by Kyle Rutkin
I had learned that Detective Donaldson is not a “gray area” kind of guy; he doesn’t like to know the history of things, the true motivations. He wasn’t patient enough. He only wanted my confession. By any means necessary. He pulled out all the stops. Jabbing. Poking. Prying. There was a text from Kelly on my phone. The last one she sent to me that night, telling me, Read the obituaries. Donaldson’s face kept coming in and out of focus as he repeated the questions. What does that mean? Why did she send you that? Was that some kind of code? I didn’t respond. He wouldn’t believe me anyway.
He pulled out two photos and laid them in front of me, watching my reaction. He said he’d found them at the crime scene, next to my book. One was a picture of my brother. I kept it on me at all times. It used to help me with the cravings. Now? I don’t know. It makes me feel like shit. The other was a picture of Kelly and me. Placed in a clear bag as evidence. Red blotches splattered the edges of the photo. You won’t find it in a tabloid or posted on social media. It’s not something you can Google, so don’t bother trying to find it.
Kelly was in a tight black dress, and we were sitting on the couch. Her hair was tied up; her face wiped clean of makeup. Her smile was genuine. I liked that photo. I liked that she didn’t share it with her followers. She didn’t add a filter on it. Didn’t turn it into something it wasn’t. She gave me a hard copy of the photo on the night she died. She didn’t email it to me or text it to me. She had it printed. Because pictures helped me get through tough times, and she knew that.
That picture was taken on Kelly’s tour stop in Philadelphia. The chaos and kids tagged along. Loud beats pulsated inside a jam-packed hotel room. Lines were snorted. Smoke drifted. Kelly sat down next to me on the couch. She looked me in my eyes. I couldn’t hide it. I was weak, pale. That twinge of eagerness. Tapping leg. Defenseless. The cravings clawed down my chest. Begging to be released. Screaming. Alcohol no longer sufficed. I knew she shared my symptoms. On the verge. Out of place. She grabbed my hand, squeezed. She turned over her forearm. The scar was covered up by tattoos, but I could still see the bubbles protruding from her soft skin. She cut herself. Cut with real intent. Not a cry for help. A scar that lasted forever.
“I know what it feels like,” she said. “Which drugs are your favorites?”
“Anything that’s white.”
“Me too.”
She avoided my gaze. “You think we’ll ever be free?”
I reached for her hand. It wasn’t in my nature to respond like that. I was raised to bury the pain. Never show your cards. Even with Sara, I guarded my wounds. I was scared of what she would think. Or what my demons would do.
I was right to be scared.
Kelly turned to face me, a tear trickling down her cheek. “I was free once.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“It just went away.” She wiped the second tear before it had a chance to run. “But I was free from it all, at least for a moment…at least I have that hope.”
The moment was gone.
“Let’s take a picture.” She smiled, her guard again intact.
She extended her arm and snapped the picture. But I can never forget that moment. Everything that followed was an attempt to get it back.
Flickering shutters, neon lights.
The buzz of anticipation.
Cinematic war music thundered through the speakers.
Screams devoured the darkness.
“KTROOPS.”
“KTROOPS.”
“KTROOPS.”
Kelly put her earpiece in, stepping into the spotlight. She was in a black camo leotard with shoulder tassels and combat boots. Her long hair flowed across her neckline, obscuring the silver sparrow medallion. On the projector behind her, an endless army of avatar fans appeared in formation. Her real fans cried out with tears pouring from their eyes.
Kelly sauntered across the stage, yelling.
“We are strong.”
They chanted back: “Strong.”
“We are bold.”
They chanted back: “Bold.”
“We will rise from the ashes.”
They chanted back. “Rise.”
“And then—"
The entire stadium stomped their feet against the ground.
“We will free our fucking selves.”
The beat dropped.
Fire erupted.
Mayhem ensued.
Kelly’s voice soared, captivating a sea of fanatics. She moved with grace and confidence, her hands gliding across outstretched fingers as she sang.
“We rise, we shine, we awaken to the beat.”
They hung on every word, mouthed every lyric.
“We rise to the top of the penthouse suite.”
Kelly rolled her body, gyrating her hips, stomping her boots with power. Raised fist, middle finger up. The crowd mimicked the gesture. She was their leader. Their goddess.
Song after song, the arena transformed in puffs of colorful smoke, entrancing us all. Kelly’s mythical universe. With giant floats and animatronic dragons. Backup dancers dressed as scaly monsters and ancient Greek soldiers. Kelly commanded the stage in sparkly dresses and black leather bikinis, jean jackets and army green jumpsuits. Behind her, the projector flashed abstract, bizarre images. Disfigured faces. Affirmations. Evil creatures. Epic battle scenes.
And her fans sang.
They danced.
Their hands forever extended.
They were told to rise.
To fight against tormenters. Bloodsuckers. Bullies.
Kelly made them a promise: Accept my invitation and I will never abandon you again.
She glanced over to me on the side of the stage. I backed away. Farther and farther. The props. The colors. The lights. Her finger extended, beckoning me. Come. Taste. Indulge. Whatever your heart desires. Your deepest wishes. I will provide. I never stood a chance.
The stadium went dark, still.
Gray fog rolled onto the stage, hovering over the surface.
A moving spotlight broke the darkness.
A forest of black thorns appeared on the projector.
The song began, slow piano keys. The spotlight stopped when it reached Kelly. She was in a slip dress without a bra, her tattoos completely exposed. She sang the first words beautifully. The piano was gradual and harmonious, and I could feel the beat pick up as the chorus approached.
She fell to her knees as lit cell phones illuminated the stadium. She sang:
“I’m bare and tired
Stripped and angry
Scared and judged
Tired and broken.
Loved but not loved”
The beat picked up again. Her body slid across the stage and the spotlight followed. She held her scar up to the light. The song had taken everything out of her. She was on her knees, and one strap of her slip fell off her shoulder. Emotions lingered in her eyes. Dust motes floated around her as she belted out the final lyrics:
“I’m lying here naked
On a sea of pills
My life without you”
The stage went completely black. I saw shadows walk by me. I felt a kiss on my cheek, and when the lights came on, she was gone.
Lizzy: The drugs started during the final season of Zoe Loves. It was painkillers, mostly. A lot of things happened. Worst of all, she broke up with her costar, Noah Tash. He played my older brother on the show. Things fizzled out with them at the same time Barry broke the news that Kelly’s contract wasn’t being renewed. Then they offered me the spin-off, Lizzy Loves. Talk about the perfect storm of bad shit. It was a lot for her to handle.
Jez: Kelly used to make me watch Lizzy’s stupid show every Tuesday. Ugh. I hated it. Lizzy’s character wasn’t believable. Plus, she didn’t have half the singing voice Kelly did. But Kelly didn’t have a jealous bone in her body. She was so happy for her friend. I wish I could say the same for Lizzy.
Lizzy: I told Kelly I wouldn’t take the spin-off, but she insisted. Less than a mon
th later, she was headlining every tabloid with her drunken antics. I imagine that’s why she retreated to her mansion and barricaded herself in her room. Something happened inside that house . . . it was bad enough to leave that giant scar on her forearm. I’m sure drugs were involved. I didn’t pry. I was just relieved she finally emerged, clean. And she was motivated. Probably the most creative and excited I’ve ever seen her. She got her shit together and went back to the studio. Everything was going well until she met Kaleb. He pushed her back onto the ledge. That guy was a black hole, sucking everything down with him.
The Real Kelly Trozzo
TheInsideJuice.com Interview
INSIDEJUICE: Recently, you tweeted in defense of a former costar diagnosed with a mental health disorder, alluding to your own battle with anxiety. Is that something you still deal with?
TROZZO: Yes, I still have episodes.
INSIDEJUICE: When did they first start?
TROZZO: My first one happened during a parade, smack dab in the middle of the happiest place on earth. I was dressed as Princess Jade, I mean, the whole nine yards white toga, golden sandals, wheeled out on some larger-than-life float, with my costar on my arm and animatronic animals at my feet. Thousands of screaming fans lined Main Street, holding out their hands and reaching out for their beloved princess.
We were rounding the last leg of the parade when I saw her. This pretty child, no older than five or six, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Just gorgeous. I remember she was wearing a sparkly dress and holding her mother’s hand, just like every other little girl in the park. But it was the way she was gazing up at me, with such sadness, such hollowness. As if nothing in the world could bring her joy. That’s when the cheers and screams vanished into nothingness, and the sunlight retreated behind dark clouds. And as I turned to smile and wave, this deep ache filled my stomach, and my vision blurred, and the girl’s face—I don’t know—it transformed. There were these green reptilian scales snaking up her cheeks. Her eyes turned yellow and wicked, and she had these razor-sharp fangs. Then I remember this voice hissing in my ear. “I see you.”
I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t real. Just an absurd figment of my imagination. But it was too late. It felt like a seal had been ripped open inside me, releasing fear across my soul. Then I collapsed onto the float with my music playing on repeat in the background.
Heat exhaustion was the official statement, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. It was evil that crawled through my body that day. And the crowd never stopped smiling, never stopped taking pictures, never stopped reaching out their hands, because all they wanted was their beautiful princess. But my soul had been hijacked by a monster. I liked to imagine the horror on their faces if they saw what I felt.
I realize now the monster wasn’t trying to kill me at all. No—he just wanted to show his face. He wanted me to know he was confined for now, but he was coming for me.
The Blog of Kaleb Reed
(Continued)
Two days after Kelly’s death.
“You think I’m a monster, don’t you?”
Detective Donaldson’s eyebrows rose. This was it. I was backed into a corner. Moves and countermoves. He had his iPad out, replaying the video. You’ve seen the footage. Everyone’s seen it. It spread like wildfire across the Internet. I almost killed that man in Philadelphia. I don’t remember doing it. I don’t remember anything. He was just a fan. The detective was right... I was…I am…a monster. I am capable of terrible things.
“Turn it off!” I yelled.
“Then talk,” Detective Donaldson barked.
I turned away from the screen. I reached for the picture of my brother, still in the evidence bag on the table. My brother was the good one. Even-keeled, kind hearted. We had both attended an elite school in Massachusetts. It was full of pissed-off rich kids, desperate to project their own bullshit. So, they find the governor’s youngest son. My brother. He was small and timid. Bullies like defenseless kids, and they beat him until he cried and begged for help. Never again.
On my final day of school there, I found him hoisted thirty feet in the air on a flagpole, crying, his eye swollen, nose bloodied. A group of kids huddled around the flagpole, laughing. I hoisted him down. Then I left. There was no decision. No right or wrong. Just rage.
I knew who they were. I found them at their usual lunch bench. Smoking cigarettes, snickering. I grabbed that bully’s head and slammed it into the wooden bench. His skull cracked on the beams. Blood soaked his white polo, and I heard his screams and tears. Not so tough anymore. His friends shouted, Stop! Leave him alone. But I couldn’t turn it off. I didn’t know how. It was the same poison and rage that lived inside my father. But this was for good, for justice. This was for my brother. I was his protector. No one would hurt him on my watch. I only remember bits and pieces. I don’t remember taking it so far.
The ambulance roared into our school, and I drove away with my brother, my shirt stained with the bully’s blood. The cops came to our home for statements. The boy had a fractured skull, two broken ribs. My father answered the questions. He didn’t say a word when they left. Instead, he patted me on the head. A first time for everything.
He was proud of me that day.
This wasn’t the first time my darkness had risen, and it wouldn’t be the last. But if I hadn’t gotten expelled, if I hadn’t lost control, things would have been different.
My brother would still be alive.
After the concert, Kelly sat across from me in a limo, her knees pulled into her chest, her eyes fixed on mine. She dismissed her entourage and bodyguards. It was just us. She had on a white beanie covering her wet blonde hair, and tight black jeans with combat boots.
“What did you think of the concert?” she asked.
“Enthralling. Your fans…They worship you.”
She put a bottle of tequila to her mouth, her loose-fitting sleeve falling down to reveal her tattoos. Tiny black dots and lines covered the scar on her forearm. I knew how she got it. A clash with demons. Tread lightly with that scar. Don’t overstep.
“They don’t worship me. They trust me to lead them. We are stronger together.”
I nodded, reaching out for the bottle of tequila. “What’s the tattoo on your arm?”
“A constellation,” she explained. “Andromeda. Just like the painting you like so much. Chained to a rock and saved by the Greek god Perseus. It reminds me to stay true to myself, that there’s something bigger out there.”
“Wasn’t that the same plot of that movie you were in—”
“Castle Heart,” she finished my thought. “But instead of Perseus, it was the humble knight, Percy, who saved the princess. But yes, same plot.”
“You played the princess…betrayed by her father, and handed over to the sea witch…”
“And given an awful curse that penetrated her golden heart with fear.” Kelly grinned, animating the fairy tale in her best narration. “And when fear infiltrated the heart of the beautiful princess, she would take the physical form of a monster, with thick claws, yellow eyes, and green scales.” She grabbed the bottle of tequila back, took a swig. “And to rid himself of his guilt, the king sent his daughter to Castle Heart, the abandoned castle on the sea, where she was trapped in a lonely tower, waiting for her hero, her knight, to rescue her from the evil monster, from the curse.”
“So who’s your Perseus, or Percy? Who saves you?”
“I don’t know.” She took another swig. “Maybe it will be you?”
The bar got loud. Too loud. Packed to capacity. Overrun with drunks. They pointed, laughed, whispered, closed in. They were watching from everywhere. I couldn’t stop them from pushing through to snap photos. They were reaching toward her.
“Kelly! Kelly!” they yelled.
I pulled her closer. She needed my protection. The patrons got bolder, friendlier. They shuffled over to take pictures with her. Three young guys in red Phillies jerseys held their cameras out. They smashed their faces t
o Kelly’s cheeks without permission. They were slurring their words. I watched their hands. Spots of red. Flashes of rage. The transformation was beginning.
“You going to let them do that to her?” Bob was drinking at the bar; his back turned to me. “She needs you.”
“No, she’s used to this.”
“Here we go again,” Bob laughed. “Haven’t you learned your lesson?”
The picture was snapped. They smiled and thanked her, lingering to talk. One of the guys playfully touched her arm, laughing, teasing. I stayed in the wings. Gulped my beer.
“She’s fine.”
“Don’t be a coward, Kaleb.”
I didn’t have a response.
“Defend her,” yelled Bob. “She needs you.”
The guy put his arm around her. My body tensed. She was fucking mine. I grabbed Kelly’s shoulder. She looked up at me, worried. She needed me. Of course she needed me.
Give us some space. He kept his arm around her and turned his back on me. I was slipping. Dark vibrations pulsed through my veins. My blood felt warm; my knuckles felt strong. I hated this feeling. I loved this feeling. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to. The rage thrashed inside me. Oh, it felt good. I felt strong. Indestructible. They were all going to pay.
I blacked out.
I relied on the video online to put the pieces together.
I threw his hand off and pushed against his chest. He fell back with force. His face scrunched in anger. He took one drunken swing and missed. My knuckles pounded against his soft stomach and he fell back on the table.
I remember small flashes. My knuckles penetrated his face. One. Two. Three. Crack. Blood poured from his nose. My hands gripped the back of his head. His skull cracked against the table. The crowd shuffled to us. Blood covered my hands. No. Stop. What are you doing? My hands kept falling. His face softened like meat under a tenderizer. I couldn’t stop.