DEAR FRED, I HATE

I peered through the narrow gap in the door—just a few inches that let me see him… but enough to make my world collapse.

The Fred Hunt I glimpsed in that moment wasn’t the god of the stage. He wasn’t even the idol I’d dreamed about for years. I couldn’t find a trace of the arrogant, perfect man from that night on the tour bus. What I saw was a pathetic figure, pitiful, curled up on a white leather sofa.

My eyes locked on the spot where the needle pierced his skin, ...