Worship In Red and In All The Wrong Places

The final note hangs over them all, trembling with perfection. For a moment, there’s silence. Then the applause begins. A tidal wave of sound erupts, drowning out my own breathing. I bow, my smile wide and practiced under the heat of the lights, but something feels… wrong.

The clapping doesn’t stop.

At first, I think it’s enthusiasm, but as I squint into the crowd, I see it: their hands slamming together harder and harder, their faces frozen in wide, rictus grins. I stand there with my guitar, trying to catch my breath but the clapping doesn’t stop. Blood splatters from their palms as skin tears and bones crack, but no one flinches. Their eyes shine, fixed on me like I’m the only thing keeping them alive.

Security ushers me backstage, but the applause doesn’t stop. It only grows louder, swelling like a storm battering against the building. The heavy doors groan under the weight of the crowd pressing against them. “You should be thankful,” my manager says, “they’re here for you.” But the fans don’t chant my name. They don’t scream or cry. They clap. And they bleed.

They surge past the barriers, a tide of bodies crashing through the hall, relentless and unstoppable. One girl, her hands stripped of most of her fingers, keeps clapping with raw, bleeding stumps. The sound is sickening, but her face remains locked in an expression of euphoric devotion, her hollow eyes shining with something far beyond admiration. Another woman, her arms twisted awkwardly from fractures that dangle them uselessly at her sides, throws herself against the wall with a force that makes the concrete shudder. Her head snaps back and forth violently, smashing into the surface with sharp, wet cracks. Blood streaks the wall in wide, glistening arcs as she bangs again and again, desperate to replicate the sound of clapping. Her eyes turn to lock onto mine, blazing with an unsettling worship, as though I am her only salvation.

Security yanks me toward the exit. Outside, my driver waits by the limo, the door open and ready. The flashes of cameras burst around him like fireworks, cutting through the night in sharp, dazzling bursts. I climb into the car, gasping for breath as he shuts the door behind me.

But they’re already there.

The fans flood the parking lot, pressing against the car, climbing over one another in a frantic, writhing mass. Their arms twist unnaturally as they claw at the windows, their hands shredding down to the bone. The clapping turns to moist, meaty thuds. One man’s arm finally breaks off entirely, dangling by a few threads before it snaps free. But even then, he doesn’t stop. He slams the bloody stump against the window, his face still grinning, his eyes alive with manic joy. The driver floors it, the tires screeching as the limo tears away from the scene. But the sound follows me. The applause. The judgment. It never fades. If anything, it only grows louder, pounding in my ears, vibrating in my chest. And no matter how far I go, I know they’re still clapping.

At home, the silence doesn’t comfort me. The applause isn’t just in my ears anymore, it’s in my chest, my head, and in my phone. A vibration I can’t shake. I check my socials, they’re filled with videos of the crowd, bloody and smiling, climbing over fences and trampling one another just to reach me. One caption reads: “Our queen deserves this.” Another: “We’ll give everything for her.” I turn on the TV to escape it, but every channel is showing the same thing, me. My face, my voice, my song, what I wear, what I eat, if I sneeze and how I walk, all looped over and over. The sound of clapping drowns out the anchors, the commercials, everything. In the corner of the screen is a small logo: #ClapForHer. I realize I don’t know who I am anymore. They don’t either. I’m not a person to them, just a vessel for their obsession. And they’ll destroy themselves and me to prove it.

I turn over in my bed and look out my big glass windows that look over Malibu and the ocean. They’re there too, against the windows, slobbering and clapping… Putting their faith in all the wrong places. But deep down, what really scares me, is I know I won’t last long and their clapping will fade and I will be left not knowing who or what I am. I will wither away and when they see me, like I see myself now, they won’t even recognize the person I inhabit.