The packed lounge chanted my name and like a doe caught in the headlights, I turned to see they were all looking at me.
“What the hell’s going on?” I thought as a rush of panic moved through me.
“Karen, Karen, Karen,” they all chanted, then the horror revealed itself.
“Could Karen please step up onto the stage,” the lead guitarist of a country and western band said into the microphone.
My mouth went dry and was unsure if I was having a stroke at seventeen, but the lights seemed to dim awfully low and something unholy had made my feet move towards that stage.
See how this story evolved from this story: Abuse and the Melodious Word: Signing, How Hard Can It Be?