I (Don't) Need Your Forgiveness

I told the audience at the start of the show that Twiggy was missing. At the end of the night, someone must’ve alerted the media, because reporters were darting out from every corner. Knowing that it was probably the best thing I could’ve done in this position, I talked to all of them. I even went on TV with a picture, pleading for the return of my dearest friend.
By morning, the video of me crying for my darling Twiggy was online, and on the national morning news. Maybe, just maybe, someone would find him.
Pogo forced some breakfast down me as he’d been doing for the past few weeks, and we all got back on the bus and headed for the next gig. My heart wasn’t in this anymore, it was off in oblivion with my beloved bassist.
“Marilyn,” John said quietly, “we need to talk.”
I noticed that everyone had come to surround me in front of the TV.
“Marilyn, Twiggy is gone. You have to face that. Going to the press, putting us all through this, it isn’t helping anyone. If he’s alive, he doesn’t want to be found. If he’s dead, a search party isn’t going to bring him back to life.”
I gave John an angry glare. “Twiggy is alive. He’ll come back. I know it.”
Ginger bowed his head. “We left him in Wisconsin. It’s twenty degrees at night in the winter there, at best. He was high when he left. Chances are that he didn’t make it through the first night.”
As was typical of my behavior, I began throwing things.
“Stop it!” Pogo shouted, grabbing my arms and pinning them down. “Stop! You can’t bring him back. Let him go.”
I stormed off to my bed, drew the curtain, and cried.