Page 93 of Haunt Me

“Another one? When?” I murmur.

I can’t remember when was the last time I was so tired; I can barely open my lips. Finals at school had nothing on this baby.

“When you build up your stamina a little,” Skye laughs and kicks me off the bed. “And when you release your next song. So,” he looks at his watch, “by my calculations, any minute now.”

…

She (I can no longer think of her name) never replies to my frantic texts. She never contacts me. The months turn into years, until I convince myself that all that’s left of her is a memory.

The memory of our last lazy afternoon in the woods, when I’d kissed her and said a quick goodbye to her, already aching inside, thinking I would see her again tomorrow. Already counting the minutes until I would.

The last time I held her, kissed her, spoke to her, having it was the last time.

But that’s not all that’s left of her.

There is the hole where my heart used to be—she left me that, too.

My mind plays tricks on me. I keep imagining I see her everywhere.

I catch a glimpse of a girl that looks like her the first time I ever play for a tiny crowd of twenty people at a basketball game. It’s not her, of course; it can’t be. It’s just a random girl outside the stadium. But I freak out for a good three days afterwards.

Every time I think of her, I cope the only way I know: by writing more songs, by working harder on my guitar playing skills, and by going to the gym. By calling Skye. Anything to get my mind off her.

More time passes.

I meet Weston Spencer, the famous actor. I meet a lot of famous people—they leave me completely indifferent. But there’s just something about Spencer. I don’t know what it is yet.

He says, and I quote: “You’re Pan’s brother, right?”

“Iam Pan,” I say. “Isaiah Pan. The eldest Pan.ThePan.”

He blinks at me. He already knows James, so I’m the second Pan brother he’s met. He doesn’t get why I’m so weirded out. I think he’s out of his mind drunk.

“I’m just Wes,” he tells me. “Can I borrow your songs for my movie? They’re brilliant. You’re brilliant.”

I end up holding his waist while he throws up in the back of an exclusive club in L.A. He’s my slave after that.

We work together. He drinks. A lot. I start taking pills. He will stop, eventually; I won’t.

My so-called career takes off. Skye begins to talk about a real tour, which ends up being a sold-out stadium tour. Once that starts, it goes much better than anticipated, and they add Europe shows. At this rate, this thing is going to take a couple of years, at least. Skye says we ought to ride the wave of my fame. He asks me if I’m thinking of writing more songs, as he wants to release them while I am at my peak.

The label wants to get a second album out as soon as possible, but they don’t think I have it in me. They think my star will die soon. They say it happens to most pop stars that blow up suddenly, like I did. They call it the ‘firework effect’. Otherwise known as ‘crash and burn’.

“It’s not going to happen to this one,” Skye tells them, staring at me the whole time. “You’ve never seen anything like Issy Woo. Watch what happens. He’s going to be a phenomenon.”

I personally couldn’t care less, but writing songs is the one thing that actually interests me right now. It kept me alive once before, didn’t it? Skye knows it. I know it. Music is the only thing that keeps the darkness at bay—and suddenly, I’m scrambling for the melodies that will save me. They prove elusive.

Fumbling for something to anchor me as I sink deeper into despair, I descend into addiction, trying to fight the darkness with more darkness. It doesn’t work that way, of course. I nearly die; Jude and Skye save my life. They tell me I’ve caught it early, and to go to rehab asap. I do. It takes me months, but I beat that ugly beast.

Who knew I had it in me to fight to stay alive?

Skye and Jude save my life in more ways than I can count. Once I’m clean and ready to resume the tour, I am hungry to make more songs.

But the fear still lurks, the fear that eventually, I will get tired of fighting. There will be left inside me except darkness. The fear that no matter how many years pass since the day she left me in those woods, I won’t be able mend my heart. I won’t lift this darkness.

She took away my heart, my hope, my education, my future, my reputation, my family and my name. She gave me so many things, but, in the end, she took away everything she had ever given me, including my ability to love.

All she left me was music.

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