* * * * * * * * *
This
story is a continuation of the “Taylor Journal Entries” Series. That means following sequence this is part four,
following Part 1 “Nothing Left For Us”, Part 2 “Uphill Battle” and Part 3
“Buddy”.
* * * * * * * *
Dear Journal,
I’m
quite aware that my entries are becoming less and less frequent, believe me I
have very little time for writing lately, I know deep in my heart that if I
ever need to confide in you, journal, to confide in you, this book of all my
thoughts and secrets, that I have to sacrifice an hour of sleep to do so. And these days it can be less than three
hours sleep a night if I’m lucky – so I think you’ll forgive me, Journal, now
that I’ve explained why I have neglected you so. God I can’t believe I’m talking to my journal as if it were some
girl I’d stood up a number of times and was making excuses…
Some
days, you just don’t feel like appearing in public places announced before
hand, where you know you’re going to be swarmed by fans, more than you can
handle.
One or two fans is
fine, they want conversations, they want autographs, I can handle that, I’m programmed
to handle that. But hundreds of
fans…that’s another story.
Surrounded….trapped, unable to do anything but nod and smile and try to
converse with every person there. Occupational
hazard, says my Manager, and that eventually, it won’t bother me so
much. I guess, in a way it didn’t
bother me as much as it used to but however, it wasn’t something I could ever
really get used to.
On
this particular day, it was one of those days when I didn’t want to be in
public, I would have rather been alone with my thoughts, but there I was, getting
out of a van and having to start to wade through tidal waves of fans. I heard Zac mutter some chosen swear words
under his breath out of the earshot of fans – I however picked it up quite
well, I don’t choose to repeat it, it’s in bad taste.
The
fans swarmed us like flies to a pile of excrement, girls crying, screaming,
screeching, calling our names. All the
while I’m thinking; I can’t breathe!
Sweat was running down my back, my cheeks felt flushed, I was dizzy.
We signed
autographs, chatted with the fans, all the while trying to make our way to the
doors of the building we were supposed to be entering to be interviewed on TV.
I
was walking when I noticed The Fan.
Something was drawing me, something was making me turn and look there,
as if a magnet had pulled my vision in her sights. There she was, standing away from all the others, far away from
me and my brothers as if she were afraid to come over. She stood around five foot three, with the
palest skin I had ever seen in my life, hair the colour of red roses, and dark
glassy almost lifeless eyes. She was
standing there, staring right at me. There was an expression of sadness, as if
she felt sorry for me…or maybe for herself, I’m not quite sure…
I
felt the little hairs at the back of my neck stand on end and I ran my hand
over them to try and calm that down a little, this wasn’t a feeling I was used
to. I paused, falling into my own
little world for a moment or two, she’s probably just shy, I
decided. I raised my hand and beckoned
her over, but she did not move, she just stood there, watching me.
“Taylor,”
Isaac nudged my back, “move, you’re blocking me,” he frowned.
“Oops,
sorry,” I blurted, and began to walk again, took once glance at the girl before
I entered the building. She wasn’t
there.
After
that, I hadn’t thought about it much, when you’re a celebrity you get
distracted with everything going on, especially when you’re constantly on the
move.
It
was only yesterday that I thought about it again. I was on a plane back to Tulsa, with my father, my brothers and
our Manager, and it was a week later, and I was sitting, looking out of the
window, watching the clouds passing by.
Chris,
our manager, was reading a newspaper in the seat behind Zac (who was at my
side).
“You
okay, Tay, you’ve been quiet all day,” Zac glanced at me.
“I’m
fine,” I shrugged, “Just bored I guess.
God I hate plane rides.”
“Who
does,” Zac shrugged.
Chris
leaned over the back of Zac’s seat, “Hey, guys, you’re mentioned in the paper.”
“Where?”
I asked.
“There,”
Chris pointed out the article, “I circled it with my pen.”
I
took the newspaper, and Zac leaned over to read the article with me.
Hannah
Mutch, 16, Maryann Sobol, 17, and Carolyn Hodgekiss, 15, were on their way to see
boy-band, Hanson, who were due to arrive at TFYE Studios early on Friday
evening, when their car skidded out of control on ice and crashed into two
other cars on the road. Maryann Sobol
and Carolyn Hodgekiss were seriously injured as a result of the accident and
Hannah Mutch died of internal bleeding three hours after the crash, at
precisely 12.14 p.m.
I
stopped reading there, because it only had information about Hannah Mutch’s
funeral and this information was of no use to me at present, but I did feel
horribly bad inside for this girl, losing her life on the account of coming to
see me and my brothers in person? I
felt a strange twinge in the pit of my stomach, “Can we send flowers with our
condolences?” I asked of Chris.
“Sure
thing,” Chris answered from our backs, “I’ll get someone to arrange that for
you when we get off the plane.”
Zac
sighed, “So sad…so young to die,” he shook his head.
At the time, I did
think about retorting to Zac by reminding him of how he had tried to die young
months ago, but I did not want to open my mouth, his mood had been good, and I
didn’t want to bring up any unpleasantness.
“She was really pretty too,” he pointed to a picture at the left of the
article.
I
glanced at the picture, and I could not believe my eyes. The girl in the picture – while the picture
was not in colour – was indubitably the girl that I had seen the week previous,
the girl with the rose red hair, and the dark lifeless eyes, and I froze,
because…that…was absolutely impossible.
It had been six o’clock when we had arrived at that studio on that
Friday, and Hannah Mutch died after midday on that Friday…that was impossible.
But
there was no doubt in the back of my mind that this was the same girl. Suddenly I had that feeling of the hairs
prickling at the back of my neck and I shivered a little, and closed the
newspaper. I frowned in thought,
realising that what I had seen was impossible, but nevertheless, I had still
seen it. She had been there, outside
that studio, watching me with her dark sad eyes.
“Chris?”
I asked in a whispery voice.
“Yeah?”
“When
you arrange to have flowers sent with our condolences…make sure they’re red
roses.”
“Okay…”
Chris sounded vague.
At
that point all I could think of was her hair…that magnificent rose red colour,
seeming all the more vibrant in contrast with her pale skin.
I
sat quietly, reflecting. I didn’t
believe in ghosts – and I’m not sure I still do…maybe I was just too stressed
out, maybe I imagined her, maybe the photo I had seen in that newspaper was
what my mind wanted me to see, I had no idea.
I
can only be fully glad I did not approach her, because if I had and something
had occurred, something not quite real, then…I probably would have lost my
mind. Maybe that was why she didn’t
approach me when I beckoned her.
I
don’t know, journal, maybe I am really losing my mind, with all that has been
happening lately, with Zac’s suicide attempt, and finding out my best friend is
gay and with all the pressures of being a celebrity and all the pressure of the
music and the long nights and the little sleep and all the insanity of
everything, maybe this is the first sign of many that will lead me to an
emotionally and psychotically disturbed – cracked like so many other teenagers
under such stress have become.
And
now, I lay here in bed with that thought, almost afraid to close my eyes in
case I see Hannah’s face in my mind, her sad, lifeless dull dark eyes staring
at me. I keep thinking now that maybe
it was my fault, after all, it was because she was coming to see the band that
she died – surely that counts as my fault?
Maybe that’s why she was there, to scare me, because it was my fault
that she died…
God,
I am going crazy…
I’m
so exhausted diary, so exhausted, scared and feeling alone, I can’t talk to my
brothers about this, they would think I was nuts. And I keep trying to be the strong one, I want to be independent,
I don’t want them to know the strain I’m under, I want them to know that when I
always said I would struggle with the uphill battle of all this strain, and
win, that I was being truthful. I will
not crack under the strain, I will not crack like Zac did. I will not lose my mind…
I
will not.
I
will not crack, journal…
Anyway,
I’m going to try and sleep now…hope to see you again journal,
God bless,
Taylor.
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