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Tainted

He sang the last note of the song with his eyes closed, hands gently caressing the microphone, lips trembling as the music poured out of him. He had always been told that you can't fake passion. But now, after tonight, after so many nights just like it, he knew that he had succeeded in doing so.

And then it was back to his dressing room to change. He did so quickly, rushing about and avoiding the table of food and the sound of his stomach rumbling loudly.

Just avoid the source of the problem and you won't have to fix it.

Walking briskly through the hallway, his head down and his eyes distant, he reached the back exit and made his way to his tour bus, stopping to shake hands and take letters and provide more smiles.

Smiling is supposed to mean you're happy. But I don't remember what happy feels like anymore.

Waving, he left the people and the noise and climbed onto his bus. He brushed past his manager, who was hounding him with questions, with a dismissive 'we'll discuss this later' and a careful lack of eye contact.

Locking himself within his small quarters, he sat on the plush couch, rubbing his forehead tiredly and trying to ignore the sound of his stomach grumbling again.

Jesus, I'm so hungry. Oh God. I need food.

He rose, tearing open the tiny refrigerator and taking out a package of American cheese, then rummaging through the cabinets and removing a loaf of Wonder Bread, which he ripped open.

Stuffing piece after piece of bread and cheese into his mouth, he moaned, trying to savor the taste.

The cheese was gone and the bag of bread was empty by the time he finished. Dropping the empty wrappings on the floor, his breathing quickened and his mind raced.

I shouldn't have done that. No, no, no. I shouldn't have eaten all that. Why did I eat all of that?

He stumbled blindly to where he knew he'd eventually end up - the bathroom. Bending over the toilet, his slender finger went deep inside his throat, beckoning out the impurities trapped within him.

When he was satisfied that enough vomit had left his body, his slowly washed his hands and then raised his head, examining himself in the mirror.

Despite the heavy stage make-up covering his face, it looked gaunt and forlorn, deserted of spark and void of life. His eyes were a dull gray, opaque and almost completely empty. His lips were raw and chapped beyond repair, and drops of putrid vomit dotted his bony chin.

Who is that? That's not me. It can't be me.

He was a different man than he had been a year ago, a few months ago. He could barely recognize himself anymore.

With trembling fingers, he pushed a few stringy strands of hair away from his sweat-coated face, then sank to the cold marble floor of the bathroom and curled tightly into a corner, shaking uncontrollably.

What have I done to myself?


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