been such a fool
And I have to stand down and take it, babe
All for lovin’ you
Cecilia and the room were at fever pitch. Whatever was happening inside of her was becoming unbearable to her, but was apparently entertaining as well. The curse of the performer. Creating an I was there moment for the audience. And an I’m in hell moment for herself.
I drown myself in sorrow
As I look at what you’ve done
Nothin’ seems to change
Bad times stay the same
And I can’t run
The club quickly filled to capacity, word of mouth spreading from dive to dive all over the neighborhood. She was raw, oozing sensuality, vulnerability, defiance, and anger all at the same time. It was as if she were being channeled by greatness, being used as a vessel for something or someone else.
Sometimes I feel
Sometimes I feel
Like I’ve been tied
To the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post
Oh Lord, I feel like I’m dyin’
She screamed and began to roll around on the ground. The wounds from the chapel were still raw and unhealed. The more she rolled and scraped herself against the craggy floorboards, antagonized them, the more they swelled and broke open. She felt something strike her back. Thinking it was a wayward guitar string, she checked her weapon, but all six strings were there. She looked up on the ceiling into the cracked mirror mounted