This may just be proof that I can't listen to Pink Floyd anymore, but I'll be trying to update my other fic soon… hopefully… nothing in this belongs to me (except the manager).

He had an hour and that was more than enough time. Glassy blue eyes found themselves in the mirror and there they stayed as he reached up, pale fingers wrapped around the scissors that caught the light and seemed to glow as they moved. As the blades moved the black locks fell to the floor around his bare feet.

Ugly. Freak. Idiot. Useless.

The buzz of the razor filled the room as he ran it over his scalp, the hair no longer black but a mousy brown. Natural. His reflection wrinkled its nose but that was the only change on his otherwise impassive face. There was nothing left now, just brown stubble and his lips turned up in a cold smile.

Fame had been wonderful. The adoration from people who knew nothing about him in real life, the parties filled with loud music and drinks that seemed to flow endlessly, and the scantily clad groupies that sought him out after the show; fingers toying with the buttons on his drainpipes. Dark makeup. Coy smiles. Gone before he woke up.

It was all gone, now. He was washed up; a new fad had come along and left him feeling alone and confused. Still adored by those few that considered themselves "hardcore" fans, but now he was opening for him. His manager, who had been the one to replace Fossil after that freak accident several months after he had put out his first album, had been scheduling shows, getting him to open for bands on tours. Jazz bands. He had broken out in a rash the first time.

He stared at himself in the mirror, his hands on either side of the sink with his fingers digging into the edge of the porcelain. An arched eyebrow, he frowned and ran his thumb over them, smoothing the hair down before reaching for the razor. Despite the pain as it nicked his skin, sending the crimson liquid down his face and dripping off his nose, he found it most enjoyable. It was a change. He needed something new.

Soon enough, all the hair upon his head was gone, his eyebrows shown only by the angry, red cuts that had come from the electric razor when he had gotten too close. Staring at himself in the mirror, his eyes seemed more clouded than before, dull, and he looked sickly in the light cast by the fluorescent lights.

You're okay. You're not ugly. You're not useless. You're normal.

Without a sound he exited the bathroom, clad only in a pair of boxers that hung off his hips and made his legs look thinner than usual. His fingers twitched, running over the cuts as if to make sure nothing had grown back. He sat in the only chair in the hotel room; a red armchair that he leaned back into, with his hands resting on the arms. He looked regal, in a tragic sort of way, king of whatever world he was occupying.

Needle marks. His skin was bruised, the veins useless for the amount of substance that had been forced into his bloodstream. Amazing that he didn't bleed heroin.

"He's just in here—" The doorknob rattled and Vince sat there, his eyes fixed on the television that sat in front of him. Black. Nothing good was on.

"Vince? Vince! You have a visitor…open the door, would you?"

"Little man, it's me."

"Here, help me with the door…"

Moments later the door sprang open and his manager waltzed in, Howard Moon hot on his heels. His manager spotted him first, and he swore under his breath as he approached, seeing his star nearly comatose at this point, slumped in the chair. Howard stayed back, unsure of how to help his friend anymore at that point.

"C'mon Vince, you have t'go on in a few..."

Vince remained unresponsive. His eyes remained fixed upon the television.

Five minutes later, his breathing ceased.