A sweet mist recedes and I see the Pearly Gates glide open before my eyes. The stairway to Heaven smells of warm, freshly ironed shirts and cotton candy vape. Saint Peter stands before me bedecked in flowing robes. His warm, octogenarian smile and flooffy beard put me at ease. The glint in his eye reminds me of a cartoon Pirate.

I begin my tale. It was all for love I tell him. I will him to understand how I came to be judged at the gates of heaven. Or the trapdoor to hell.

Being obsessed with a musician is a cliché, something for dewy-eyed ingénue. But I swear the connection we have is beyond the usual fan/musician relationship. We are destined to be together. If only I could get him to reply to my messages.

Sometime in the Spring I discovered a Canadian Bluegrass band on Reddit. Their banjo player looks like a Viking Prince, the Cellist a baby-faced intern. They have a pretty bushman on Mandolin but the lead singer, Oh but that man could sell me anything with his crackling baritone, full moustache and, I don't know why but that wide-brimmed black hat. It just does something to me. Something in my pants. Their bouncy banjo lines and twisted tragic song-stories tickle my funny bone. I'm a bit dark, just like him.

It started casually enough. I brought a few albums and shirts. My Instagram filled with links and clips. I sang along with every song without mistake. After a few weeks, I found myself spending each night in the cold light of my computer screen drinking Jameson's straight, just like Nate does. Double whiskey, no ice. I'm really starting to enjoy the taste. I can't believe I used to love Smirnoff Ice!

One evening, I comment on his latest post. Oh my God, he liked it. I stare at the heart next to his name on my Insta Activity. His name next to my name, like our bodies lying side by side. I am walking on air. Is he single? He must be single. Just waiting for the right girl. No one else could possibly understand him like I will.

I take thirst-trap selfies to get his attention, dressed in my sexiest outfits, splayed across rumpled sheets. He'd never comment anything dirty, he's a gentleman after all. But as long as he sees them, I know he'll appreciate what I'm doing for him.

Oopsie. I posted a lascivious pic and tagged him in it asking him to marry me! I'm so naughty. He'll love that about me when we are together. We would of course have the most beautiful wedding. He'd wear a crisp white shirt and suspenders, new black boots; Cuban heels. His moustache; waxed down like a glistening beavers pelt, his beard trimmed but still a little messy, just the way I like it. The reception would be on an antebellum plantation deep in the South. At dusk their band would play an intimate show for all our friends under the peach and lavender skies. He would sing directly to me in the friscalating dusk light. I'd weep gleeful tears at his beauty and raw sexual energy. He would hold me close for our first dance, Honey you of course. He'd look deep into my eyes and tell me he loves me with a fierce desire that encompasses his very soul. 'Til death do us part, Nate.

I finally book tickets to see their show. I spent every waking minute from the moment I click 'Buy Now!' planning each detail; my outfit, my plan, my mindset; casual but devastatingly intriguing. The days between drag like a shipwreck survivour's swim to safety. Far in the distance, I can see my oasis.

Friday night comes and I'm so excited I might shit my pants. I arrived with a group of friends and immediately make my way to the front. My friends come and go during the set but I stay in place all night. I need him to see me there directly in his eye line, supporting him, loving him. Their performance blows my mind. I have never felt this way before. It's like a two-hour orgasm. I buy one of every piece of merchandise, even the things I already have. I want to show them how much I support them. After the final encore, I'm left stunned. When I arrive home, I sit in my car and cry because it's over.

By Saturday the high of seeing them crashes into a crevasse of despair. Any moment not filled with their music, their voices, their faces is a waste of my existence. I spend my nights drinking at my computer, finally passing out after rewatching interviews with him over and over. I know each little smile and cute, humble comment. He's the most modest man I've ever known. Just kind and gentle. I know we would be the best of friends if I could just get him to notice me.

Fuck this.

Fuck my job. I call in sick and drive 3 hours to the next show. I pay extra for the VIP meet 'n' greet. I would pay anything to stand beside him. To breathe air that has come directly out of his body and into mine.

In the strained light of a dim afternoon, I stand with 9 or 10 others, waiting to watch the boys soundcheck. That is followed by an hour to talk with them one on one, or perhaps 4 on 10. When I see them walk in the door it's like an apparition. Time slows, the light becomes both misty and crisp. "Drrrrrream Weaver, I believe you can get me through the na-hhight...".

They are perfect. He looks perfect. His plaid shirt sleeves are rolled up to show his tattoos. I want to touch them so badly that I bite the inside my cheek to stay calm. I'm as cool as I can possibly be. During our 45 minutes with the boys they each sign my album and t-shirt. When it's finally my turn to speak to him alone my whole body is on fire. He looks in my eyes and smiles that sweet, warm smile. The cutest beaver I've ever seen. He lightly touches my arm while we speak and I swear I cum. I feel like I'm in heaven for those 10 minutes. I take selfies with the band and stand alongside while they chat with their admirers. Obviously, he would spend more time with me if he could, but he's ever the gentleman. He must give his time fairly, not show too much favouritism. This is what it will be like when we are together. I will be at his side while he meets and greets his people. I'll top up his drink and hold his hat. I'm the most attentive girlfriend. I'll support him on every tour. Making sure he eats right and gets enough sleep. We'll sleep snuggled together in a ball, my face pressed into his chest.

At the end of the session, I slip my phone number into his pocket, so he can call me later. I know he will.

After their show, I go back to my blurred-out waking life. But I know it will all be better soon because I have touched him. He smiled at me. I replay each moment in my mind like a broken VHS; his fingers grazing my arm, both soft and firm, just as a man's should be.
I check my phone constantly.

Why hasn't he called? Maybe he misplaced my note. With so many costume changes and people demanding his attention. I send him a DM and hope he sees it. "We met the other night. I was wearing the red flower (winky face emoji). Let me know when you're in town again, I'd love to show you around!".

Nothing.

But he's such a busy man. He's said in interviews that over the last few years he's been so busy he hasn't even had time to think. His passion is his music. That's what I love about him so I could never fault him for his dedication.

Months pass, and my mood slumps. I wait for them to return from their international tour. It feels like an eternity until we are in the same country again, breathing the same air. I dream of particles of his breath filling my body and masturbate until my fingers ache. [Forgive me, Father]

I check his soc. med. constantly to see what he's doing. Who he's doing it with.

Their tour manager looks very pretty. I wonder if she feels the same way about him as I do? She must. Why wouldn't she? He's perfect. One Tuesday afternoon, I see he is tagged in a fan's photo with Her. They are standing very close. I feel physically sick. How could he love her instead of me?

I stay up all night going over her accounts, checking every photograph. I can't bear it anymore. I have to remove her from his life. I spend the week downloading every hacking tool I can find on the dark web. I finally get into her Instagram and start posting. Racist posts, bigoted posts, nip slips. I comment on other people's accounts calling them vile fucking cunt stains. Then I wait. Within a week the band posts a message saying they support and love her but that she's "moving on to bigger and better things". Ha! That cunt thought she could take him away but I showed her. I saved him. I saved him from a terrible relationship with a horrible woman. I'm his saviour. He will be happier in the long run.

I use my new hacking skills to check other soc. med. accounts he follows. I don't look into Nate's. I couldn't look him in the eye again if I had trawled through his emails. But the other women in his life need to be researched thoroughly. I check everything. I keep tabs on anyone who is close to him. These are all things I would have learned about him once we are together, so why not learn them now?

They are due to play in a nearby city again in a month. Until then I exist in my own life as a shadow of the person I am in my life with him. I go on a strict diet and facial regime. I want to look perfect for when we meet again. I order the best outfit I can think of and plan all our conversations. My intro when we meet this time. The little jokes I will drop into conversation. He'll remember me from last time and our relationship will grow deeper. This is the start of my new life, with him. This time next month, I could be on tour with them! I pack a bag to be ready. Just in case.

The night comes. The show is perfect. Even when they fuck up it's amazing. His disheveled hair dips over his eyes any time he lifts his hat. It's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Like staring into the sun without being burned. The after-party is at the same venue so we move through to the front of house to celebrate the show. After an hour or so the band joins us to rapturous applause and "Yeeeehaa's!". He's changed into a simple t-shirt and cap. A little scruffy but comfortable, because he knows we love him no matter what he's wearing. When it's my turn to speak to him my heart is in my throat and beating so hard I swear he must be able to hear it. He smiles, it's recognition. He remembers me. "We met the last time we played here didn't we?" Of course my love. I know he's been thinking of me. But he's keeping his cool. I know I'm special to him, I can see it in his eyes. When I hug him, I feel him squeeze me back. That's all I need him to say. I'm on the moon. I can't stop smiling. The rest of the evening he's busy chatting to his fans. I wait patiently for him to come back to me as I know he will. He's been talking to one girl for more than 15 minutes. They're not touching but they are deep in conversation. About what I'm not sure. I'm sure it's perfectly innocent. She is slight and has long dark hair that curls lightly and bobs when he makes her laugh. What can he possibly see in her? She's got a good body, sure, but she hasn't even made an effort. She's just wearing jeans and some band's shirt, it's not even their band. She's nothing special.

As they are getting ready to leave I watch him say goodnight to her. He takes out his phone and gives it to her. She's giving him her number. It's like a knife to my heart. I feel physically sick. My head is spinning but I can't walk away. I hold every muscle in my body tight so I can watch the end of their conversation. He leaves with a wave and a broad smile to the remaining crowd. As soon as he's out the door I run to the bathroom and vomit into the sink. What the fuck is he doing? He had my number and didn't call me but he gave his number to her? Why her? Was it for work? Maybe she's in the music business. Maybe her Dad owns a record company. It has to be something business-related. He can't be interested in her. She's not even his type. I stare long and hard at my face in the mirror as I wipe vomit off my greying lips.

I finally make my way out to the carpark, my head throbbing and my mind spinning. I'm a bit pissed but I can't wait any longer, I need to get away from here. As I'm pulling out of the car park I see the girl in the jeans walking across the road with her friend. I hate her. She will never be right for him. She's not good enough for him. My mind clouds with rage.

I follow with my lights out. After a few blocks, her friend walks into an apartment building. The girl in the jeans waves goodbye and heads towards the carpark outback, keys in hand. I watch her from my dashboard, my hands gripping the wheel so tight my nails are close to breaking off in the leather. She opens her car boot to put her coat in and I just slam my foot down on the accelerator. It's over in seconds. She violently buckles at an unnatural angle across the thighs then crumples to the ground. I don't hear a thing but the ringing in my ears and the squealing of my tires. I'm sure she's screaming but I can't hear her. I ram across her limp body a second time, back up, and drive away at full speed.

I'm shaking, my heart is beating, loud. As loud as when I was holding his hand. My love. I did this for you. She would never have made you happy. Only I can make you happy. You must understand that. You will come to understand that.

When I get home I check my bumper. There are long brown hairs tangled in the broken headlights and thick visceral chunks stuck to my grill. I scrape them out with my bare fingers and use a big sponge from my boot to mop off the blood. I splash a bottle of bleach all over every area that was once covered in her dark clotting blood. I did this for you my love.

I go to sleep thinking of him. Thinking of how sad he will be when she doesn't call. But I will pick up the pieces my love. I will save you from your grief and then we will build our life together.

I dream deep. I dream of maggots eating her eyes. She won't be able to take my property ever again. When I wake up I comment on his Insta "Thanks for the amazing show last night. It was great to hang out with you guys again!!!" The following afternoon he likes my post. That's all the confirmation I need. He knows I'm taking care of him. He wants me to. I will keep him safe.

The following day I take the small bag I packed and head out on the road. I drive 5 hours to the next city on their tour. It's his hometown. I will see his childhood home, his lake house. Maybe even meet his parents. I will be a part of his life, I will protect him from all these crazed fans. He can't do it himself. He has to be open and approachable and happy to meet everyone. That's a Rockstar's job.

I drive the streets writing stories in my head about where he played on the streets, where he had his first kiss, where he lost his virginity. I stare at people in cafes and wonder when we will meet. He will introduce them to me, an old school friend perhaps, at a dinner in our home. I will be happy living here, when we're not on tour. I can irons his white shirts every night and polish his guitars.

I dress hurriedly in a petrol station bathroom and do my hair and make-up in the car. The show tonight is in the bar he dreamed of playing as a fledgling musician. I'm walking on hallowed ground. He will see me tonight. He will spend time with me, we will bond over the roads traveled and his grief at hearing one of his young fans died in an unexpected car accident. He knows I'm here. I can feel it.

The show is the best I have ever seen. I sing so loud my throat is horse. I'm sure he will understand. He will see my passion for him, for his music. My passion for his passion. The crowd is amazing. Magic runs through the room, his hometown crowd here to cheer on their golden boy. He looks so beautiful up there, backed by bright bulbs that light him up like an Angel. The whole night I feel as though he is singing just to me.

From my place in front of the stage, I can see people watching from the wings. I will be one of them soon. I'll be so cool about all of it, it's just a part of our life together. Gary Numan married a fan so why wouldn't he? I notice a handful of beautiful women standing side of stage. Some of them must be family, some of them will be there for the other bandmates and maybe a few industry types and hangers-on. Nothing to worry about

When the concert finishes I watch him take his bow, knock back the last of his beer, and walk towards the wings. Time slows as I watch him walk towards one of the beautiful ladies and stop to wrap his arms around her. Over the noise of the bar I can just hear him say "Sorry....so fuckin sweaty!". She smiles in reply in a way that makes her gorgeous pale eyes sparkle. As he's speaking to her he lightly clasps her hand. I can't peel my eyes away. He loves her. He must love her. Why her and not me? What did I do? What is so amazing about her? I feel my legs give way and I sink to the floor. The bouncers are watching me. If I stay here they will throw me out for being drunk, though ironically I have never felt more sober. I make my way to a seat and sit down hard, so hard I feel my coccyx crack on the hard plastic chair. It hurts; the ache radiates down my legs but I welcome the pain. It is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I feel all the blood rushing out of my body as though my jugular had been slashed with a greasy knife. My hands are white and sweaty gripping my knees. I sit for what feels like an eternity, waiting for my body to give in and die beneath me, waiting for my heart to thunder to a colossal stop. But it doesn't. My heart keeps beating like it has no idea what has happened. I get up and stumble towards the stairs. I crawl slowly to the balcony bar and ask for a glass of water.

That's when I see her.

Her flowing black dress, cinched at that tiny waist, long dark hair trailing down her back. Her soft laughter is like a tinkling banjo and she is so at ease it's fucking ridiculous. I feel like the devil himself has brought her here to taunt me. I hear her clear as a bell ordering 2 whiskeys and turning towards her friend with a gay flick of her hair. My eyes are burning like they've been struck by lightning. In a single movement, I lunge at her, gripping her around that petit waist. She is propelled backwards with the full weight of my body against hers.

Now, what I thought would look like a dramatic, movie finale-style romantic gesture is far less beautiful in reality. In my mind's eye, I saw us tumbling together like broken rag dolls caught in a torrential storm. Instead, my hair, wet with spit and snot clings around my face covering my eyes and choking me as we tumbled together over the railing and plummet to the cold stone floor. Her face is pressed against mine so all the way down all I can hear is her screaming in my ear. My final thought, as we plummeted into the abyss, is a huge disappointment. It should have been a single shot of Nate's beautiful smiling face, but the last thing to pop into my head before it cracks open on the flagstones is the memory of my Math teacher's coffee breath beside my face as I struggled to do basic statistics. Brains are funny like that I guess.

Epilogue

"I'm Midori Saint-James with KBBL evening news. Tragedy has struck tonight, on an evening that should have been reserved for well wishes and warm hearts.

On the final date of their sold-out tour, local golden boys The Dead South have experienced a night no band would wish for when two young fans plummeted to their deaths over the balcony railing in what can only be described as a tragic accident.

"Nate, can you tell me what happened here tonight?"

"Well, we'd just finished our set and we were out the back getting changed when we heard a huge crash, then people screaming. I had no idea what had happened until I spoke to the police hours later. It's such a terrible accident. People have just come out to have a great night and enjoy some live music, y'know?"

"But this isn't the first tragedy to strike near one of your concerts, is it?

"No, it's been a strange few months for us."

"Your music harkens back to a time of tragedy and social disfunction. Do you think there is any connection between these harrowing events and your band's often dark subject matter? Do you feel like you've brought this on yourselves in some way?"

"Oh man, well I would hope not! I think it's just a string of really bad luck. I can't see how it could relate to us in any way."