Will
I was surrounded by clothes, costumes, makeup, and basically another version of Hell and yet I couldn't wipe the grin from my face.
She'd always had a beautiful voice, angelic, and it always pissed me off that she never shared it with the world, that acting was more important when she could have made a killing on Broadway. The only song she ever agreed to sing was Lighthouse the one song that when I recorded it for my own solo release...
She had been too busy getting high to lay down the tracks.
It had become a thing.
The tardiness.
Losing weight.
Losing interest.
Losing the light behind her eyes.
And I hated that she refused help as if nothing was wrong with what she was doing.
And I still didn't know why.
I knew there was pain there, I knew there was misery, but why self-destruct? Why not let the people you love help you?