chapter 3

            Why was he just staring at me like that? I suppose he was just used to having girls scream at just a mention of his name, let alone being in the same room as him.

                I had to admit though, it was quite a sensation to be in the same room as Andrew McCallan, the same boy who rose to fame through Youtube videos and signed to a record label as a boy band soon after. I also had to admit that he was very talented, but the type of music he performed was that poppy crap about being in love with a girl- the type of music that would attract millions of girls from all around the world to fall in love with him.

                And it worked. Andrew McCallan, along with Max Delavigne, Archie Davis, and Logan Jackson were the four most wanted boys in the country and quite possibly the world. The commercial quality of their music hooked teens, tweens, and even middle-aged mothers, but they didn’t attract me.

                I saw through the gimmicks and good advertisements, along with the date setups to get the boys’ names in the paper. He was recently linked to fellow musician Charlotte Delaross, whom I used to be a fan of. Then, within the past year, she changed her music from indie to the pop crap that The Doses also performed. The one thing that irked me about Charlotte was her obsession with boys. The magazine covers always reported her with a different guy, whether they were actors, singers, or even royalty; all of whom she wrote songs about, and not positive ones either.  Let’s just say she didn’t have the best of reputations…

To be honest, the whole scheme depressed me, but then again, what didn’t anymore? What happened to the honest relationships, ones that weren’t all about sex? Oh how I ached for just someone to cuddle with, who would suffer through corny chick-flicks with me because he knew it would make me happy.

“Ahem.” That was Andrew’s sad attempt to bring be back to the real world, and it worked.

“Oh sorry, I guess I zoned out... So why am I tied down like this?” I motioned with my head to the retraints on my wrists” and another question popped into my head, “and what are you even doing here?” I asked, genuinely curious.  

“You’re tied down because the doctors were concerned that you would try to hurt yourself again, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. They said yesterday that you lost too much blood, that you might not make it.” I could vaguely distinguish the sadness that soaked his voice as he said the last sentence, how he lowered his head as he spoke.

“Oh I see. I just want you to know that I wasn’t trying to kill myself. It’s all a misunderstanding.” That was a half-lie.

Surprisingly, I found it extremely hard to lie to him. I could sense a pain in my chest as I did so, but I had to say to myself that it was better for him to believe it. I wanted to make him feel better. He looked so awful, his hair was an unintentional mess, since it usually was a perfect mix of looking like he tried too hard and looking like he didn’t try at all, and he had dark rims surrounding his eyes. I couldn’t help but want to pull him into bed with me and just hold his head in my arms until he fell asleep.

As I told him that I wasn’t suicidal, I could almost see a weight lift from his shoulders; he stood up straighter and didn’t look quite as miserable. I couldn’t really understand why my well-being affected him so much, but I had to admit that it was nice for someone to care about me.

After letting my words sink in, he spoke. “I’m truly sorry, but bloody hell. I don’t see how you couldn’t have been trying. You should’ve seen yourself; you were just lying on the floor covered in blood, saying you were fine. It was so obvious you weren’t, but I think you just wanted to be left alone so you could just drift away without anyone knowing. What would make such a beautiful girl do that to herself?” His words were gentle, yet I could sense the slight tremor of anger in his tone.

 I wasn’t quite sure what to say to him. On one side, I was flattered that he called me beautiful, but on the other, I didn’t want to depress him with my reasonings. He seemed to already have enough on his mind.

“I’m sorry, too. I don’t really feel like talking about this right now.” I felt the awkward silence creeping in on the tiny room, so I reached for the television remote. Suddenly the boy leaped up from his seat.

“No, don’t!” he yelped as he lurched towards me.

But it was too late, I already had the remote in my hand and was about to press the power button. Andrew stopped, realizing that he wasn’t able to stop me.  As the TV sputtered to life, I could hear the reporter reading off the headlines, and the top story was enough to make me hurl:

ANDREW MCCALLAN FROM BOYBAND “THE DOSES” SAVES DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” I heard him say; his whole body seemed to tense all at once. His anger was contagious, I felt it rising from my chest, and the frustration of not being able to stand up made it multiply. I suddenly realized that I was just as much part of a scheme as Charlotte Delaross was. I felt like an idiot, and the one thing I hated most was to be ridiculed.

Feeling stronger than I had in days, I began to wail at him. “Get out! I know who you are! You used me, just for some stupid publicity stunt. ‘Famous Andrew McCallan saves some mental case girl’. Well you know what? I’m not like Charlotte, I refuse to be used by you. And to think, I thought you may have been different,” I said, my voice going from a scream to a low whisper.

I had truly begun to believe that this boy was more than the tabloids led me to believe, only to figure out that I was wrong.

“I swear I didn’t plan this! How could I have possibly known that I would walk in on you yesterday? You think you know me, but I know that I would never pull something so shallow. You think you know me from those tabloids? You don’t. I am different; you just haven’t given me a chance to prove it.” I watched him as he crossed the room, towards the door. I suddenly realized the camera flashes begin as he touched the doorknob, they must’ve been waiting for him.

They must have been listening to our whole fight; I didn’t hear them the whole time.

I looked at his face, so hurt and frustrated, and I suddenly felt bad. I felt tears begin to prick at my eyes because looking at him made me sad. For once I didn’t see the british pop star boasting with confidence like I see on the magazine covers, I saw a little curly haired boy who looked as though he were about to cry as well.

“My name is Molly.” I said in a hushed tone, as though any other words would shatter the boy to pieces. I realized that if he left, I would once again be alone.

“Goodbye, Molly. I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have,” Andrew whispered as he opened door. I watched his lanky figure become swallowed up by camera flashes and men yelling his name, and my name as well.

The door closed, and I sat alone in a room for the first time since I almost bled to death the day before. My wrists ached, though I couldn’t tell if it was because of the restraints or the cuts. I felt the familiar itch for a cold, smooth blade across my skin, but knowing that that would be impossible.

So I cried.