Daniel looked down at the roaring crowd and couldn't help but grin. He had waited so long for this moment that it gave him the chills just to think about it. He turned around to nod at Ben, and the first few chords of the most powerful song he'd ever heard, let alone written, began. He closed his eyes and didn't bother to listen to the cheers of the excited crowd. He thought about his past couple of months. Even though he anticipated playing music he would have done anything to get out of that studio, to go home and watch tv, and to just give up. But he would then think of what it was going to be like playing these emotionally draining songs in front of thousands of people at a time, and having them all try their hardest to relate to him. He knew nobody could.
As he sang the lyrics he remembered what it was like back in March. He recalled the day he had visited his doctor of 18 years. The poor guy was scared to death when he saw what Daniel looked like...sunken eyes, a balding head, and no knowing hope of recovering. He shook it off and continued singing. "And you're my obsession..."
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Chris squirmed under the strong arm of Ben, who was at this time laughing uncontrollably at his own antics. "What's the matter, Chris? You don't like noogies? What? Aww, Chris, are you going to cry?"
Daniel just shook his head and laughed at his two friends, joking around like a couple of 15 year olds. Chris grabbed at Ben's wrist and swung, tackling him to the green-carpeted ground. The show was finally over and all they wanted to do was go back to the hotel for a meal, but there were 3 promised magazine interviews to happen in an hour or so. They had to wait around for now.
She walked in about ten minutes later. Tall, blonde, and curvy, with icy blue eyes and very long legs. Ben's jaw almost hit the ground as he realized he and Chris were still wrestling like neanderthals. "I'm supposed to tell you guys to get ready for the Spin interview. They should be here in about a half an hour."
"What's your name, lovely?" Ben was curious and couldn't help but drool, so he decided to talk in order to cover up his nerdish nervousness.
"My name doesn't matter, Mr. Rock Star I Am. I'm John's assisstant and that's about all that matters. It's not like I'll be talking to you again any time soon." Ben winced. Ew.
"Okay, Ms. PMS. Thanks for the info. You can be on your merry way," said Daniel, trying his best not to spout off what he really thought of the mean, supermodel-like wench. She spun on the heel of her platforms and waltzed out the door. "God," Daniel said. "She needs a cigarette break." He shook his head in disgust and resumed his watching Ben and Chris. Only Ben was over by the door now, watching her wiggle down the hallway.
Forty-five minutes later, Daniel was in total disbelief of the questions he was being asked by this guy. 'What kind of shampoo do you use? What's your favorite line of clothing? What's your favorite color?' He was almost positive this idiot was supposed to be interviewing the Backstreet Boys when the man finally asked, "What made you come out of your shell?" Daniel thought of the girl. The girl he saw on the way home from the doctor's office, who was walking down the dark, dreary, empty street with her long jeans that were frayed at the bottoms and her button-down sweater, with the "If That's What You Think, It Must Be True" t-shirt underneath. With the hemp purse slung over her shoulder, with the black, square-shaped glasses that looked so cute with the way her light brown hair framed her oval face and the perplexed look she was expressing at that moment that he saw her. He almost forgot to answer the question.
"People watching, I suppose. I saw the people who I wanted to be more like, the people who I wanted to be around, and I realized that I needed to become a little bit less sheltered." He was tired. Daniel excused himself and walked out into the hallway, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion and scratching his head.
There she was, with her glasses that were so nerdy they were sexy, and a similar warm sweater. Walking in that same independent manner, with that same crazily intellectual look on her face; the one that says, "Please don't speak, you'll ruin my concentration." He almost tripped over his own feet.
His arm itched, and as he looked down to see why, he remembered. The scabs were healing. The ones from the needles that had given him a release during those absurd times. There wasn't much more he could do than keep shooting. So he had. But now he realized how fucking stupid he was to keep doing it, to think that it was his only way to swerve around the feelings of death and self-destruction. He didn't want to approach anyone with the little holes in his arms. It was embarrassing. So instead, he gave her one last glance and walked on by. Too bad she smelled so good.