The Rockstar's Redemption

1. I promise. “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you home?” I shake my head several times, a small reassuring smile tugging at my lips. “You’re taking Olivia out for breakfast tomorrow,” I remind him, and he makes a weird face. “It’s already late enough for you to want to sleep in tomorrow, Jason. Don’t worry about me, it’s just a short walk. I’ll be fine.” “Willa…” he insists. “Go,” I say, giving him a gentle push. “I know you. You’re not exactly an early riser, and you can’t flake on a girl. Go.” Before he can say anything else, I turn and start walking down the street. I’ve lived my whole life in this little neighborhood and, while it’s not the best part of town, it’s not the worst either. Nothing has ever happened to me here, and the crime rates are ridiculously low. But when you have a best friend like mine, you have to be prepared for the most psychotic scenarios imaginable to play out in his head. The walk home is always quiet. Not even the broken streetlights that have been out for years scare me anymore, even though they leave the road and narrow alleys draped in shadow. Tonight should be just like every other night. Only… it isn’t. Tonight, without knowing it, my life is about to change forever. With my headphones on, I start humming as I walk the last two blocks home. The image of the little patient I saw at the end of my shift is still burned into my mind, reminding me why I chose this job in the first place. Gratitude—especially from children, when you treat them with the kindness they might not get elsewhere—fills you more than any better-paying job ever could. And it’s while I’m lost in my thoughts, music playing softly in my ears, that I hear it. I hear it. Rough groans, followed by dull, heavy thuds that sound painfully real. I freeze mid-step, a shiver running down my spine. Another louder groan, more blows—sharp, sickening sounds that pierce even through the music. I start walking slowly, pulling my headphones out, my heart pounding faster with every step. My feet want to run the other way; my panic begs me to turn around and leave. But one single thought—one that hurts and carries my mother’s face—pushes me forward, forcing me not to ignore it. “Is he dead?” a male voice asks, freezing the blood in my veins. What? I press my back against the wall, trying to stay hidden. The urge to run floods every nerve in my body. But now that I’m this close, something else keeps me still. Something I hate to admit. I don’t want to be seen. I don’t want to get hurt. So I stay there, pressed against the wall, holding my breath and shaking. “No,” another, softer voice replies—and then, another hit. “Let’s go, that’s enough,” says the first man, his voice rough, but the blows don’t stop—I can still hear them. “We made our point. Let’s go.” And me—the smartest i***t alive—I just stay there, right in the middle of what I’m sure is a crime scene. My hands tremble as I cling to the wall. I don’t dare peek around the corner. I don’t dare move. Not until I hear fast footsteps running away at the far end of the alley. And when I finally look… I see him. I don’t even know how my eyes manage to catch it, but the image burns into my mind like a photograph I’ll never be able to erase. A large, colorful tattoo stretches across the arm of one of the men—the same arm holding a knife dripping with blood. Before I can see anything else, both of them disappear. Almost instantly, the screech of tires against the pavement cuts through the silence, followed by the roar of an engine speeding away. My feet move before my brain does, running toward the crumpled body lying on the wet ground. Ice floods my veins the moment the metallic smell of blood hits me. A huge pool of blood. A part of me screams to run, to get away, to mind my own business. But there’s a wounded person right in front of me. How could I leave him there, like some broken thing I found on the street? “Shit.” The word—one I hardly ever say—slips out as my knees scrape the old gravel when I drop beside him. My terrified eyes scan the poor soul on the ground, and my whole body starts shaking uncontrollably. It’s a man. A man on the edge of death. A man who needs help. I’m scared to touch him, but I need to know. Carefully, with trembling fingers, I reach for his pulse. I find it—faint, almost nonexistent. “Can you hear me?” I whisper, leaning closer, trying to catch his attention, hoping he can at least hear my voice. The smell of blood grows stronger. And he… doesn’t respond. My hands are shaking as I fumble through my bag, clumsily pulling out my phone to call emergency services. But weak fingers stop me, curling around my wrist with what little strength he has left. I freeze, staring at the bloody hand gripping my skin. “No.” A gasp escapes my lips, because that word… didn’t come from me. “Oh my God,” I breathe, stunned. “You’re alive!” Part of me feels stupid because, of course he is—I felt his pulse. But I can’t seem to say anything else. “N-no… don’t call…” “What?” “Don’t talk,” I whisper, staring at his blood-covered face. “I’m calling an ambulan—” “No!” he shouts, his hand tightening around my wrist with a surprising strength for someone in his condition. “D-don’t call… don’t call… anyone.” Don’t call anyone? “But…” “No!” His eyes snap open, barely, and I freeze. The plea and agony I see there are too much. Too much for me—for anyone. “N-no one.” “You…” His fingers tighten around my wrist, his eyes opening just a little more, revealing a brown color tinted red from burst vessels. “You’re really hurt.” He shakes his head and tries to speak, but all that comes out is a harsh, painful cough. I can’t look away. The agony on his face tears something inside me—and I don’t even know why. Or maybe I do. He reminds me of someone. He’s my chance to make things right. “Can you walk?” I gasp, fully aware of how stupid that sounds. “Of course you can’t, you’re almost dea—” I stop myself, look at him, and let out a nervous laugh. “You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine… you’re not dead.” What the hell was I about to say? I was about to declare him dead. Right to his face. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I know one thing: his pain seems to ease just a little when he realizes I’m going to help him. And that’s enough. That tells me I’m doing the right thing. “N-no one,” he whispers again, his fingers weakly pressing against my wrist. “N-no one… i-if they…” “Shh,” I whisper. “Don’t talk.” He ignores me. “N-no one, if… if they see me…” “Don’t talk.” “I… die.” My brows furrow, confusion and panic spinning in my head. I’m definitely crazy. I have to be—to be doing this, thinking I’m some kind of superhero. He keeps looking at me, like he’s on the verge of passing out, but there’s a desperate insistence in his eyes, as if he’s begging me for something I can’t understand. “You’ll be fine.” He shakes his head, groaning in pain, and manages to say, “P-promise.” “Yes,” I say, having no idea what I’m agreeing to as I struggle to lift him—only to let him fall again. Holy. s**t. I try again, gritting my teeth, doing everything I can to hold his weight against me. Don’t ask me how, because I have no clue, but somehow I manage. I drag this dying man all the way to my house, step by step, as if the world depends on it. “Promise,” he insists the second I lay him on my bed. His face, dirty and bloodied, twists in pain as he clutches his side. “What do you want me to promise?” I whisper, my voice trembling as I stumble around the room looking for the first aid kit. “N-no one… promise,” he keeps repeating, his voice breaking apart while I feel like I’m losing my mind. “Promise…” And the agony in him leaves me no choice. “I promise!” I shout, losing my patience—and my control. The moment he hears my words, his eyes close, and he collapses into unconsciousness.