The morning light is blinding as I smoke my cigarette. Looking around my room makes me cringe - broken beer bottles and stains in the carpet. Someone's knocking on the door and I don't want to let them in, but it's been days since I stepped outside. When she died it was as if I died as well.

"Damien, Open up! I know you're in there." From the slimy, ingratiating tone I know it's my manager. I almost ignore him but that awful pounding just irritates my hangover even more. Grinding my cigarette into the ashtray I manage to croak out that I'm on my way.

There's Al, his hands shaking and his suit looking wrinkled from the heat as he comes in and starts ranting and raving about album sales and my "disappearance."

"You're going to be out of luck if you keep this up, your habits are out of control. The company is willing to give you another chance; we need another album from you. I know you've been writing…..right?"

I shrug and look at the ground. I have been writing, but it's been darker than anything I ever produced before. It's the kind of music that will surely scare off most of my old fans. But after what this business did to her, I feel it's about time I spoke the truth in some form.

Al gets up and turns on the television, and I'm surprised to see that even with all of the political mayhem going on the news has decided to spend its time talking about me. A woman with blonde hair and too much collagen furrows her brow as she starts to talk about the mysterious disappearance of rock god Damien Poe, and the death of his girlfriend, the indie star Astrid Langston. After her death she wasn't seen as the sweet ingénue who made people laugh in obscure art films. In fact, because of the way she died she has been turned into the new example of what is wrong with our nation. This is only in the media though. Those in the industry know what really happened.

"You look like shit, you know. Everyone thinks you're going to be next." I look up, surprised to see that Al seems genuinely worried. He's been working with me for ten years now, and he's seen me evolve from some punk kid who just loved music to a world famous star without a heart in his cold and jaded body. If only that were truly the case. Unfortunately though, it's not. If it were I wouldn't be hiding in my apartment for days on end.

"I know that I'm going to be next, but I'm going to tell her story before I leave." With that, I hand him my notebooks full of lyrics and we set up a time to record. His face falls when he reads what I've written.

"I don't care about being happy or making my fans happy anymore. This is what I need to do. It's my last request."

I should start at the beginning.