Aimee and the Soulsellers

Jay

The phones lit up behind me, beacons illuminating her shadowy figure. That was the first thing I'll ever remember of her. White blinding light at my back. Unignorable.

She hid at first, slinking away from me like a shy child. She was a child. I think the reps said she was 18. The perfect age for this. When you're a teenager its like your lost in the woods of yourself. All you want to do is scream for help.

I wish someone warned me not to scream. To wait it out undetected. There were so many monsters out there. The second you make yourself known, that's when they pounce.

Everybody wants to be famous. No one wants to die.

I smiled like she was someone I've known my entire life, like I was taught to do, pacing toward her with my arms stretched out for a polite hug. There were cameras on us after all, more on the two of us than the show unfurling on stage.

I waited for her to reciprocate the dance we've rehearsed apart, but when her cue came, she didn't respond.

She instead scurried away from me. Her arms coming up as if in defense from an attack, not embrace.

She giggled uncontrollably as her hands pulled the hood of what had to be a XXL Sweatshirt over her face. Thick, over abundant fabric swallowed her frame, leaving almost everything to the imagination.

"I can't...I literally cant..." She shook her head, her innocent face peeking out from the hood. "You know who you are, right?"

Her voice was muffled by the show. We were too close to the amps for me to hear her, but I read her lips. Pale, soft pink, void of any thick waxy lipstick or wet, sticky gloss.

My eyebrow crooked a hair of an inch.

She looked at me with wide, pale blue eyes — the color of a ghost.

I just stared at her. Unsure of what to do next. This was all her people's idea. It was a ploy to make Aimee Essex look like a huge fan of mine. Make her seem like every other teenager on the planet. My reps made sure I was here. Her reps sent her out to me, but the look on her face. It was so real. I felt it in my stomach. Sinking like a brick to the bottom of a lake.

For a second, I wondered if Aimee Essex really loved me.

My arms were still outstretched. I hadn't lowered them. My fingers motioned her toward me as I flashed my trademark half a smirk. She let out a long exhale as she finally stepped in front of me, allowing herself to collapse in my arms.

The crowd cheered her on as she banded around my waist, squeezing tightly, like I was a life line. We swayed to and fro, the lights of the phones following us with each move we made. I went to release her, since we long passed the length of an appropriate hug, but the vibrations in her little body made me freeze.

She was crying.

I turned her away from the crowd, toward the show, so our faces weren't visible to them. Mine fell in a frown. I instinctively held her closer, my chin resting on her head.

She gasped for air, weeping as I stroked her dark, blue-tinged hair. I knew why she was sad. It wasn't just the shock of meeting me. It wasn't that she thought she loved me like every other teenaged girl I'd ever run into. It's that I was one of the few people on Earth who knew exactly what she was going through. The constant touring, the manipulation, the press, the attention, the scrutiny. It's custom made to tear us apart. Break us down brick by brick, until we're nothing more than a pile of dust. Her corrosion was just beginning, but she could already feel her bones start to crumble.

When I walked out here I thought it was too late. Her soul sold already and it was only a matter of time before all that pent up energy was theirs for the taking. But Aimee wasn't like the others. I could tell from her music. She wasn't broken, or desperate, or a scavenger just looking for something tangible to cling to for relevance.

Aimee was real. She was a person with complex, dark feelings and emotions and thoughts she'd uncompromisingly shared with the world. I bet they hated that. She was the first success of the new era of music. One where you didn't need the industry's approval to be a star, just a SoundCloud account.

Sure she still had to bow down like we all do, but when push came to shove, her leash wasn't as tight as they like it to be around their pets. I bet that pissed the Soulsellers off pretty bad.

The sad thing is they were almost done. We were almost free. The industry was dying without the influence over the masses it once had.

And then along came Aimee. One song, 14 million streams, and she single handedly saved music. Everything utterly incredible about it. Everything disgustingly despicable too.

She hiccuped. Her body still convulsing with sadness and exhaustion in my arms. I suddenly became angry. My fists clenching softly in her hair.

With everything I knew, with everything that's been taken from me, how could I just sit back and let them do this to her? She didn't deserve this. She deserved a normal childhood away from the dangers that lurk behind the stage. I'd seen her perform. I knew she deserved to be up there more than anyone. Even me.

But could I let her become a superstar when I know it will lead to a fate worse than death?

"You'll be ok," I whispered in her ear, kissing the top of her head roughly. "Just hold on."

I let her go, her ghost eyes bore sorrow and confusion into my back as I walked quickly away. One more second of holding her, breathing in her aura of authenticity, and I'd spend the rest of the night washing a bottle of Xanax down with a fifth of Jack.

"Jay!" The crowd screamed as I left. Or was it my rep? Or her?

I couldn't tell anymore. After you hear your name from all different angles in all different voices at all hours of the day and night, you eventually stop answering to it.

They'll take everything from you. Even your fucking name.

It ate at me to leave her like that, broken and alone. But that's what we all were. We signed on to this. We sold our souls and bought the dream, but if I had anything to do with it, Aimee's soul would be returned to her.

Before it's gone for good.