He glanced down at the gun he had clutched in his cold, trembling hand. His grip tightened on it, the cold, hard metal of the gun pressing into his clammy palm. He eyed the trigger, then fingered it. It would only take one pull of that trigger with the gun aimed at the right spot, and he would be killed instantly. Dead. Gone. Forever.
He could escape from his world of stress and pain. He could leave those that he had once loved, those that had betrayed and mistreated him. In only an instant, it would all be over, the pain, the suffering, and everything else he went through there on earth. Only one painless instant.
It was so tempting. Slowly, he raised the gun to his head, pressing the barrel of it lightly to his temple. The whole gun shook with the tremor of his nervous hand.
Why was he so nervous? He thought that at this point, it would be easy. Shouldn’t it be comforting to know that in only a few seconds, you’d be leaving all of this behind for good? He might have thought so before, but it wasn’t true. He was a wreck.
No, no second thoughts, he scolded himself. You promised yourself you would do this tonight, and you will. Don’t be such a wuss about it. Just get it over with. No one will care anyway. They’ll probably all be happy you’re gone.
Taking a deep, but shaky breath, he shoved the gun even more firmly into his head, desperately trying to control his shaking hand. His finger went to the trigger, resting against it, ready to pull it at any time.
He closed his eyes, prepared to pull the trigger and end his life, along with all the shit that came along with it. But then, he heard something. It was rather distant, and he had to strain to hear it. But when he finally could make it out, his focus on pulling the trigger slightly diminished, and chills ran through him, as his body began to tremble.
It was a chant, coming from the inside of the stadium, just a few halls away from the dressing room, where he sat all alone. “Backstreet Boys! Backstreet Boys!” It repeated over and over, growing more excited, and yet, impatient, with each round.
His forehead creased with sudden thought, the lyrics of one of the songs off his new CD came pouring into his mind.
This one goes out to everyone
We’re standing strong cause of what you’ve done
And this one goes out to you
Letting out a sob, he released his grip on the gun, and it clattered to the floor. Then he buried his face in his hands and cried.
What had he been thinking? How could he think that no one would care, that no one loved him? As the intensity of the chanting increased, it was obvious that he had been wrong. There were thousands of fans in the audience that night, and they all loved him. They would always be there for him, helping him to be strong. They cared. If he had pulled that trigger, his pain would be over, he realized, but theirs would be much worse than his ever was. As much as he had longed for an escape, he could never do that to his fans, the people who loved him, the people who he loved back.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps approaching. Hurriedly, he wiped the tears away from his eyes and kicked the fallen gun under the sofa he was sitting on, hiding it from site.
There was a light knock on the door, and then it opened. He smiled when he saw his best friend’s head pop into the room. “Come on, Nick, it’s almost time,” Brian said.
“Coming,” he said, standing up and following his band mate out of the room and towards the stage, where he would perform for yet another time.
As he headed onto the stage, he glanced up at the seats of the stadium, all filled with screaming fans. “This one goes out to you,” he whispered, and took his place on stage, ready to perform for the people who had just made a difference in his life. His fans.
Everyone Ó 2000 by Julie