Page 2 of Haze of Obedience
1
Zoe
Two Years Ago
Patchouli flares in my nostrils,and if I could close my eyes any tighter to not wake up, I would.
But I can't.
The pounding of my headache from the previous night's alcohol and drugs is like a bowling ball sloshing against my skull.
You need to stop letting them load you up.
What's the point?
At least it's bearable with it.
Why are you blaming them? You took everything all on your own last night.
Inhaling deeply, patchouli fills my airways, and nausea washes over me. I drag myself off the bed and try to focus on figuring out where the bathroom is.
Where am I?
Things are fuzzy, and I shudder when I hear his gruff voice say, "Bathroom is that way."
I don't want to be reminded of him, but I turn. Dark eyes, black hair to his shoulders that is still pulled back in last night's ponytail, and the gold chain around his neck come into focus.
Jonas Torres.
He points toward the door, and I run, covering my face and barely make it to the toilet in time to get sick.
You have to quit this crap.
Sweat pops out on my skin, and when I'm done, I rinse with mouthwash and brush my teeth with a spare toothbrush I find on the hotel counter.
When I finish, the reflection in the mirror looks like me, but I no longer know who I've become.
From the time I was a little girl, all I ever wanted to do was sing and entertain the world. Early on, I saw how people's faces would light up with happiness, or their eyes would glisten with emotion whenever I belted out a tune. My soul would come alive whenever I performed, no matter how big or small the crowd.
Those were the days of ignorant bliss.
The poor, rural town in Mexico I grew up in didn't have much going on. My parents and siblings were all farmers. At age ten, they trained me to work in the fields. It wasn't anything major, just berry picking, but I hated every moment of it.
My family told me to stop dreaming. We were poor. Girls like me didn't make it big. I needed to focus on having a family and earning money. That was my place in the universe.
But I wouldn't listen.
At fourteen, I ran off with a boyfriend who believed in my talent. Anywhere I could sing, I did, no matter how small the pay.
One night, one of the bar owners sat me down after a show. I was almost sixteen. He gave me a book and tapes to learn English and advised me to spend all my free hours learning it because "I was going places and needed to be bi-lingual to crossover to the USA one day."
I listened to him and became obsessed with English and continued singing everywhere. My boyfriend got tired of life on the road and went back to our hometown. But I decided I wasn't going to let my dream die. I would do it on my own.
On my seventeenth birthday, I thought God finally heard my prayers.
A man named Rafael Vargas approached me and told me I had what it took to be a star. He promised me I would be the biggest pop musician in all of Latin America.
He tried to fulfill his promise.
