Fame

With the final strum of my scarlet guitar, i sent the crowd off in such a wild state that my ears were ringing. The music stopped, and i stood there upon that stage, facing thousands of nameless faces, screaming and cheering my name. I took in the familiar atmosphere, as i do every concert. I'm not new to the stage. With the little voice i had that remained, i yelled goodnight to the people and ran off stage, smiling satified at another successful night.

In time, the boys and i were back in our van, traveling to a new place in the world to rock. I lit my cigarette as i playfully strummed my faded scarlet guitar. Every band member was silently occupied: the drummer and the bassist playing cards on the table, a background singer slumbering peacefully on the couch, and another two background singers reading the same books over and over.

I braced myself for New York City, the next city on our tour. I'd been all over the world. We started out as  small town band from England, and our fame grew tirelessly since 1960. Then, it was 1967. I couldn't tell you how many autographs i'd written, how many songs i'd sang, how many fans i had, how many places i'd been. it was not uncommon to pass a record store with my own face on a poster on the front door.

I began tappin my shiny black boot, whispering lyrics to myself. After recieving an annoyed look from the bassist, i ceased to sing. I grabbed a Coke off the counter and lit another cigarette.

Fame had been a dream all my life, fame in music. i picked up my first guitar when i was twelve, and strummed every day since. Soon enough, i had known fame for seven years. Fame all over the world. The world is a big place, with lots of people. Whether people hated me or loved me, i was famous, being a lead vocalist and guitarist. I could not step out of my van without a flocking entorage, flashes of cameras blinding me. I soon learned to wear sunglasses. Wearing my dark pilot aviators became a trademark of mine within time.

My cigarette burned out, and i sat still, happily bored. I was rarely bored. My job was nothing without people, and my music. I gave music, and people came to me. Crowds of thousands, amps turned up so everyone could hear....it was a dream. Everyone in that crowd would give anything to be me.

Once again, i bid farewell to the crowd after an excellent show. The stage lights of many colors flashed around as people roared. My guitar and my voice once again brought success.

Afterwards, the boys and i attended a huge party. The details remain vague to me, as i became increasingly intoxicated with every sip of those drinks. Then i saw her...she had blonde hair and looked like a doll. She winked at me and smiled. She took my hand and led me away...i never did learn her name. However, cameras flashed, light bouncing off my sunglasses, even though it was night. Everyone on earth would know what i was doing, but i didn't care, at the time.

Two months later, i attended court to file a divorce from my wife because i cheated on her. She had custody of my son, my only son. He looked so much like me. It pained his mother, and my son's tearstained mother took him away from me. Fame was what i wanted, she said. Not her, not my son. So she left.

At first, i laughed it off. I had to. Half of my fans had left, when they found out that their hero got drunk and cheated on his wife. A year later, our number one hit was released and another leap of fame crashed over the boys and i. I enjoyed it.

The concerts started getting bigger, and the parties started getting wilder. I lost count of how many girls i slept with, how many hits of the bowl i took, how many trips i took. At first, it was for fun. The drugs and the smoke and the drinks were fun.

But, as many girls i was with, as many fans i had...i began to feel depressed. I was not happy when i wasn't high or drunk. It was impossible. I started heroin, and i became most addicted.

Our band was getting old, we had not created anymore hits. Our crowds were thinning, our fans were half-hearted. The haters began flooding, sending hate letters. Writing terrible things about me for the world to see...for my son to see. I missed my son. i had no idea who he was or who he became. i was never able to play ball with him in the yard, or teach him to play guitar. He must hate his dad, that boy. I didn't even try. The remorse came back to me, and i took another shot of heroin...

Then i saw it. I was reading a magazine, flipping through the pages casually. With no surprise, i saw my own face on one of the pages, followed by an article. I looked closely at the name, and recognized the name of my son. Curiously, i read his words. "My dad was never there for me. He was in it for himself, for his own fame. He was captivated by his music, his people. Not by me. He wasn't interested. He was distant, cold, and formal with me. He is a stranger to me, i never got to know him. Looking at what he's done...there's not much to know." Tears filled my dark gray eyes. i couldn't believe this. my son hated me...hated me. and he didn't care that anyone could read and see that, see how much of a father i had been.

Depression overwhelmed me. this world hated me, wanted me gone. Even my son, even myself. Girls didn't seem pretty anymore, and music didnt sound so wonderful anymore. the strings on my guitar made merely sound, just sound. my voice was hollow and worthless. My scarlet guitar seemed colorless, my skin, white. My long, black hair was in my face. My hands were cold, my heartbeat dull. I cradled my pistol, my shiny black pistol. No one was around, i was alone. Thinking i would always remain that way, i pointed it at my head, and pulled the trigger.