We Are The Chaos Gremlins

At first, it feels like time itself has slammed on the brakes—frozen in a moment thick with tension.
My mouth is dry, parched like I’ve just crawled out of a desert. My tongue feels like stone, and the blazing heat from the stage lights wraps around me like a suffocating blanket. Sweat beads on my forehead, rolls down my temples, and pools at the base of my neck. My fingers clutch the toilet, anchoring me in panic.
I steal a glance at the audience—faces blurred in a haze of nerves—but their eyes lock onto me with piercing intensity, full of impossible expectation. This is it. After the endless soundchecks and days of prep, I stand here, paralysed, fear coiled around me like iron chains.
“Oh, come on!”

The voice slices through my mental fog—sharp, unexpected. It comes from the next stall, where Edward is clearly fidgeting. I sit huddled on the bathroom floor, trembling, trying to recover from the spectacular collapse I just had on stage.
Then, with all the grace of a cartoon character, his scuffed sneakers shuffle atop the toilet. A mop of blond, wavy hair pops up over the divider, bright blue eyes wide and sparkling with absurd enthusiasm.
“It’s normal to choke your first time!” Edward chirps, his voice oddly reassuring amid my spiralling thoughts.
Embarrassment rushes in like a tide. I replay the whole miserable moment—the frozen terror, the sweat-slick palms, the way my voice completely abandoned me. Why did I agree to be lead?
Edward’s expression softens. “Hey,” he says gently. I finally look up. His nose wrinkles as he tries to stay balanced, sneakers squeaking against porcelain.
“It’s your first time. Don’t let it eat you alive,” he adds.
Before I can even respond, he wobbles, lets out a squeaky gasp, and gravity claims him. Water splashes dramatically. “Ugh!” echoes through the stall.
A second later, my bandmate—red-faced and humiliated—bursts out, his shoes squeaking loudly from the splash as he makes his soggy retreat.
I can’t help but snort.
But the laughter dies instantly when the bathroom door slams open—loud, angry.
The stall rattles as Tom storms in, eyes blazing, jaw clenched. He looks like he’s already halfway through a fight and just decided to start another. His finger jabs at me like a blade.
“Don’t do that again!” he snaps.
My heart slams in my chest.
Then—like a plot twist—my twin brother appears, sliding between us. Slightly taller. A lot more confident. Basically, me, just upgraded with a spine.
He crosses his arms, facing Tom with calm defiance.

“I can’t believe you,” my brother says evenly.
Tom’s eyes narrow, his jaw tight. “Mind your own business. If it weren’t for him, we’d be refunding everyone’s tickets!”
“Come on, Tom,” my brother replies, voice calm but firm. “It was just a couple of drunk guys. No big deal.”
Tom’s glare doesn’t budge.
“Sam’s uncle doesn’t mind,” my brother adds. “Besides, it’s our first gig. There’ll be more.”
Tom scoffs.
But then Michael’s voice wavers—quiet, almost too honest.

“We’re not gonna get noticed after one lousy set,” he says. “We’re just kids who can barely play.”

Finally, Tom shoves past, muttering, “Fucking cocksucker,” under his breath as he leaves.
My brother holds his ground, chin high, but I catch it—the tiny crack behind his confidence.

“Thanks,” he says dryly, a half-smile tugging at his lips..
“You okay?” I ask, voice cracking with concern.
“I may have peed a little,” he says. We both burst into quiet laughter.
The tension eases, but guilt creeps back in.
“I messed up,” I whisper.
He plops down next to me on the bathroom floor.

“Alex, do you think those drunks even cared?” he asks.
I stare at the tile. “They’ll probably forget.”
“Exactly! It’s a practice run. You get to mess up now and become a legend later.”
He stands, offers me a hand. I take it.
At the sink, I stare at myself in the hazy mirror. Sweat-slicked hair, flushed cheeks, hollow eyes. I want to tell him it’s not about the drunks. It’s the silence that followed. That terrible, echoing silence.
Still, I find myself smiling—maybe because he’s wrapping paper towels around his hand like a prize-fighter. Or maybe because Edward tried so awkwardly to cheer me up.
Maybe it’s just the quiet comfort of surviving public humiliation together. Either way, the gaping pit in my chest starts to shrink, just a little.
My brother nudges me. “Let’s go home.”
I splash cold water on my face, watching it spiral into the rust-stained drain. Nerves flutter in my gut like caffeinated butterflies. My brother waits by the door, whistling tunelessly as he scouts the hallway.
Time to face the crowd.
The sticky floors and smoky air don’t seem so bad now—until the noise from the bar leaks in. Laughter. Awkward applause. Off-key music.
I repeat it like a mantra: just a practice run.
We pass through the debris of our debut—wet napkins, empty pint glasses, lingering patrons. Heads turn. My cheeks flush. I stare straight ahead. If I don’t look at them, maybe they don’t see me.
My twin throws an arm across my shoulders, steering me toward the exit.

“Rooock staaaar!” someone drawled from the back.

Another gives a slow, sarcastic clap.
The bartender lifts two crooked thumbs. “Every legend bombs their first set!”
I flash a shaky thumbs-up. Through clenched teeth, I mutter to my brother, “Oh please, put me out of my misery.”