Munky’s shoulder sagged with the weight of his closest companion, his band mate, Jonathan Davis. Their concert had been downright crazy; the mosh pits in Baltimore, New York were never less than a life-sized nuclear reaction. Tonight, however, had been worse than usual: tonight had been a massacre. The cops and all security had been subdued as the people fled en masse after the encore performance. There was no romance in how they scrambled over the band’s limousine through two miles of New York traffic, like so many ants in a feeding frenzy. Hundreds chased the five rock stars through the hotel lobby. The horrified receptionists watched helplessly in the band’s wake as anarchy destroyed their lowest floor. The flowers in ornate little vases were knocked over; people were hanging from the crystal chandeliers; the rug was utterly destroyed with jack knives and dirty footprints. The story would be all over the New York Times by tomorrow morning. And Munky, the guitarist of KoRn, knew this was the last night the band would ever stay at a Holiday Inn.

Jonathan Davis was the worst for it. Long ago had Munky taken it upon himself to escort Jon to his room after the show, and tonight was no different. He had seen Jon in bad states, yes, but never quite this bad. Jonathan limped down the blank hallways like a decapitated animal. His eyes sagged with tea bags of fatigue that offset his pale features. He reeked of sweat, his hair a greasy mixture of black braid, dreadlock, and knot. The dark leather Puma skirt and shirt he wore had been his resident garb for the past three days. He was starting to emit some rather noxious fumes.

Jon’s voice had ripped through all present that night. It always had. It always would. Munky relished that hour and a half onstage. The people before him teemed, hoping against hope for a slight glance from anyone in the band. Those granted this wish bragged about it for years to anyone who would listen. KoRn was the yellow magic marker of the past decade; they highlighted people’s lives.

But Munky was too tired to dwell on such thoughts. His back hurt from the heavy seven-string guitar he had bounded around onstage with. The press had hounded him all day, as well. Mostly, they asked him of what he thought about Jon’s recent divorce, but they always led around to how Munky got his tongue-in-cheek nickname. "I spread my toes out, and everyone says that they look like hands. That they look like monkey hands."

The hardest questions were asked of Jonathan. "Who was the one that raped you as a child, Jonathan?" "Why are you so angry, Jonathan?" And, by far, the most famous one: "What are you trying to accomplish through your whining, Jonathan?"

Munky finally found the room that Jon would stay at: 126. He thought, despite himself, Finally, as he opened the door. He set Jonathan down on one of the starchy beds. "Are you okay?" he asked. As he asked every night. He looked down and noticed that one of Jonathan’s fingers was bleeding. He had bitten off a hangnail. His lip trickled dried blood, also. In the middle of a song he had sliced his lip on the microphone. He looked at Munky with wide, tear-filled eyes, and for a second Munky thought he saw the maniac faces of his fans.

"Do you want me to stay here?"

"No," he croaked, the flies still buzzing in his throat from hours of relentless screaming under the limelight.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I’m sure. I need to be alone." He turned away from Munky. In the fetal position, he grabbed a pillow from under the covers and buried his face in it. Munky swayed his weight from foot to foot and then left. He slammed the door with a force that made Jon start. As he lay there in the dark his own stench filled his nostrils. He was aware of its rancidity, yet didn’t mind it. He didn’t care. Not anymore.

Eventually Jonathan let go of the pillow. As he spread out his large boxy hands before his face, one finger dripping, he thought about the old days. The old days, when touring included a decidedly unattractive RV and enough fornication magazines to put any Californian specialty shop to shame. Those had been the good times; sure, he had had issues back then, but they were nothing compared to what he faced now. See, sometimes, he would hear voices. They told him to do things he never dreamed of, things that made even his sadistic mind shiver. He had been forced to befriend them, but it was a tricky companionship. They would betray him. In good time, they always did.

They were his only friends now. Ever since the band was catapulted to stardom, there were all these pressures. People he had trusted turned their heads; strangers apologized for making fun of him in high school; he suddenly had seventy-five new cousins. And he honestly believed that his closest buddies—his band—blamed him for this new life. Everyone blamed him. That’s just the way things were for Jonathan Davis.

The way his fans had shown their appreciation that night didn’t help. They had destroyed the lobby, attacked Jonathan and the band, even molested them when they got the chance. Women flashed their endowments at men waving beer cans. In the old days the music had had meaning. The people at the concerts had been civilized. Understood what he was trying to say. Understood that his lyrics were poetry, passion, and something to be revered. Now, KoRn had become a trendy backwash for Ozzy Osbourne rejects. Jonathan could only sit back and wonder why.

Someone knocked on the door. He contemplated not answering it, but got up when he figured that it could be Munky. Of all the other members, he got along best with Munky, and knew he should apologize. He imagined Munky holding him, as he had, last week, when he found Jonathan shaking in the corner of their dressing room. His embrace had been warm, sweet, and friendlier than anything he had ever experienced. Munky loved him. And all Jonathan really wanted was to be loved.

"Hello?" he asked. He halfway expected some snot nosed bus boy, but standing before him was a beautiful woman. She was middle-aged and slender; her physique was marvelous beneath her blue jeans and tank top, though she lacked the long hair that Jon favored in a woman. Jonathan’s ex-wife had long black hair. This lady was bald.

He wondered how she got here. Hadn’t the managers blocked off this floor?

"Um," she flustered. Her cheeks flamed. It was then that he noticed a running scar from the top of her forehead down her cheek. When she shifted her gaze, the eye that split the scar stared ahead. "I just want to give you this." She ran away before he managed a word.

He watched her go, and then looked tentatively at the tiny box. The little voices in his head surfaced from beneath a fog. And began rambling. The one he nicknamed "Daddy" grumbled, "It’s a bomb, Jonathan, a bomb. You’ll die if you open it, and end your own miserable little existence without even looking like the next Kurt Cobain. Come on, do it. You want death, don’t you? Don’t you?"

"No," Jonathan answered firmly. Yet he didn’t believe the words as they left his lips, slipped between two slightly crooked front teeth. A soothing female voice he had named Sandra said, "She’s just a fan. Not like the others. Open it. Nothing to lose. Don’t listen to that little guy. He doesn’t know a goddamn thing."

"Okay."

"I’ll be here for you," she soothed. As Sandra hummed to him softly, he made his way back to his bed. He turned the bedpost lamp on and pulled out a card from the box. It read as follows:

Dear Jonathan,

I just wanted to say, first of all, that I love the band and I love all that you do. You can do no wrong in my eyes—no matter what anyone says. See, I understand where you’re coming from. I love that you can be as honest with yourself as you are. No matter how much it hurts.

I used to lie to myself everyday. I used to wake up and go to school and work, pretending that I fit in with everyone else. I put on a pretense, tried to be like everyone. And for a long time, I succeeded. In fact, I think that even for a while I forgot about what happened to me when I was a kid. It was so long ago, Jonathan, but it haunts me. It haunts me to this day.

My parents divorced when I was a baby. I would have been her second if it hadn’t been for my crack head father, who had told her to abort an earlier one. When she got pregnant with me she refused to go through that again. I came into this world with my grandmother at my side. While my mom went to school to get a job I stayed at my grandmother’s. My mom and I lived in a tiny apartment. I went to Catholic school until I was in about third or fourth grade. Even to this day I can’t really remember the specifics. I have erased most of my childhood from my mind.

Eventually my mom started dating, and although she started off with nice enough guys she soon fell back into her old pattern. It finally got to the point where she was taking home homeless guys, and they lived with us. My mom worked the night shift…I don’t like to talk about those nights, if you get my drift. My mom didn’t even believe that it was happening when I told her. It got to the point where I honestly believed that I didn’t have anyone to turn to. I started getting into drugs, and I would sneak out every night just so that I wouldn’t have to face what was destined for me if I stayed. I slept out on the street; sometimes, when I got wasted enough, I slept in the middle of the street. I got the scar that runs down the side of my face when some guy I had dumped hit me over the head with a beer bottle. I lost an eye. And I will bear that scar—a memory of those nights—for the rest of my life.

By the time I was fifteen I was pregnant. When the baby was born I named him Jonathan (a coincidence…this was back in ’84), and by the time I was ready to move out with him, he was eight. My mother supported me as I worked hard, now a single mother to a little son in a city slum. He was exactly how I was as a kid; deprived of a father. He never met his father. He never will.

A couple of years ago, when he was fourteen, he was diagnosed with leukemia. I had to work three jobs to pay for his chemotherapy, even with financial aid. I remember those days, and how they passed so swiftly. No matter how hard he tried he just didn’t get better. He had to quit school. His curly black hair fell out in clumps. When he got so sick that he had to be isolated in the hospital, I will never forget how he told me that all he wanted was a picture of me, a disc man, and his three KoRn albums. He talked about you guys all the time, how you once met this kid with cancer and wrote a song about him called "Justin". He was so happy when he passed away, Jonathan. He was listening to that song.

When he died I finally decided to listen to what you had to say. I listen to "Justin" every day now. I never considered contacting the Make-A-Wish Foundation, but looking back I should have. I should have let him meet the people who kept him smiling until the day he died. It was his dream to meet you, you know. His only wish. He loved you guys.

Now, still, people who don’t know me give me weird looks. They say that I’m ugly, that I’m a "freak". There have been so many times when I’ve been a pinhole away from ending it all, especially after Jon’s death. That’s when I plug in my earphones and listen to your voice singing, "Fly into me/ Give me something/ For all the kids that die/ Listening to me/ You are loved." You have reached places in me that no one ever has. You keep my son alive within me, and I feel like you are the father that my son and I never had. You are the love of my life and my guidance. Keep up the strength, Jonathan. There are those out there who love and care for you. I’m one of them.

Love,

Katrina

Tentatively, he opened the box. Inside there was a small note as well. And a bundle of long, black hair, as silky as the night.

I shaved it off a month ago. I started a new life. I thought you should have it.

Another knock on the door. He thought it was the woman, and as the warring voices in his head argued relentlessly, he limped to the door. He flung it open. "Katrina!" he cried.

It was Munky, however. His marvelously tan skin accented his black dreadlocks and chocolate eyes. He grabbed Jonathan before he collapsed. The voices stopped. Everything did. The energy drained out of his body, even as his grip remained tight on the long tail of black hair.

And as the door closed again, as Munky held Jonathan and cooed him to sleep, a woman with a shaved head walked by. She stopped in front of the door labeled "126". As Jonathan’s harsh breathing reached her ears, she caught a tear as it puddled beneath her glass eye. She kissed it. Carefully, it slid from her fingertip onto the silver number "1" of the wooden door.

"Thank you," she whispered. "You are loved."