Take Care

The first thing I saw when leaving the hospital were the flashing lights. Bright bulb popped and flashed in my eyes, effectively blinding me. Voices were shouting from every direction, asking me questions about the incident. This was my personal life they were trying to sell. I was overwhelmed, to say the least. It doesn’t help that I jumped out of my skin every time I felt a hand on me. I remember Rick, my security guard and savior, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. I started a little, but relaxed when he gave me a smile.

“Let’s get out of here.” We pushed and pushed through the crowd of reporters, mumbling, “no comment,” over and over again like a mantra. And really, that’s all I had to say about the situation.

No comment.

“You okay?” Rick looked at me, searching for an answer in my expression.

“I don’t know,” I said, throat constricted. I fought back the tears that threatened to fall. I had to be strong. Or, at least, appear to be strong.

I felt another hand on my shoulder and I jumped, yet again. It was my manager, Effie. She gave me a sympathetic look and I had to look away.

“The restraining order went through,” she almost whispered to me. I nodded and closed my eyes.

“Good.”

“Why don’t you just take a nap for the rest of the car ride? We’re almost to your mom’s house.”

I took her advice, and felt as if I was shaken to consciousness as soon as I closed my eyes.

“We’re here.” I nodded, unclicked the seatbelt and walked to the door. I didn’t get a chance to knock before my mom flung the door open and hugged me. I winced in pain.

“Ma, my ribs. They’re still bruised.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” her eyes swum with tears. I felt bad instantly.

“It’s okay. I missed you.”

“I missed you too, honey. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to pick you up at the hospital. I’ve been glued to the phone since, well, you know.” She looked down at her feet and breathed deeply, trying not to burst into tears again. My stomach gave a lurch. It killed me to see my mom this heartbroken.

“I understand. It’s okay.”

My eyes automatically snapped to the foyer, looking for the picture. Of course it was gone. I don’t know what made me think she would have left it hanging up. It was a picture of him and me at the local park. His arm was slung over my shoulder and our faces were pressed together, two matching smiles adorning the lovely couple.

It was surreal to think that was the same person who put me in the hospital.

The most fucked up part of it all was that I still had hope that some good part of him remained. That I could find a glimmer of his old self and somehow push away the shadows that took over.

Recovery is a long road, they always say. I’m not sure if I was up for the journey.



The media was the worst part of the entire situation, well, minus the part where my boyfriend beat the shit out of me. I had to force myself to pick up other hobbies that didn’t include going on the internet, watching television or reading magazines. The headlines were all the same. 'The Real Story Behind Evan Carters and Astrid Jonsson', 'Astrid Jonsson Victimized by Brutal and Jealous Evan Carters', etc. The articles always went on about how weak and shattered I was, and how embarrassed Evan was. How his career is going down the tubes. My lungs always felt as if they were being sat upon by an elephant whenever I read these things, so I learned to block them out.

I was on my fifth reread of the Harry Potter series before I got a phone call from Effie.

“How would you feel about starting anew?”

I thought about it for about two seconds before I answered.

“Yes.”

“I’ve been getting phone calls from Syco and they want you to do a collaboration with one of their clients.”

“Isn’t that in London?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” I could tell she was trying to be patient with me.

“Who wants to collaborate with me?”

“One Direction.”

I sighed inwardly. Don’t get me wrong, I loved them. They were all around my age and their music was fun and they had this happy sort of aura around them. But their image didn’t exactly match with mine. They were a bit vanilla, compared to the slightly racier themes my music portrayed.

They had been trying to work with me for around a year now. I said no time and time again, not exactly being fair, but for a perfectly acceptable reason.

“Hear me out, Astrid.”

I sighed, but didn’t say anything, waiting for her to go on.

“I know they’re not your scene, really, but you could use a bit of fun in your life. And it could show the world that you’re not weak. If you throw yourself into something new, the media will find something else to talk about. It could do you good.”

I couldn’t argue with her there. So two weeks later, I found myself in JFK airport, ready to board a plane to Heathrow.