CHAPTER 1:
ARE YOU READY?
He rose from his assigned seat behind the stage, his bronze hair falling gently of his green eyes.
Another night like this and I'll commit patricide, the act of killing ones father . . . YOU BET! He thought, disgusted. He went on stage, picking up his shiny black electric guitar.
He strummed the chords experimentally before the lights burst on, lighting up the stage and temporarily blinding him.
Brushing the hair from his face, he stepped forward and let his guitar roar to life . . .
You said we'd never get this far,
You said your words!
We played our parts!
Said your two cents now it's my turn…
So sit down!
Shut up!
ARE YOU READY?
So you think you know . . .
How this story goes,
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?
Sit down
Are you ready for this?
Stand up!
Are you ready for this?
This game?
Are you ready?
He heard the crowd roar, and his father urging him on . . .
I thought you'd never come this far
I thought your words
Meant something more!
Said my two cents now it's your turn
So stand up and scream:
ARE YOU READY?
Are you ready?
Are you ready? . . .
Are you ready?
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?
Sit down!
Are you ready for this?
Shut up!
Are you ready for this?
This game . . .?
ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?
Flowers and toys were thrown on stage, and Edward Cullen obediently bent down to pick them up.
Esme Cullen rushed on stage, handing the boy a plastic bag. Edward dropped everything inside and waved a final wave before leaving the stage. The crowd screamed long after he left.
He went through the door with his name painted on it, dropped his guitar on its slick stand and stumbled tiredly to his dressing table. He stared at the lit up mirror, shock and wonder overtaking his previous thoughts.
A pair of limpid green eyes stared begrudgingly back,
"Mirror, mirror on the stand, who is the drunkest of them all?" he slurred, uncapping a bottle of beer and downing half of it in one go.
Edward Cullen is not what you might call a drunken teenage pop star. He drowned his pain, loneliness and sorrow in anything that satisfied him.
Mainly sex and alcohol.
"So? What's it gonna be? Beer or whisky?" he slurred at his reflection. He shrugged and downed half of the whisky, too.
A bang sounded at the door and it opened. Carlisle Cullen strode in, earphone and microphone strapped to his blonde head and clipboard in hand, pen poised to write more concert invitations, dates and times.
"Drinking? Edward! Put those bottles down! You can drown yourself later, but right now, they want an encore!" his father growled. Edward sighed and dropped his head on the table. Life as he knew it was over.
He stood up, strapping the guitar to his back and stepping on the over lit stage.
The crowd shook with excitement; the lights blinded him, and from his drunken fogged throat, the words to the song he wrote, spilt out . . .