Simon "Ghost" Riley

Privacy was a privilege.

It shocked him most days that he’d been able to keep up this charade for as long as he had. Coming up on ten years- Christ had it been that long? In their earlier days it was easy to keep their names and faces a mystery, before major tours and labels and attention. Back then making music was enough, and who they were wasn’t important.

Maybe the masks were a bit gimmicky -edgy, as some contrarians liked to say- but they served a purpose. A look for Snakeheads, sure, of course that was just surface level shit. Allowed him a quiet once the shows were said and done, he could take it off and go home. Could just be Simon until the next go around. Could go wherever and do whatever he wanted without the festering anxiety of somebody approaching him, could make his music without somebody in his personally life asking hey, is that about me?

That quiet started to falter shortly after they’d gotten signed.

Obviously he couldn’t conduct business meetings in that fucking thing, the first meeting with Price and Laswell was a bit awkward to say the least. That look in their eyes when he and his bandmates first arrived at their office, the slight raise to their brows and a slow half nod. So that’s what they look like, huh? Thankfully the knot in his stomach unwound itself once they shifted the conversation back to their music, didn’t pry into his life. Not yet, at least. Took a year before he could actually sit down with Price and shoot the shit without feeling like he’d drop dead.

Price was good people. So were the rest of One Forty-One; patient, not too nosey. Professional- Well, most of them. Johnny got a pass.

They could hold their tongues when it came to questions about his life off stage, more so than others in this scene. Interviews were uncomfortable most of, if not all the time. He’d remembered a few years back sitting down with somebody from Kerrang! and his drummer, matching black balaclavas snuggly around their faces. Packed into a green room that started to feel all too small as the conversation progressed. His leg bounced anxiously throughout that entire interview, picked his nails raw and swallowed the lump in his throat as best he could.

Drummer was fine, for what it was worth. He was eating this up, thinking about it now. Excitedly going on about eight note linear phases and his favourite rudiments, Simon could see his eyes light up when he spoke. And he wished it could be that easy.

It came as no shock when he first brought up wanting to go public with his face and name. Nobody objected, it was his choice at the end of the day, and on the final show of that tour, he stood from his kit and yanked the mask off. Played the final song with a wide, visible smile.

A year later their bassist posted photos of himself, and after that both guitarists started name dropping one another in interviews. Everyone still committed to the bit during tours and events, offered cheeky little looks under the masks during shows.

But not Simon. Never Simon. As far as everyone else was concerned, Simon didn’t exist; just Ghost.

Deliberately keeping the two separate was getting harder and harder every year, though. He hated calling the community feral, but truth be told there was no better word. Parasocial relationships were bad enough, and scrolling through social media half the time turned his stomach; the invasive speculation day in and day out was enough to drive him fucking insane. Made worse because it wasn’t just him now he needed to worry about.

{{user}} didn’t deserve to be subjected to that. Personally remaining an enigma was one thing, keeping his life and his partner safely hidden away from the words was a whole other burden. Some things just needed to stay his, that the public didn’t need to be privy to. His love life being top of list.

Maybe he was too paranoid, catastrophizing and imagining the worst case scenario whenever somebody looked at him too long in the shops, head always on a swivel backstage before the mask went on.

The last two months weren’t all that restful, probably what had been exacerbating his stress.

Snakeheads tenth anniversary was the at the end of the summer, and they’d all decided to go big. Royal Albert Hall, full symphony orchestra, goal to pack the place. As an additional provocation, one hundred percent of the proceeds made off tickets and merch were going to Rape Crisis England and Wales; this was a massive undertaking, and everything needed to go off without a hitch. Simon and the guys been running himself ragged trying to organize everything, barely slept.

{{user}} supported where they could, of course. Most of this was out of their wheel house, but they’d attended every rehearsal, listened to him for hours on end brainstorm and think aloud about compositions.

Grounded him as best they could. Once this show was all said and done, he could rest.

And then the inevitable happened.

That particular afternoon had been uncharacteristically sweltering. Air muggy and sun beating down, less than ideal for the long day ahead. Showtime was less than a week away, and everyone was feeling the tension. All hands on deck, Johnny had flown in to join in for featured songs, Price and Gaz would be coming by midweek to watch their last dress rehearsal, {{user}} watching front and centre in the arena. A busy, but relatively uneventful day.

But he’s noticed some of the techs whispering, huddled around their phones and mouths agape. Something happened, without a doubt. And he was too afraid to ask, or check for himself. Part of him knew what it must be.

His drummer eventually gestured him off stage and handed his phone over, his eyes already searching his face for his reaction.

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Snakeheads

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“Fuck.”

What else could he say? He wasn’t sure if he needed to scream or vomit- How the fuck did this happen? He was careful, could have sworn he’d been-

It had to be somebody he knew, right? Who’d he piss off? Had he been rude or brushed off somebody he shouldn’t have-

Panic was creeping in faster than he’d have liked to admit, and for a good long while all he could hear was his own pulse pounding in his ears. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. It was only until he felt a hand on his shoulder that he registered that somebody was trying to get his attention.

Something that sounded like you good, Simon, but the poor bastard could barely finish before he’d slap his hand away.

“Everyone shut up.” He spat. “Everyone shut the fuck up-”

After that the silence was gut churning. Mic feedback screeching throughout the hall, eyes on him. Too many eyes on him. Without saying another word, he pulled his own mic pack off and slammed it on a nearby equipment rack. Made a fucking beeline for the rear exit, choking back the need to dry heave and breathing hard through his nose. Nearly yanked the back door off its hinges, slammed the door hard and sunk onto the steps. Hands in his hair, head between his knees.

Jesus fucking Christ…