Varnish 

The vocalist of a hard rock group at the peak of their popularity. The spelling of his name was actually "Barnish," but he changed it to "Varnish." Varnish, meaning "glaze," "decoration," or "empty."

He would always light up the stage, but offstage, he was said to be a cool-headed perfectionist. The embodiment of professionalism, always particular about creating the image of himself he wants the audience to see.

But he couldn't reach the future. It was reported that he disappeared suddenly, but the truth was different. Someone had sent him back to the past, making him repeat the same tour... Frustrated, he sought something to vent his feelings onto. What was really happening? He continues to sing on stage, fighting injustice and seeking the truth...

There I was. On stage, surrounded by dazzling lights. Beyond the piercing distortion, excitement rolled through the crowd in waves.

This band was the most successful project I'd ever done. We were at our peak, drunk on the promise of victory. We'd sold out an arena with a 20,000-person capacity, and I couldn't go a day without hearing my own songs while walking down the street. We'd already decided to go global after this. Anyone and everyone knew me. Until that day—

There I was. Day three of the arena gig. On stage, surrounded by dazzling lights. The waves of excitement kept going. I didn't think anything was wrong.

But when the rhythm guitarist got the same phrase wrong and pulled a face...I finally realized.

The day I spent yesterday was still here. And so I vanished from the world of tomorrow.

I was still there. My bandmates were chattering away again in the dressing room before the show.

"Dont look in the mirror without thinking or you'll see something crazy."

"That's just an urban legend—you really believe in that?"

I didn't mind this kind of chatter. But...I was already tired of hearing this conversation. I let it fade out, so it didn't reach my ears.

Somehow, I'd experienced the third day of this gig several times. Were the events repeating? I didn't know. I couldn't think of any reason. Even stranger, I heard on the news that my own disappearance had kicked up a fuss among the public.

"Varnish's mysterious disappearance—world tour emergency cancellation?"

The news email sent to my cell phone in the dressing room showed tomorrow's date. What did that mean?

Was someone playing a giant prank on me? I wanted to make sure. I ran out of the arena where our gig was and onto the street. I'd been staying in a nearby hotel for the past few days. If I went somewhere else, surely I'd find something...

But then I lost consciousness.

I woke up to noise and found myself sitting on the tour bus headed to the countryside. The manager handed out newly printed setlists and schedules to me and the other band members. The contents looked familiar...just like the schedule of the tour we did before the arena gig.

I checked the date on my cell phone. It was in the past. Over two weeks to the arena.

Don't tell me... I went back even further into the past?

The bus arrived at the live house, and everyone entered the venue. Guests were already starting to line up. I was confused, but I made up my mind to stand on stage. I wanted to stay the perfect version of myself for the audience.

The show was perfectly exciting, just like the one I experienced before, and I got through all the songs in the set just fine. It was a great performance, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The crowd's cheers felt grating, sending me into self-loathing.

Am I tired...or is this all a dream?

At the next venue, and the next, the shows went off without a hitch, and I was showered in applause. It was nice that things were going well...but our popularity wasn't all that interesting if I already knew the end result.

But as I started getting frustrated with every repetition of my daily life, slowly, I started to realize there were more and more things happening around me that I didn't remember experiencing.

A paper board with scratched out writing in the corner, a broken boot lying on its side. It was my handwriting, my clothing. Why they were there, I didn't know.

According to the bassist, a fan asked me for an autograph yesterday and I apparently left the board there and fell asleep. And when I swung my leg on stage, the clasp on my boot broke and it went flying into the crowd, where we had a hard time retrieving it. The bassist laughed. But I didn't know that. It wasn't an experience I remembered.

Our live tour went on, changing locations with the schedule down to the minute. I kept it together on stage so no one around me would notice anything strange, and time seemed to pass with no problems.

But my discomfort only grew stronger. More and more events I didn't remember kept happening. When the neck of the lead guitarist's guitar broke during rehearsal and had to be replaced with a spare, I didn't know until the performance. We'd rehearsed together, and the lead played right next to me, so there's no way I wouldn't have noticed. We did actually rehearse, so I was able to sing at the performance. But I had no memory of the guitar breaking in rehearsal.

Was I so busy I was losing my mind? Doubt consumed me, unable to trust myself and the blank gaps of time I didn't remember.

Just to be sure, I decided to talk to the manager.

The manager glared at me, suspecting excessive drinking and drug abuse. I really wasn't kidding.

We had one day off during the tour. I left my bandmates for a bit and went alone to a bar at the edge of town. At the bar, there was an old-fashioned record player in the corner. Suddenly, I remembered an old friend from back home. He was an eccentric guy who loved music, but studied mathematics—he was probably a researcher by now. Once, he taught me how analog records worked.

Applying constant rotation to a grooved disk and dropping a needle on it would make sounds play in sequence. But a club DJ could get specific sounds out of a record. By using a special disk and needle and messing with the playback, they could intentionally make the same sound repeat.

My own memory was skipping all over the place like that disk. But the truth was already recorded on the disk. Did someone "scratch" me? That's what I thought, but there was no way to confirm it. If I just had someone to collaborate with... I tried contacting my old friend, but I couldn't get a hold of him.

Our tour was at its climax, but the manager suddenly suggested an impromptu studio recording.

I wasn't all that interested, but I agreed. Our band was at a high level right now. I wanted to leave a recording.

But the day of, I decided not to go to the studio. I wanted to prove what was happening to me.

I tied myself tightly to the hotel bed. I was reluctant, but I'd decided to try and put myself into a deep sleep with medicine. The dizziness came right away, and soon I dozed off.

The next moment, I was in front of the mixer at the studio. My bandmates and the manager were all there. The mixing engineer was asking me about the sound balance. A fierce singing voice I had no memory of—my own—was playing from the monitor speaker...

My body didn't have any injuries from binding myself, or fatigue from the drugs. Was this really me?

My bandmates and I returned to the city where the arena was. The tour had been a total success, and the recording wrapped up well. It really was a triumphant return. But it didn't feel like success to me. Of course it wouldn't, with my memories all chopped up. Several times along the way, I tried explaining the strange stuff going on to my manager or bandmates, but they all thought I was messing with them, or I just made them worry for nothing.

I stayed in the same hotel as before and went into the dressing room the same way. There was an audience of over 20,000 people waiting for me beyond the arena stage. No way I'd step down now.

I started to sing. Dazzling spotlights. Piercing distortion, hyping up the crowd. Surging waves of sound and people. The waves came one after another, getting bigger and bigger.

Before I knew it, I sank into those waves. I kept singing. Consciousness fading, singing stronger. I could tell short phrases were repeating...but that power knew no bounds.

My consciousness came back to me on stage. The arena gig must have been going on for several hours. I was still singing our song "Guilty." Still the same song... How many hundred choruses had passed, I didn't know. But neither I nor the instrumentalists had gotten weaker or tired, and the crowd's excitement kept rising nonstop. Support and passion. It was the glory I always hoped for on stage. This arena was overflowing with it.

Without a hint of fatigue or boredom, we could play here forever, getting rave reviews forever—shouldn't that make me happy?

Maybe so—but this wasn't my will.

I dropped the mic. Ignoring my dumbfounded audience and bandmates, I went into the wings, passed the dressing room, and left the venue. I heard a recording of my own song blaring from the street, and I groaned and covered my ears. But I still wouldn't go back to the arena. I never wanted to go back.

I ducked away from the public's attention into a dark alley. Someone had abandoned a bunch of mirrors here. Standing among them, I suddenly remembered that chatter from the dressing room.

"Dont look in the mirror without thinking or you'll see something crazy."

The mirror images reflected each other, reflecting myself endlessly. My...self...

Behind all those overlapping layers, something crept closer. A white corpse. A skull.

This thing...I remembered it. The demon skeleton wrapped around my body.

When I saw the demon skeleton in the mirror, I understood everything.

That arena was the grand stage all musicians longed for. If I were able to sing there, I wouldn't need a future. Let devils or ghosts take my tomorrow. It's true that in the past, I did wish for that deep in my heart. That was a long time ago.

And so... The specter spelled my name in the air, removing the "r."

"Vanish," to disappear.

Is that how you stole tomorrow from me? You thought you'd make me keep singing forever in that arena so I never reached tomorrow?

Don't get it twisted. I didn't promise you anything. My success today is all because of myself.

I kicked through the mirrors. Even with the mirrors broken, the skeleton wouldn't disappear. It wasn't long before my consciousness started fading. That was when I was first conscious of the sensation of being "scratched" by that demon. It stole my tomorrow and took my soul into the past—

----------

What's that mean?

In the middle of the "scratch," I caught a glimpse of my tomorrow. Someone was there, in that burning place in the depths of purgatory. He laughed sardonically at me, but he also scorned the demon for what it did to me.

That's right...I remembered one more thing. That demon kept rewinding me because the "God" of purgatory waits for me tomorrow. To burn my future to nothing.

But I'll keep resisting. For centuries. For my destiny.

I won't obey you. I'll decide my own future.