Chapter 1

"I believe in everything until it's disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?" —John Lennon

Snow. It was my first memory as a child, of that I am certain. I can remember the crispness of it, the refraction of light on its surface, and how it stung and melted away when I tried to teethe on it. Some how it felt comforting to me almost like a safety blanket. A fresh new snow could just wrap me tightly in its arms and I could become smothered in it. That's why I stay in this place. The snow, I mean. I couldn't see myself in any other place that didn't snow; it would seem foreign to me, almost like I stepped into another planet. Mom says that I stay because I couldn't be without her for one second of my life, I need her too much. Suppose that's true, but then that's just my mother's way of saying she can't stand to let her baby go. But I think it's the snow. I think the reason I stay here is because I can't stand the rust of the South, and I can't deal with the gray of the Queen City. I would miss my frosting covered evergreens, and I would morn the loss of not ever seeing my breath turn to steam and my fingers freeze up in the chill. I don't know what I would be able to do with myself if I didn't have this blistering lake affect snow, and I don't think I could live in any other city besides Rochester. I was born here after all, and it's the only real place I know.

"Kaden! Kaden Pe- Pet- Pe-something! You're on next!" Petrov, I thought in agitation, it's Petrov. How hard was that to pronounce? Letting my head rest aimlessly against the stone my back currently against, I breathed in the crisp winter air as I peered down at the end of my cigarette. The alleyway to the right of The Water Street Music Hall wasn't much of an alleyway at all, not in such a literal sense anyways. It was a gap in between the two large buildings, but on the right there was a larger lot where the money gobblers like to park out of town-ers and earn a little extra change. To the left, well there wasn't much to look at aside from a few trash collecting heaps of blackened snow, due to the plowing. I took in another long drag twisting the handle of my case tighter and tighter. I wasn't a wreck or anything; I had done these sorts of shows plenty of times before. I'd go in, listen to a bunch of rowdy 16+ kids who were excited for a cheep fest, and do my show. If I'm lucky I'll have a few kids who actually know some of my stuff, but I never really go in thinking any of them know me. And why should they? I'm a teenage college drop-out with a funky last name. They couldn't wrap their head around my last name much less my lyrics. Which is fine by me. My lyrics filled their purpose for me and that was all I needed to appeal to. Myself. Wasn't much of a living I'll tell you that, but I get by.

"Kaden!" She was getting annoying now, this stage woman. Flicking the ashes off the end of my cigarette, I peered up at her through my shaggy bangs letting my lips falter only slightly in agitation. The tiny woman was hanging herself from the side door and she was peering back at me, her own demeanor was far less inviting than my own. I sighed and allowed the last half of my cigarette to flutter to the ground before stomping it out. Raising my eyebrows to her she seemed to be satisfied enough as she disappeared through the door. I let out a slight grumble, following her inside, mentally preparing myself for a show that would no doubt be the lowlight of my career. Kids these days didn't appreciate lyrics anymore so much as they cared about a catchy line they could sing back to those on stage. It gave them a false connection to the band, something that could make the musicians on stage become more real in their eyes. I, on the other hand, had no such things. I don't believe in a catch, but suppose that could be where my downfall was.

The lights on stage flickered on and off, almost as if they too were irritated that I wasn't on stage yet. Mentally I cursed myself for wearing a turtleneck and pants to a gig, and especially my fedora. Of course, I could never actually do any of my gigs without that beat up old hat. Staring out into the open warehouse, I squinted as I set my guitar case down onto my chair. I could tell the little teens were getting antsy, because slowly they started to migrate into little groups and start chatting up little storms and laughing too obnoxiously loud. I cleared my throat into the microphone, testing the sound once over before I retrieved my guitar. A sharp noise rang through the air causing the rest of the kids in the warehouse to groan in discomfort; of course none were as close as I was to the speakers. I winced a little, jerking my head away. This was going to be quite the night, I could feel it. Letting my rough fingers strum the chords of my guitar, I sighed and cleared my throat. As expected none of the teenagers turned themselves around, they didn't even bother to acknowledge that I was on stage. Suppose they just wanted some screaming band like they had playing in the next room over. Over there I could hear the crowds cheering and jostling about in the large hall, the room so overcrowded with people that they were flooding into my room. Half the teenagers in here didn't want to be, and the other half (mostly the female half) stood blurry-eyed as they watched some new eye candy make his way to the stage. Another stigma I hated filling. I was just some attractive face, and it didn't matter what my music sounded like or what I was trying to say, all they would hear was that I was nice to look at. Of course, I'm not trying to toot my own horn I'm really not.

"How're you doing tonight, Rochester?" I asked, not really caring whether or not they were alright, or whether they had the nerve to respond back to me. I couldn't really hear them that well anyways with the racket in the next room. Sighing I decided to put my focus, rather, on the icons that lined the walls. They were the pictures of my idols, all of which would be so very ashamed to see me like this, as they watched me entertain some mindless youth. But so was the life of a musician. I'd have to slave myself away just to get onto a decent stage where I was playing to a crowd that actually understood my music.

To my surprise someone answered me back, causing my head to turn slightly in the female's direction. I could barely make her out over the lights, but I could tell she wasn't standing with anyone in particular. Her face was half covered by the dimmed lights, but I could make out a length of brunette hair, resting along her lithe frame and ending at her waist. I smiled a little and nodded my head in her direction. Letting my hands slide over the chords again I started to play the rift of my first song, a song I wrote for my mother. It's a sappy little tune, I have to admit. But suppose it does get crowds going, even if this wasn't much of a crowd to appease too. I started to sing, my voice still scratchy from the cigarette I had earlier. There wasn't really that much to sing in this tune, I basically wrote the piece for my Amazon of a mother who, she herself says very little but says so very much. So the song was made up of chords that I switched from, and hard to the point lyrics. Just like my mother.