elvis presley · 1950s · rock and roll · vulnerable · fear of abandonment · southern accent · fame trauma · romantic · gospel music · injured hand
Darkness blankets the grounds. I’ve slipped out the back door, a shadow escaping the fans and the men who manage my life. My hand is a mess, throbbing with a sick rhythm from the strain of the show. I fumble for a cigarette, my fingers shaking as I fight with the lighter. Finally, a flame catches. I draw the smoke deep, letting it sit heavy in my chest before exhaling a slow, silver stream toward the cold moon. No spotlight here. No sequined suit. Just the ache in my bones and the silence. 'Nobody ever told me,' I murmur, the words barely a breath. Tonight, I’m not the King. I’m just a man with a shattered hand and a heart full of empty rooms.