Justin paced back and forth in the small room. His eyes traveled up to the low ceiling, the blank walls, and finally to the soft, lushly carpeted floor. He didn’t need to be here. He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t need to be amongst these raving lunatics and problematic psychos. He wasn’t insane. Was he? He reached up to his hair, pulling from it the only thing that mattered, the small pin that used to hold his bandana on when it continuously fell off. He took it in his hands, staring at it like some heaven sent angel, and then lowered it to his finger.
It all started in August. I guess you could say that that was when my life ended. The Backstreet Boys had just released their newest CD, called Less than Five. How ironic that, not six days after the debut, Kevin Richardson should die in a fatal car accident along with his wife Kirsten and their newborn Kayla.
Why does this pertain to my story, you ask? I was not the one guilty of his death. His blood did not spill onto my hands. No, not at all. The voice was his. I couldn’t care less about him. The reason was because now, each of the four remaining singers was suddenly boosted up in their popularity. And the show we had been scheduled to appear on now had them coming in right after us.
No big deal. It was arranged so that we should never get anywhere near each other. Brian would never even glance at Joey. Howie wouldn’t even be able to gaze at JC’s dangling necklace. And irony strikes again.
It was about five minutes before our scheduled time to go onstage. We all had on ear monitors, our hair was styled, and each button fell perfectly on our clothes. That’s when I heard them.
Such a deep conversation, and so out of synch. I wondered, vaguely, if each was talking to himself, as it seemed. I glanced at the others. They were clueless. No one heard a thing. How could they talk about these things aloud- And so loudly, at that. I could hear AJ relaying tales of his newest tattoo, Brian praying for his dear companion’s safety and for his own. I heard Howie cursing and yelling in rage at seemingly random thoughts. Even Nick, I heard, talking longingly of my ex-girlfriend.
Shaking the thought from my head, I paraded on stage with my four band mates. Even on stage, I could hear them as if they were right next to me. Everyone else sat simply at the fluffed couch and answered all of that annoying host’s questions. I could barely answer one. Ages later, I lifted my feet to the floor and gave the host a small peck on the cheek. She swooned and I picked up the pace.
As we were exiting the stage, a blinding flash of light came at my back and all five of us jumped to the floor. Shouts and screams echoed and a red glare overtook the place. Next thing I knew, someone, JC I do believe, was pulling at me and dragging me towards the exit. I wasn’t paying any attention; all I could focus on was that simple fact. The voices are gone.
We never did see any of the Backstreet Boys. Truth to tell no one did. All four were killed in the bombing. The hugely popular boyband had been blasted into oblivion. But that wasn’t what troubled me.
Barely a week later it was announced that the killer who had planted the bomb had been found, but remained hidden. The government also had a hit list. We were not on it. Our dear, ahem, friend, Lou Pearlman, was, however. His house was under major security and we had found ourselves once again inside it discussing money matters. As we entered, he shook each of ours hands politely. That would be the last polite thing he ever did. Half an hour into our bickering, I began to hear him say things that no one else could. They were not directed at us, but to himself.
“Bitchy five. I gave them their stardom and this is how they repay me!” I looked to the others to see what their reaction to his calling us ‘bitchy’ would be. There was none. They all went on talking as if they hadn’t heard a thing. I looked at him.
“Well then you can go and fuck your damn mother Lance,” he replied to Lance as Lance pointed something out. There was only one problem with this. His lips didn’t move. They were pursed so tightly together that I doubted he could say anything if he wanted to. And Lou was no ventriloquist. That’s when it began to dawn on me.
I stared at him as his thoughts blew past me. Curse after curse, sigh after sigh came at me, in some silent dream. JC shook me.
“Hello, Justin, do you have any input to this,” he asked me.
“We gotta go,” I said. The truth, the horrible truth rushed up at me. “Come ON,” I pleaded, yanking JC up and wrapping my coat around me. “We have to go, we have to go NOW!”
“Justin, what got into you?” Chris looked at me.
“If you don’t’ ever trust me again, trust me now, we HAVE to go, and we have to go NOW.”
Good-byes were quick. I ran into the car and urged JC to drive faster, faster away from the house. I could still hear Lou’s sinister voice as we burned down the street.
Lou Pearlman was killed by a raging group of terrorists approximately ten minutes after we left. Everyone in the house had been found dead. That’s when the suspicions began to get thrown on me.
“How did you know that was going to happen?” JC took me aside from the other three, about a day later.
“You’re not going to believe me,” I said, hanging my head and brushing a hand through my curls.
“Curly, we’ve been best friends for like eight years, ever since the MMC, remember? I’ll believe you,” his voice was sincere.
“I can hear people’s thoughts. Before they die. I can hear them,” JC’s face contorted for a second with mixed emotion. The greatest being disbelief. “It all started with Kevin, back in august. I was driving a few cars behind him, on my way to go to the studio. And, I could HEAR his thoughts. I thought I was just imagining things. Then there was the Sandy Show, you remember? And, I could hear them, all four of them. It was like they were talking really loud, because no matter what I did I could hear them. And then they died too. And then Lou- and I could hear every single off-handed comment and curse that he wanted to say to us. And I just put two and two together.”
“You really believe this?” JC asked me. I looked up into those blue eyes, the same shade as mine. He shook his head and closed his eyes. I guess he believed me.
“Justin, if what you say is true, then you should be able to hear me right now. Please don’t be mad at me, but my life is too hard. All the answer’s are on my lap top. Just open up the main file on word, the password is shazzam. I’m sorry buddy, but I have to go. Good-Bye.”
I ran into the room as soon as I could. Even before I opened the door, I knew it was too late. As I entered, blood had already begun to pool around JC’s head. The bullet had lodged into his brain. He was dead.
I opened up the file and found the mess that JC had been trying to live through- from his abusive love life to the pain and pressure of his job. Why hadn’t I noticed this? Why hadn’t I gotten there sooner? His troubles now alighted on my shoulders.
The world had turned upside down. I kept this secret to myself for awhile, after JC’s death. I hadn’t told anyone, nor had JC. I was again left alone to myself, and to the last thoughts of those about to die around me.
I tried desperately to block them out, to ignore the echoes that bounced through my head. But they were becoming more numerous as crime and disease began to spread. I could no longer even drive past hospitals, the mental stress of everyone’s dying thoughts was just too great.
For three years I remained silent. *Nsync died with JC. I, naturally, went solo, continuing under the management of Johnny Wright. Joey and Chris faded completely from my scope. I had no idea where they were, what they were doing. That isn’t completely true. Joey went into full time acting, even starred in some of the best American films. But Chris: Nothing.
Lance became an even closer friend, especially after I began to take interest in one of his newest recruits to FreeLance. Her name was Marie and for a while I felt that everything as going great in my life. The pain of my best friend’s death had almost completely subsided. The voices, even, began to stop. They became less numerous.
Marie and I got married on May 5th 2005. It was the happiest day of my life. And the whole world was silent. The voices stopped pestering me. I no longer felt the despairing echoes as they traveled to and fro across my brain. Not until one day, exactly two years after our wedding.
I was waiting outside of the room, twisting my thumbs and praying, always praying. The first voice I heard was small, faint, and jumbled. It wasn’t words, it wasn’t tears; I just felt an overwhelming brink of awe, surprise, and fear. That was Kate. The next voice I heard caused panic to reign so high in my system that for a second I just sat, frozen, hoping it was her high pitched voice as she went through the birthing process. No, it wasn’t. It was in my head, and in my head alone. I couldn’t even get myself under enough control to get up, and hold her hand. I sat paralyzed for half an hour.
“Mr. Timberlake,” the doctor said. He walked up to me, his footfalls echoing harsh on the floor. I didn’t even have to look up. The tears had already began to flow.
“She’s dead,” I said. My body began convulsing and long sobs came out from my mouth. The doctor rested a hand against my back. What else could he do? I sat and cried until my eyes were crimson and my face sticky from endless tears. I sat until I could cry no more. Then I got up, walked to the door, and drove.
I told Lance, for he was my only remaining companion. He was the only person in my life whom I felt I could talk to anymore. Parents? Ha. They hated me, all four of them. Don’t know why. They wouldn’t help me any ways. And that was why I told Lance. I told Lance everything- the voices, the pain. All of it was poured out. He called up the mental facility that same hour, and inducted me forcefully.
“It’s for your own good, Justin,” he told me. I looked at him, fresh tears swelling up and pouring down my face. I just stared at those emerald eyes that once held friendship and hope. There was nothing there. After news got out about my being in a mental facility, my parents left me completely. I was a disgrace, after all. Lance paid for my being there, making sure I got the finest treatment and the best care. Sometimes, he would even come to visit.
“Hey buddy, how ya doin’?” he asked me. I looked at him and shook my head.
“Why did you do this to me? Why, Lance?” I asked him. You were my one, true friend. You meant the world to me. And you put me HERE?
“Do you still believe you hear voices?” Lance asked me. I nodded my head. How could I forget? How could I forget this amazing curse that haunted me like no tomorrow?
“Then you still need to be here, Justin,” He looked at me. His twenty eight-year old face looked much older than it really was. His eyes sagged from the work he had had to do. I reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. His eyes traveled up to meet mine. The look I saw there was one of defeat. Why? I did not know. But it didn’t surprise me that, before he left, I could hear faint echoes of his thoughts bouncing against my skull. Before he left I lifted his chin with my hand.
“You’re next buddy. You’re next,” I said, closing my eyes and allowing four small tears to snake down my cheek. Lance just looked at me with a pitiful stare, grabbed his coat, and left.
We weren’t allowed to have newspapers in the facility. But I didn’t need it. I knew he was dead. I knew he was dead. I felt no loss. Lance had been dead ever since he put me in here- ever since he had thrown out our trust and replaced it with- with this, with these white, endless walls.
Then I was completely alone. That is my whole story. It took me five years of living in this place, of feeling utter loneliness to decide upon my fate. I can hear myself now. The saying, “Hear myself think,” has a completely new meaning. I am beginning to feel light headed, and my voice inside my head is growing louder, echoing, booming across my brain. Well, my friends, good-bye.
The white-suited man looked at the words. Their bloody presence encompassed him, haunting him. He gazed up, around. The red words were everywhere. He darted across them, reading of the young man’s life. It was amazing what some of these psychos could come up with. Staring at the body for awhile, a lifeless, shriveled heap, he wondered, pondering for an instant-no more- if perhaps it was true. No. Of course not. Who was he kidding? Along with one other man, he lifted the dead body onto the stretcher. Taking up the white shroud, he slowly pulled it over the man’s head. The last thing he remembered was the strange feeling, that he had heard those last sentences before.
