Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“You’re all good now. We’re inside.”
I opened my eyes, which was when I realised I’d closed them in the first place, and looked at Ezra. We were in a lift. Safe. Quiet. I nodded, grateful. “Thanks.”
He smiled faintly, briefly, but didn’t talk. Ezra wasn’t a man of many words, which may have been why I’d taken to him, despite hating his title. Bodyguard, that’s what Ezra was. It sounded so ostentatious and flashy. I didn’t want a bodyguard, though it hadn’t taken long for me to understand why I needed one. It’d only been three months since I’d won Next Up, and I couldn’t walk down a street without a flock of girls screaming after me like I was their only saviour.
At the top floor, Ezra escorted me to the penthouse suite. I breathed a sigh of relief upon discovering it empty. It wasn’t unusual to walk into my space and find it full of people. Stylists. Managers. Music execs. I needed some time to regulate. I didn’t get nearly enough of that anymore.
I waltzed over to the cabinet first and poured myself a scotch. I didn’t like the taste that much, but it’d been the only thing in the minibar one night and I liked the way it made me feel. Relaxed. Less…jumpy.
“That’s not a good idea,” Ezra said from his position by the door.
I drank it anyway, hissing as it burned my throat. I was nineteen now. I had money. I could please my-fucking-self. In the UK, at least. “I’m thirsty.”
“It doesn’t get any better, I’m afraid. This life. You’re only just beginning.”
I turned to face him then, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I can see you struggling with it. The schedule, the fans. I’ve been part of the industry a while, watching over young guys like you. It gets worse than this.” He stopped to point at the empty glass in my hand. “And that shit doesn’t help.”
Something that felt like shame made me set the glass down. “I’m autistic, you know.” I didn’t know why I’d suddenly decided to tell him, tell anyone, that. I wasn’t embarrassed about having autism, not really. I wasn’t exactly proud of it, either. I admired those who were, truly. I often wondered what separated me and people who were happy to shout about their differences from the rooftops. Why couldn’t I fight my corner, champion the cause, make the world better? I hadn’t found an answer yet. Maybe those people had had parents filling their ears with sunshine and affirmations since the day they were born. Perhaps they were just…better than me.
“Okay,” was all Ezra said.
“I’ve got an anxiety disorder, too. And I get depressed sometimes. No reason for it, just…boom. I crash.” I didn’t expect him to understand. My brain worked differently to most people’s. I had autism, which made me socially awkward, inappropriate sometimes. It gave me sensory processing issues, made me irritable around people. On top of that, I also had a bunch of mental health shit to deal with. I especially didn’t expect people to understand that. After all, what reason did I have to be depressed? All my dreams were coming true. I was making music. Living like a fucking king. A few days ago, I asked my manager if I could buy a few new clothes and he’d answered with, “Clear the fuckin’ shelves, kid.” I didn’t, stuck to only what I needed, but I could have.
The point is I didn’t have a reason to get depressed, yet I knew it would come for me anyway. I didn’t need a trigger. Depression just…was. It lingered, all the time in the back of my head. Even when it wasn’t raging, dragging me down, it was still there, taunting me, threatening, mocking, biding its time. I remembered the first time I’d felt it. I must’ve been ten, eleven maybe. Nothing had happened. I hadn’t had a meltdown. There’d been no argument with my parents. I just felt…sad. Desperately, hopelessly sad. It got worse over the course of several months. The days seemed to get longer. My limbs seemed to get heavier. Opening my eyes felt like the biggest effort I’d ever made every damn morning, until, in the end, I felt absolutely nothing at all.
Eventually, it fizzled out and I returned to some level of evenness. Until the next time. With no rhyme or reason, I’d been trapped in the same vicious cycle ever since.
“I get migraines sometimes,” Ezra said.
That made me laugh. I liked Ezra. In a lot of ways, he was a very serious man. He was older than me, and always dressed very formally in a dark suit and crisp shirt. I knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t tolerate any shit, but also that I could trust him. Oddly, he reminded me of Helen, and that’s when I realised that that is why I’d just told him about the secret parts of myself.