Prologue

I stared into her empty eyes. The once beautiful sparkle that held her crystal blue eyes were gone, leaving only a dull replica of its former glory. I held my hand up to those eyes and the dull blue orbs immediately disappeared being replaced by an equally dull, dark brown eyes. The brown so dark it was almost black.

I took my eyes off the girl, knowing I’d be sick if I continued to look any longer. I rubbed my eyes, knowing I’d never get used to contacts, despite having, already, worn them for so long. I was tempted to look back and see if my eyes were puffy or blood shot, but decided against it.

I never could look in the mirror for too long.

Chapter 1

*Spencer’s P.O.V*

To most people high school is always the best years of their lives, too bad I’m not most people. Those years killed me, in more ways then one, though then again, I owe all my success as a producer and director to those years, through that experience. So, here I am, 26 years old, doing what I love to do with not a single person beside me. No friends. I decided long ago that friends were overrated. No family; well at least, none that I want around or want to be around me. I can’t exactly say that people abandoned me, because in reality, there were never really there. They were just shadows, images. Well, moving on.

If you were to ask who Spencer Carlin was in the production industry, chances are, you’d get slapped in the face. I mean, not to be cocky or anything, just stating the truth. It’s seriously happened before. Scary, I know. They’re not kidding when they say that tortured artists make the best pieces. I mean, I would know, I’m one of them. I specialize in documentaries, but sometimes I do a short film or two and even the occasional music video, here and there. In fact, that’s what I’m heading to go do today.

I don’t know whose video it is, or what song it’s for or even what the song is about. I kind of, tuned out on what music’s popular and bull like that a long time ago. I stopped caring about a lot of things then. Frankly, I just hope to God that it isn’t some bull crap pop diva singing about a broken heart, when, it’s obvious she’s the real heartbreaker. I mean why is it that people write about shit, that they’ve never experienced or felt? How seriously can you take a girl, who’s singing about her dead lover, when chances are the closest thing she’s had to a dead lover, is a drunken boyfriend passed out on the floor? Let’s face the truth, people are either liars or hypocrites or both.

So I walk out of my new 2009 Porsche Panamera, and head towards the studio. I open the door and see Stan standing there.

“Come on Carlin! You’re late!”

As you can see Stan is my coworker and is probably the closest thing I have to a friend. Actually, he’s my assistant and is in charge or keeping me sane and booking my jobs, like this one.

He leads me to the room, that has our, supposed “rising star” inside. He starts ranting on about how good she is and I just drone out, now even bothering to listen to him. Well, that is until, I open the door to reveal a familiar set or chocolate brown eyes, suddenly turn towards me. Fuck