Dream On [HS.AU]

Chapter Five

Halle Henry

Smoking, again.

There's just something so interesting about the prospect of slowly dying by filling your lungs with something that feels so great. By smoking, it's no secret that with each cigarette you're knocking days off of your life span, and I'm just not sure that idea terrifies me as much as it should.

I remember my first cigarette, I coughed so hard it brought tears to my eyes and swore never to touch them again. I don't think that innocent thirteen year old knew what was coming to her, I don't think she expected to find out her dad was terminally ill and that the friendly eighteen year old who bought her the cigarettes wasn't just somebody being friendly.

Nevertheless, I turned sixteen and bought a pack of cigarettes, the same day my dad bought me my first Fender guitar because I wanted to become a rock star, and sixteen year old me struggled to believe you could be a rock star without an unhealthy addiction to something. Still, I hated the burn, but smoking became like breathing far too quickly and thanks to sixteen year old me who wanted to be the rebellious little rock star, I've got a bad habit with a long lasting impact.

These days, who doesn't smoke? I believe one day in the future it will be massively discouraged, because even at the age I am now, I know there are things I'd find easier if I wasn't an avid smoker, but in this industry, smoking makes you look cool, and all we seem to do is play to the expectations of others.

Putting the cigarette out on the top of the silver metal bin, I wander round the front of the music hall we're at tonight so that I can get back in, because I locked the side door behind me by mistake. Mick is usually against me using the main entrance, but people aren't getting in for another half hour yet, and my set starts in 45 minutes, so it's not like I'm walking through a massive crowd unsupervised.

I may not have met a massive group of fans who push boundaries and treat you like a zoo animal, but I did meet a journalist, a very persistent journalist.

"How is it touring with Harry Styles, is he really like a best friend to you?" He asks, scribbling down on his piece of paper.

"Yeah, he's nice." I say over my shoulder in the hopes he'll go away, because I'm not supposed to talk to people like this without warning Mick.

"Are you performing your new single tonight?" This time, he's walking right next to me with his shoulder pressed against mine as he scribbles down words I can't even read onto his page.

"Yup."

"Everyone thinks you're up for a lot of awards this season, maybe even an AMA. Do you think your dad will make it-"

"Don't talk about my dad." I cut him off, standing still with my hand on the door to pull open. "Have a nice evening."

I don't know what it is about these journalists that constantly push boundaries and dig for information people clearly don't want public. I knew stepping into the spotlight meant I was bound to have the world see parts of my life I don't want them to, but I hate when they push for me to talk about my dad, because it's never about him being proud, it's always about the fact he's sick.

Not only does it hurt me, the constant reminder that my dad won't be here forever, but it hurts my dad. There's nothing he wants more than to be well and healthy, because he wants to see me tour the world, he wants to see my sister Ellen become a New York times best selling author. The constant reminder that he won't see things like that, makes him feel like a failure, and it couldn't be more far from the truth.

He's the bravest, most strongest man in the entire world. If I can have even half of the charisma and care that he does, then I will die a happy woman.