Page 113 of Every Shattered Note
“My father was a brilliant musician ...and a terrible man.Abusive.Manipulative.Reckless with every life he touched—including mine.”
There’s a hum in my chest that might be rage, or grief, or both.
“What happened that night wasn’t my doing.But I was there.After.I was seventeen.Scared.And told to clean up a disaster I didn’t create.”
My throat pulls tight, but I push through it anyway, syllables scraping out like they’ve been locked for years.
“I tried to wash blood off the floor because I thought that’s what loyalty looked like.Because when you grow up with a parent who forgets to love you, you learn to chase approval like it’s oxygen.”
A beat.
“You think if you’re useful enough, quiet enough, needed enough ...maybe they’ll see you.”
Silence answers back.
“I didn’t kill Karen Roland.Did my father do it, or was it one of his friends?”I shrug.“I have no idea.I was a kid back then.Lucky for me, I’m notthatkid anymore.”My voice doesn’t shake now.It hardens.Not out of bitterness, but out of truth.“And I’m done watching people profit off the ghosts my father left behind.Not the press.Not my stepbrother.Not anyone who thinks my pain is fair game.”
The camera light burns brighter, or maybe that’s just my eyes.I blink, let the heat pass, and force the air out of my lungs slow enough to stay grounded.
“I’ve been called a lot of things—an addict, a recluse, a broken man who couldn’t finish what he started.Maybe some of that’s true.”I pause, letting the words sit with me.“But what’s also true is that I’ve been sober for years.I’m in therapy.I’m rebuilding—not just my life, but the way I see myself.”
Another breath.
“I want to be someone I can look at in the mirror without flinching.”
The room doesn’t shift.It doesn’t even breathe.
“For nearly two decades, I let others script my story.This is me taking it back.”
I take a deep breath.
“I’ve been working on a song.It’s called ‘Prometheus.’”My lips twitch, but it’s not amusement—it’s the exhaustion of truth.“Because that’s what it feels like—to have your insides torn out by the same world that claims to worship you.To be fed to the vultures, day after day, while smiling for cameras and pretending your scars make you interesting instead of broken.”
A pause.I let them sit with it for one ...two ...
“Prometheus stole fire and gave it to humanity—to help.To enlighten.”My mouth dries.“Feels a lot like what I did.I gave everything I had to my father.My love.My loyalty.Even some of my music.”
I glance down, then back up.
“And I got burned alive for it.”
I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice from unraveling.
“Right now, I’m just trying to protect what’s left of my fire before someone else stamps it out and sells the smoke.”
My voice breaks slightly.
“I’m not interested in forgiveness.Not from the press.Not from the public.Maybe not even from myself.I just want peace.For once.And if that means lawsuits, statements, or a few burned bridges—so be it.But this ends now.”
I let the words hang there.Let them settle.
Then I step back from the microphone and say the last thing I didn’t plan to:
“To anyone who’s ever been told to stay quiet—don’t.They can’t own what you’re brave enough to say out loud.”
And then I walk offstage.
Eddie exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the entire speech.“You just declared war,” he mutters.
