The Idol

Michael was born to a middle class Catholic family, Debra and Johnathan Fox. Debra, a staunch and dedicated mother of the home and portrait of classic Hollywood beauty, her brown hair neatly coiffed against a gaunt and almost porcelain face while her ever present brown eyes were glassy and well worn, like an old film kept behind a pane of glass, beautiful and yet still somehow so distant and aloof. Johnathan however, was anything but distant. Bespectacled eyes and a clean high and tight shaven head frame a stern and all-knowing face, worn by a man of enormous stature, towering over Michael's demure and timid frame of 110 pounds at a colossal 230 pounds. Johnathan Fox was not one to be subtle, that is, when he wasn't ensuring that Michael suffer through, or rather, experience life as it was for Johnathan growing up. A true man of the cloth, each day for Michael was exalted in lesson after lesson about the good book. When it wasn't being drilled into him, Michael quickly learned that any act of disobedience in the eyes of his father would soon resort to a fate bent for only the hardest of criminals.

Michael's parents, while members of the church, did allow Michael to hear of music at an early age, and hear of it he did. Pining over any secular freedom he could find, he would leave school early every Friday, heading to the local record store to find the newest selection of bands in his favorite genre, one that would be nothing more than a waking nightmare to his parents, Heavy Metal. In the hum and vibration of the records he found a life outside the oppressive and suffocating walls of his parent's middle class abode, and found a commune where he belonged, a refuge where demons were worshipped, dragons were ridden, and in this music, he had found an overwhelming sense of care, something that had never been present with his home life.

One Sunday, after family dinner was over, and the tedious and mundane chore of cleaning up the table to make room for Sunday service had begun, Michael began to felt an air of unease in the home. Towering over him was his father, holding his copy of Holy Diver, his most recent purchase, still in its wrapping and unopened, kept gripped firmly between his father's calloused and worn hands. His mother remained by Johnathan's side, though kept aloof, hunched over and frail behind her husband's large stature as to not bear witness to the secular work of horror that had been brought into their home. "How had they found it?” Michael thought to himself. He had done what he thought to be a great job ensuring that all of his records be removed from their cardboard encasing and be kept hidden in non-secular album sleeves, ensuring that his parents were no more the wiser.

Michael: "Dad, I can explain."

Johnathan: "Clearly, I and your mother have not taught you what it means to walk with the Lord as we have. We thought we had taught you better than this, seeing the amount of time and money that went into those summer camps for all those years. And yet, you still continue to ask for evil to be brought into this home. Why, Michael? Why?!"

Something fell over Michael. Be it intuition, or instinct, or simply having endured his father's torments for long enough, Michael felt the same unearthly presence from before, the same presence that had tried to warn him of his father's approaching, beckoning him without a word towards their large oak front door, built by his father's own hand, and the means to an end for his torment. Johnathan's hand reeled back to strike Michael, his mother standing idly by as Michael, with all of his force, pushed past his tyrant of a father and made his way towards the front door. Narrowly dodging his father's grip on his shoulder, Michael ran, leaping into his cherry red '89 Camaro, and as he sped out of the driveway, turning away from the only life and family he had ever known, never looking back to see his parent's idle gaze at their doorstep, soulless and uncaring, he could've swore that he still heard his father's words ringing faintly in his ears.

2 weeks have passed since that fateful evening, and Michael has found himself a harbinger of the inner city. From within the walls of his family home and the confines of his private Catholic school, assigned of course by his parents, ensuring Michael would be kept complacent, Michael had never known what awaited him in the city. Advertisements for smoking, gambling, drinking and prostitution all lined the dimly lit streets, and the only Lord here was the almighty dollar. With it, anyone could become something. And for Michael, and his music, that was the only thing that had mattered. He could never become like the others in this city, as their salvation was through illicit materials and selling their souls, and bodies, all in the name of finding themselves. That Sunday, as Lucy, the owner of the local record shop Michael frequented was closing up shop, Michael opened an advertisement of an artist showcase coming up in the area, excitedly showing it to the older man. He knew that Michael had been practicing like a mad man these past few weeks, and under Lucy's guidance, had become quite the prodigy. Advanced guitar techniques came second hand to the youth, and Lucy knew that the time had come for Michael to show the world what he was meant to achieve. A wicked smile came over the lines in the corner of Lucy's mouth, licking them hurriedly as he began to explain to Michael how the showcase was to work.

Lucy: "Every year Michael, the city holds a contest for up and coming artists to show what they are made of. As you know, money means everything in this town, whether you sell your body or you sell your soul. Well, so to speak". He exclaimed, a chill coming over the air, the same feeling that was felt the night that Michael escaped from his family.

Lucy: "Now, don't be so quick to count your chickens, son. There's tough competition out there, and there's no guarantee that you'll come out on top, even with me running it. It's going to be held next Sunday at the Casa De Morte in downtown. Come to think of it, I haven't even discussed the grand prize. Not only will you win a recording contract with the largest record label in the world, you will also win $20,000. No questions asked."

Lucy smirked at the boy as he held out a small black notebook, bound in a strange material, one that Michael had never seen before. He ran his index finger around the perimeter of the book, feeling the strange material, as he clumsily began to fumble through the worn and yellowed pages, searching for a place to sign his name. As he continued to search, he came across all too familiar names, names of guitar royalty that had came before him.

As Michael scribbled his name next to theirs, he felt a rush, a sensation unlike any other he had felt before, as if for the first time in his life, he was home.

Up the stairs of his apartment, situated on the 6th floor of his building, a trip Michael had routinely taken many a night before, could not have been more enjoyable for him. He climbed the stairs with a new sense of purpose, through the doors of his apartment, and began to play his guitar. It had to be perfect. He had to be perfect.

Sunday night came, and as the sun went down, leather jackets and laced up boots walked the streets of the city, all making their way to the holiest of meccas, the Casa De Morte. With guitar in hand, Michael joins these kids, all standing in line and hoping that their chance to succeed will be the chance that is chosen.

The lights are dimmed and a hush falls over the crowd as the first guitarist begins. One by one the list dwindles, and then it is Michael's turn. His heart begins to race, a flutter of wings beating through his chest as the warmth of a single spotlight hits him. He sits, not feeling or seeing anything or anyone other than him and his guitar. His cross to bear. The reason that he has found himself, and now it's his turn to stretch out his arms and bring peace to the world. He tears into a blazing solo.

Standing amongst the other competitors, Michael is announced as the champion of the artist showcase, winning the illustrious contract with the unknown record label, as well as the $20,000 grand prize. Pride beams on Michael's face, one arm lifted high into the air, the other holding his guitar, the hammer and nails of his own sacrificial lamb, the stage, and yet, he feels as if something is still missing.

As Michael awakes the next morning in his apartment, his head spinning from the night before, he turns on the news to find the media have already began to talk about his future plans. Unbeknownst to him however, most of what was said to the reporters last night was told in a daze, informing the whole world of his past and the trials and tribulations he had been through with his own parents. Embarrassed, he turns the TV off and crawls out of bed, lurching towards the bathroom to settle the pounding uncertainty in his brain. He hears his father's cries of "Why?" continuing, growing exponentially louder. As if by clockwork, he hears a call coming from across the room, an unknown number message highlighted across the center panel of his phone. He answers, a quiet and almost somber sounding voice, one that has familiar qualities to Michael, and yet, seems so distant and long forgotten responds.

Johnathan: "Hello, Michael. It's Dad."

Michael peers through his bathroom mirror, his image warped by a small crack appearing in its surface, slowly but surely creeping its way up the rest of the mirror. He responds.

Michael" "Hi Dad."

Johnathan: "We saw the news. After everything we did, and everything we made sure to keep you from so that you may one day be kept safe and your soul be protected, and THIS is how you repay us? By slandering our good name on national television?"

Michael: "Dad, I don't know what happened..."

Johnathan: "Don't 'Dad' me. As far as your mother and I are concerned, you may as well be dead to us. This is the last message you will ever receive from either of us. Why? Why?"

And then silence.

With that, the moment he always wanted, a true moment of care, a single spotlight affixed upon him as the deafening shout of hundreds, if not thousands of adoring fans, came to pass. The adoration he thought his was in the fact the roar of a blistering ambulance siren, splattering red and blue fixtures of light on the outside of the Casa De Morte, the spotlight a helicopter from overhead. His body found hung from the overhead rafters of the building, affixed in the shape of a cross, hung only by his own guitar strings, a testimony to the idol he had been his whole life. Lucy, from the shadows, his glowing red eyes peering up at Michael's lifeless body, slowly applauds. Knowing that he too was another soul, an idol for those who don't know who they are, and will do whatever it takes to find out.