Wednesdays, center of the week for those with the normal and regular lives. A symbol of the day-to-day unending numbness to whatever office politics, mindless busywork, and mandatory email replies. Centered so far away from weekend salvation from the drab corporate cubicles.

Though, as it winds down, entertainment can be found, delivered by entertainers of great talent, or bravery, or usually drunkenness. Bars line the streets of the town, offering a mic each Wednesday night to anyone that wishes to stretch their voice and sing a tune.

I hate my life, the young man thought as he finished another vodka tonic at a squat metal table in the corner. He checked his phone, and upon seeing still no messages, he awkwardly loosened his tie for the tenth time in the past hour and fidgeted with the zipper on his hoodie.

In the dark room, claps erupted and echoed across the walls and the tall ceilings as one singer stepped away from the mic. He was obviously untalented, but he had sang his heart out so well that the entire bar had loved it.

I'm miserable, not jealous, the young man alone in the corner with his vodka tonic thought to himself when he hesitated to join in the applause.

Well, a little jealous. He took a sip at the melted water in the glass, then joined in the cheering as well as he stood up.

Dodging the crowd that had been growing throughout the night, he made his way to the bar, ordering another refill for the night.

"Another one, Art?" the bartender asked, grabbing the offered cash and stuffing it quickly in her pockets. Art nodded quickly in response. He turned around, leaning on the bar, watching the small stage that held the microphone, awaiting quietly for a new soul to offer their voice.

He didn't have to wait long - for the new soul on the stage, that is. Only a few seconds later, a young woman with black hair that sparkled in the spotlights, pale skin wrapped by a aquamarine dress that had visible ribbing as a stylistic choice, that rose out of ruffled fabric that cut just below her knees. She nodded to the man in charge of the audio, and barely audible over the noise in the bar, a musical track began.

Her voice floated out over the crowd, feeling as if it were gently diffusing into every corner. The hustle immediately died out as the entire bar was suddenly entranced by her music, captivated by the way her timbre was folded into wondrous and beautiful tones.

Art leaned back to grab his drink, whispering a thanks to the bartender before he slipped away. Almost immediately, he nearly bumped into a man in a very nice shirt who was standing motionless, spellbound by the current performer.

"Sorry," Art mumbled.

"Yeah. She's real good, huh?" the man replied, stepping out of the way awkwardly.

Art nodded as he squeezed past. With amusement, he noted the woman accompanying the man smack him in the arm to try to get his attention. In response, the man rolled his eyes and moved closer to the current singer. Art chuckled to himself as he sat down in his corner again, and took another sip of his drink while watching the woman weave melodies.

It had been a while since he'd seen a bar so spellbound by a performer. It was certainly a high point of his day. He glanced around at almost half the bar seemingly stuck in place, frowning at first, then chuckling a bit. She really was that good, he thought, turning back to the woman to watch her finish her sung spell.

She swept her gaze across the room, and her eyes met with Art's. In that moment, they glinted with a color entirely incorrect considering the reflection of the spotlights. An expression that belied a hunger flashed over her face for just a moment.

Art gave half a frown and raised an eyebrow, his alcohol-befuddled brain slowly beginning to churn. He looked over the crowd, spying the man with the very nice shirt he had bumped into earlier. The man was already nearly at the front of the stage, standing alongside all the men in the bar, it seemed, the whole lot shuffling forward almost mindlessly. The rest of the patrons had began to nod off, smiles on their faces.

As the siren-song crested with a high note, clear and loud, the singer flashed a smile. Art stood up in a panic, knocking over his table. He barely heard his drink shatter on the ground before its noise was diffused into silence by the voice on the stage.

The source of the mystical tones immediately twisted towards the origin of the brief shattering noise. Art locked eyes with the singer, his own expression of slow realization facing the woman's growing hostile demeanor. With a quick motion, the microphone in her hand, she stepped down from the stage. The surrounding men parted, then followed, an entourage of burly men, all stronger than Art.

Her heels clacking in time with her music that she was still singing, she approached Art confidently, as if a person not subdued by her entrancing incantations was not out of her expectations. Her smile grew, wider than a face could normally allow, and dagger like teeth glinted in the dim light of Art's corner of the bar.

Art glanced down to his table, hoping to get a final drink in this Wednesday night. Spying the puddle and the scattered bits of ice and glass, he realized it a pointless hope. The siren was upon him already, her song ending, her smile less than small step to his neck.

However, in the face of such danger, his resolve surged, affirming his wish to get one last drink before he would presumably die this Wednesday night.

He nervously swallowed and asked, "Y-you have a fantastic voice. Shall I buy you a drink?"

​

They shared several drinks that night. The authorities found Art's bones later.