Page 43 of A Tragic Melody

“Show me your dressing room.”

I nod, swallowing the lump that is forming in my throat.

My mind takes me to dark places as Henricks fucks me from behind. I keep my eyes on our reflection in the mirror, but I don’t see us. There is no need to watch the faces he makes. It took a few times, but eventually I taught myself to go on autopilot when he uses me.

When any guy uses me.

Now I just think about what my life would’ve been like if I never got signed. What would my mother have done with me? She had her mind set on making me famous. She went to great lengths to get people to notice me. If none of it paid off, where would I be?

Would she have kicked me out when I turned eighteen? Sold me to some thug on the street? Make me go into porn?

And what would she really do if Hendricks doesn’t pay her? Could she really sell all the dirt she has on me?

It seems crazy to think that she would ruin my life because she decided to have me. She made that choice. She can claim my father begged her to, but she still could’ve gotten rid of me.

Hell, she could’ve done it the moment he left. Shipped me off to foster care, put me up for adoption. She didn’t need to keep me. There was no reason for her to use me. She should’ve abandoned me and went after her own dreams.

I can’t help but wonder how her mother was. I never met the lady, or any of her family, to be honest. She mentioned them very little, and I didn’t care to ask. I was too busy trying to survive her.

I want to believe she is a product of her upbringing, just like I am. Want to assume she had the best intentions, but looking back…I can’t buy that. What person, let alone mother, lets grown men chase after their daughter? Shoves drugs down her throat and encourages her to sleep with older men for fame? That is psychotic. Evil.

Wyatt’s family may be dead, but I can see that he misses them. I envy that feeling. I was grateful when my mother walked away. It was a short-lived sense of relief, but still. It’s easier to be used by Hendricks than the one person who should’ve taken care of me.

The day my mother dies will be one of the greatest days of my life. No longer will I be living in fear of the damage she could do. It feels like living with an axe over my head. Knowing that at any moment, she could sell all my secrets. The world would eat me alive if they knew half of the things that happened during my youth. They would hang me from a ceiling fan if they knew what goes on with Hendricks and me.

It feels like living with a death sentence hanging over my head. At any point, the prison that is my life can decide it's my time to die.

When all the shit hits the fan, I don’t think I’ll survive. Suicide is so cliché, but what else would be left for me? I’m not sure being a washed-out singer, playing in shitty clubs back home is a life I can lead. And who will want me once all that is out in the open? No one.

When the door shuts behind him, I finally let myself settle into the present. My reflection shows my makeup smeared and the buns on my hair are a mess. Tears dwell in my eyes, but I push them back. Crying doesn’t undo the damage.

This night could’ve ended better. I wanted it to end better.

I should’ve been riding Wyatt’s cock, hoping sex would mess with his head, but instead I sit on my dressing room floor, feeling the remains of Hendricks’s anger drip down my thigh.

Now the last thing I want is to be near Wyatt. He would only make me feel worse about myself. He knows exactly what to say to hurt me. I thought I was immune to being hurt by anyone’s words, but he proved me wrong. Everything he says cuts deep.

It’s not fair. He shouldn’t get to me so easily, but something about him just…bugs me. Honestly, I think I’m jealous. He had a loving family. He found a way out of his darkness while I just let mine consume me.

I don’t understand why Hendricks keeps showing up on this tour. I know there has been some drama, but nothing that bad. Still, he keeps talking like all I do is cause problems. I’m not doing anything I don’t normally do. Outside of my mother showing up and the change in guitar players, nothing crazy has happened.

It's not like I called him and asked him to show up. It’s not like he can’t let someone else handle the few things that have come up. Touring is supposed to be freedom for me, a safe place where I can enjoy myself. Where I remember why I don’t just let the bomb explode. But now it’s turned into a nightmare, just like every other part of my life.

I sit naked, on the floor, chugging from a bottle of vodka until my throat begins to burn and my vision blurs. Then I take to trying to clean myself up. I hate that there is no way for me to be completely clean of him. A shower sounds so great right now, but who knows when I’ll get one of those.

I slide on my clothes, trying not to fall over before grabbing my bag and heading towards the bus. I could use a line of coke, but honestly, I don’t want to be high right now. I want to sink into the abyss.

When I swing open the bus door, the sound of light guitar strumming makes me groan. I don’t need to see him to know it’s Wyatt. Only he would be playing guitar after a night on stage.

But when I do glance over, I see him sitting on the couch with a guitar in his lap and his head bowed, looking over his phone. His dark hair is a mess, and the sleeves of his long undershirt are rolled up.

“Go to sleep,” I snap. “I can’t stand to see your fucking face right now,” I mutter, letting myself drop onto the couch beside him.

“Can you even see straight right now?” He chuckles.

“I can see enough,” I snap back. “Please, just shut up. Don’t say a word. If you aren’t going to leave me alone, the least you can do is shut the hell up.” I’m too drunk, and fighting the urge to cry.

He doesn’t respond to that, just begins to strum on his guitar again. It takes me a moment, but eventually I place the song. It’s one of mine. For some reason, that just makes me feel worse.