The Profound Prologue, chapter 1
There's a stack of folders piled up on the table in front of me. All neatly labelled and indexed. A file for every month that I was in The Profound Prologue. Its weird to see a year of your life measured out in magazine articles, press releases, legal documents and receipts from restaurants, hotels and musical instrument shops laid out in front of you. It really is.
I reach for the top folder and a photograph falls out from an early photo shoot. There's the 4 of us. Staring blindly at the camera.
My hair, those old shades of bright red set against that deep black piercing out of my head. I look so young there. My jeans and old Blink-182 singlet standing proudly at the front of the pack, a bra strap peering over my shoulder supposedly to make me look 'sexy'...let's just say it didn't work to well.
I look back at the photo. Matt's standing next to me, an arm slung around my shoulder with a smirk on his face. He looked so rock star with his dark brown hair falling in front of his eyes. During the flashes of the camera he'd pull his pants further down his not-so-quite hips. "Makes the ladies go wild. Just look at The Academy Is..." he laughed.
Then there's Jack. He always had to be at the back, apparently he 'didn't look right' with the rest of us. I can still remember when he found that Black Sabbath shirt he's wearing was at a small boutique in London when we played Birmingham Academy, he couldn't stop talking about it. Good times.
And lastly, there's Ryan. He's on my left. He's wearing a red and black bowling shirt and his hands firmly in the pockets of his ripped jeans and he's hunched shoulders slightly to give off that whole...tortured artist thing. His almost black-brown hair is the usual rock-star spiked and ruffled mop. He'd be experimenting with a mixture of coconut wax and this gel to get the 'perfect level of messiness' that month. Even now when I smell coconut, I think of Ryan, running the coconut wax through his hair while he complained about getting his fingers greasy. What a Girl.
I run my finger over his pictured figure one last time and begin to wish I hadn't picked up that photo. It's making my stomach knot and I rub my hand across my lower tummy trying to get rid of that feeling. That feeling of loss and betrayal. It had never gone away.
There's a small groan from behind me. Gerald, my lawyer, has come back with a pen and a notebook from his car. He places it on the table in front of me next to the stack of folders and hands me an engraved pen. Not a cheap biro either, a heavy gold leafed real lawyer like pen. No wonder he's so costly to hire.
"Nothing to worry about, Charlie," he smiles. "Just write down everything."
"Everything?" I sigh.
"Everything."
"I don't think I can remember all that much really..."
Gerald points to the folders. "They should jog your memory. But you need to be very open. Even incidents, accidents and conversations that don't seem important now or then, could really help your case."
I frown but nod willingly. I know I'm being difficult, but I've spent the last few months on a mountain of denial and now, I have to re-live it all and come tumbling down.
"Okay...I'll get busy with the pen and paper," I tell him trying to sound positive.
"Good girl," he assures me, "Don't skip anything. I'll just be over at that table making some calls if you need me. Take all the time you want dear and signal the waitress if you need a new cup of Joe."
And with a light pat on my shoulder he's gone. I turn the front-page of my notebook and the white blank pages stare back at me.
Without thinking my fingers grasp the pen and words form on the neat blue line.
"My name is Charlie Alexandra Bordello. I'm 18 years old and I'm being sued for $23,000,000 US by my former record company..."
I reach for the top folder and a photograph falls out from an early photo shoot. There's the 4 of us. Staring blindly at the camera.
My hair, those old shades of bright red set against that deep black piercing out of my head. I look so young there. My jeans and old Blink-182 singlet standing proudly at the front of the pack, a bra strap peering over my shoulder supposedly to make me look 'sexy'...let's just say it didn't work to well.
I look back at the photo. Matt's standing next to me, an arm slung around my shoulder with a smirk on his face. He looked so rock star with his dark brown hair falling in front of his eyes. During the flashes of the camera he'd pull his pants further down his not-so-quite hips. "Makes the ladies go wild. Just look at The Academy Is..." he laughed.
Then there's Jack. He always had to be at the back, apparently he 'didn't look right' with the rest of us. I can still remember when he found that Black Sabbath shirt he's wearing was at a small boutique in London when we played Birmingham Academy, he couldn't stop talking about it. Good times.
And lastly, there's Ryan. He's on my left. He's wearing a red and black bowling shirt and his hands firmly in the pockets of his ripped jeans and he's hunched shoulders slightly to give off that whole...tortured artist thing. His almost black-brown hair is the usual rock-star spiked and ruffled mop. He'd be experimenting with a mixture of coconut wax and this gel to get the 'perfect level of messiness' that month. Even now when I smell coconut, I think of Ryan, running the coconut wax through his hair while he complained about getting his fingers greasy. What a Girl.
I run my finger over his pictured figure one last time and begin to wish I hadn't picked up that photo. It's making my stomach knot and I rub my hand across my lower tummy trying to get rid of that feeling. That feeling of loss and betrayal. It had never gone away.
There's a small groan from behind me. Gerald, my lawyer, has come back with a pen and a notebook from his car. He places it on the table in front of me next to the stack of folders and hands me an engraved pen. Not a cheap biro either, a heavy gold leafed real lawyer like pen. No wonder he's so costly to hire.
"Nothing to worry about, Charlie," he smiles. "Just write down everything."
"Everything?" I sigh.
"Everything."
"I don't think I can remember all that much really..."
Gerald points to the folders. "They should jog your memory. But you need to be very open. Even incidents, accidents and conversations that don't seem important now or then, could really help your case."
I frown but nod willingly. I know I'm being difficult, but I've spent the last few months on a mountain of denial and now, I have to re-live it all and come tumbling down.
"Okay...I'll get busy with the pen and paper," I tell him trying to sound positive.
"Good girl," he assures me, "Don't skip anything. I'll just be over at that table making some calls if you need me. Take all the time you want dear and signal the waitress if you need a new cup of Joe."
And with a light pat on my shoulder he's gone. I turn the front-page of my notebook and the white blank pages stare back at me.
Without thinking my fingers grasp the pen and words form on the neat blue line.
"My name is Charlie Alexandra Bordello. I'm 18 years old and I'm being sued for $23,000,000 US by my former record company..."
