Fond farewell

My cell phone is now switched off. I could not tolerate any more calls asking me why I had made this decision. I had made it spontaneously in the press conference.I am never going to sing again.There were a lot of questions about the reason. One of those spur-of-the-moment things. But the more I think of it, the more I like it.

My manager is banging on my door. My housekeeper had to let him in after he threatened physical damage! I refused to talk to him after the press conference. He has been my friend throughout the years, I owe him an explanation. I take a deep breath and open the door. I see anger, disappointment and betrayal.

I tell him to sit down. " I can not sing anymore. I can't write.I can not sing anymore."

A spark of understanding. I go on. "When I was a child, I wanted to please my parents. When I was a teen, I wanted to please my friends. When I got married at 20, I wanted to please my husband. I drank, I got high, I got arrested, I served time. I did all this. I craved attention and care constantly. I was a child even at 25. I was never content or secure. And I was depressed on top of all this. And this made me write. This made me sing. I could write when I was at the depths of despair. People loved me. I was their picture of a lost soul.The more adulation I got, the more I went down. I kept spiralling out of control.It was a vicious and dangerous cycle. Last week, I woke up and decided not to drink. Just like that. Everyone appreciates a good story. I had no story. And I sat down to write a song. Nothing. Blank.Nix. And I thought it was temporary. But a few moments at the press conference yesterday was all I needed to know. I am never going to sing again. Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps it was the coke. I am never going to sing again."

He understands. He hugs me tight. "There are so many shows that want to sign you on a judge. Everything will be great", he reassures me. He leaves planning his commission and thinking of the lights he will want for his new home that he will build with the money.

I look at the mirror. I never want to drink again. I never want to be someone else again.
I am never going to sing again.

I open the drawer. I see the gun. Just one of those spur-of-the moment decisions. I press it against my temple. I exhale slowly and squeeze gently. I am never going to sing again.