I had a Marlboro Red dangling in between my lips and my acoustic guitar in my hands. I had been trying to write a song for a few days now, but everything I put on paper felt wrong and incomplete. I needed to write something that made sense, something to help me heal from what had just happened in my life. It had only been about two months since I lost my friend, band mate, and brother, Paul to an overdose. My life had been a whirlwind of press conferences and interviews with my band, Slipknot. I had become numb during those times and said what everyone expected to hear. That this was all so sudden and unexpected. That we all missed Paul, and how much he loved the fans and how great of an influence he was on the band. And no, we didn't know what would become of Slipknot. Our foundation was rattled to the core, and no one wanted to go on without him.
I sighed, and took the final drag off of my cigarette, ashing it on the coffee table and setting my guitar on the floor. I had become a loner during the last week. Only leaving my house to get more cigarettes and to take my son, Griffin, to his mom's house when it was her weekend to see him. It had been months since I ended my marriage with Scarlett, but we were civil when it came to our kids. I stood up and peeked out of the closed curtains and saw that the paparazzi where still there, hoping to catch a glimpse of me in my turmoil. A noise distracted me. My phone was vibrating on the table, I walked over and looked at the caller I.D. It was Shannon, my agent.
"Hello," I answered
"Corey! I'm so glad to hear from you! How are you feeling?" Shannon chirped into the phone.
"Uhm, I don't know," I thought to myself, "My best friend just died and I have freaks stalking me everywhere I go."
"Okay," I replied lazily, "What's up?"
I heard Shannon take a deep breath, "I have a great opportunity for you," she began, "You know how you've always wanted to write a book, well I can make that happen for you!"
"Hm, really? What are the details, what the fuck am I supposed to write about?"
"Well, I thought you could use some help writing it, you know, because you've been dealing with a lot lately, so I hired an author out of Waterloo! Just to work with you on some ideas. How about a biography? Let the real world know who Corey Taylor is! Behind the mask...", she added.
It really sounded like a good idea at the moment. Slipknot and Stone Sour were taking a hiatus, so I needed to do something to occupy my time, something to take my mind off of how fucked up Paul's death really was. I needed to heal, and maybe this was my chance to show myself in a new light. I had always put on a hard persona my whole life. I was picked on, bullied, and was the punch line of every joke since I was a kid. It was time to tell my story.
"Yeah, sounds great," I lit another cigarette and walked to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
"Fantastic! I'll e-mail the author and set up a meeting," Shannon said.
"Wait," I began, "Don't think I'm about to go back to that fuckhole Waterloo. You know how I feel about that damn place. I want to do this in L.A. Do whatever you need to do to get the author out here to California."
"Of course. I already booked two tickets for their flight from Des Moines out to LAX."
"You said 'tickets', as in more than one. I thought you said I'd be working with one person." I questioned, as I opened up my laptop, going onto the internet.
"Ah, yes...about that," Shannon began, "This particular author is uhm, very much about family so she asked me if it was at all possible for her sister to come along just so she can be with her in L.A."
My eyes narrowed. I really wanted to keep to myself, but I had to respect this author about wanting to keep her sister close. "Okay, fine. That's...okay. Can you e-mail me their flight details so I can have a car pick them up? We can meet in the confrence room of The Weston: L.A."
"It's all arranged, Corey. I'm so glad you're saying yes to this. I think it will be great for your fans. And a great move career wise." Shannon replied, I heard her fingers clacking over her laptop keys as we spoke. "Okay, it's all e-mailed. I'll keep in touch over the next few days."
"Yeah, I'll see you when we all meet up soon," I replied, clicking open my e-mail in the process and seeing that my inbox had a new message. I hung up and clicked the blinking icon. Scrolling through the flight information, I found out that the author and her sister would be arriving on Saturday, two days from now. I closed the Internet window and shut the laptop.
My feet carried me back to my arm chair, where I liked to write the majority of my songs if I wasn't in the studio. I sat down and picked up my guitar, my fingers hovering over the strings. Still nothing. I couldn't think of a fucking thing to write about. My hand started shaking in rage, I saw red. With all my might I threw the guitar as hard as I could at the wall. It shattered into pieces. I buried my face in my hands. The goddamn guitar represented my life right now, broken and in a million pieces.
