Try {Emerson Barrett}

Prequel

The world was grey to Emerson, there was no happiness for him. No hope either. He had gotten used to this, after all, he had been like this for the last-- well he couldn't remember. He was so used to not being able to feel anything, that when the time came that he did feel something, it was a foreign feeling that sent him into a spiral of despair.

He didn't want to feel anything, not happiness, not sadness; most importantly he never wanted to feel love. Love left him vulnerable to heartbreak. Yet, it wasn't the vulnerability that was the main reason he didn't want to love, it was the fact that it would fix him.

It sounded ridiculous, that he didn't want to be fixed. Emerson knew this. However, being fixed meant admitting that something was broken, and no-one, no matter their strength, was ever ready to admit that they're broken.

People would notice his change, they would notice his newfound happiness and they would know that he had been broken. They would know he had been weak. In the profession that Emerson was in, when he was watched by thousands, weakness was not an option.

--

The air was cold and Emerson could feel the bitter winds biting at his exposed flesh. The phrase 'Exposed flesh' brings horrible thoughts to mind, it constructs the human consciousness to think of exposed wounds and maybe even rotting flesh, or maybe it was just Emerson whose mind worked that way. Although, as he stood in the harsh winds of the incoming winter, he felt as though his skin had been peeled away leaving raw muscle to fight the cold.

The drummer rubbed his numb fingers together in a feeble attempt to warm a minute part of his uncovered skin. He needed to get back inside but he had to finish with the fans that had queued up for hours to meet him and his brothers. His profession meant that he was in control.

He could hit the drums as hard as he wanted, he could play them as loud as he chose, he didn't even have to play them at all if he felt like it. On the stage was where Emerson felt the most control over his life. However, it was when he met with the fans that his facade always started to crumble.

The man would stand there and take pictures with the countless fans, plastering a fake smile on his face for the many pictures that were requested. This wasn't what troubled Emerson about the process of meeting his fans. It was when they would tell him that he and his brothers had helped them with their mental health, or in someway saved them.

It was like they were unwittingly tormenting him, he had somehow, with the help of his brothers, helped others when neither himself nor his brothers were able to help him. Whoever was writing Emerson's life sure did like their ironic twists, did the people reading already know how his life was going to end? Did this 'writer' also appreciate a flair of dramatic irony as well as the old fashioned irony?

What cruel person would inflict such a horrible fate upon a man?

The security rounded up the last of the fans that wanted pictures and sent the rest home. It was late and the show had been long, so neither one of the members of the band were able to keep many conversations with the fans. Some of them understood and could see the fatigue around their eyes, others often felt like they had been deprived of something they deserved.

The last fan stood in front of Emerson having already taken pictures with both Remington and Sebastian who had now retreated to the warmth of the bus. Emerson's eyes glided over the features of the fan's face as he held a simple conversation with her. She was undeniably beautiful and he couldn't help but glance at her over and over.

Her brown eyes made her look adorable and innocent, whilst her black hair that had been pulled into a very messy bun atop her head framed her face with the stray hairs that fell loose of the hair tie. Her lips were painted a very bright red which was a very bold choice and contrasted against her white knitted dress that fell about six inches above the knee.