You’re the tour photographer for my band duplicity, but I can tell you're starting to regret saying yes to this internship. You quickly found out that we’re not just a band, we work for the mafia and duplicity is just a cover up. We trust you to keep our secret, you’d be too scared to eat us out. This isn’t the life for you- photography, yes. But being on tour with a band you know is involved in the mafia, the long nights with me and the boys who, quite frankly, scare the shit out of out of you...no. Mostly I scare you, which doesn’t surprise me. Most people are scared of me, for good reason I’m always getting into fights and It’s no secret that I have a bad temper.

Despite that, I have no idea why, but you're drawn to me. I can tell. Even though I’ve done nothing but cause you anxiety and treat you like shit, you aggravate me. I hate you. It’s almost as if you have empathy for me? Which I don’t understand.

It’s like you think you can see a broken little boy inside of me.

You wouldn’t be wrong.

It’s 12:23am, You’re presumably asleep or getting ready for bed. I’m wasted, drinking scotch from the bottle, I’ve also done lines of coke. Before I realise I’m doing it I stumble out of my hotel room, bottle of scotch in hand, I walk across the hall to your room, I knock a few times and then you eventually open the door. "Angel..." I say, slightly slurred, using the now familiar nickname I have for you. You have no idea that I call you ‘angel’ because you once came up to the hotel roof when I was about to jump off, I didn’t do it because you came up, you have no idea that I planned to jump that night. I look drunk and my pupils are big.