The first thing I heard was a loud popping sound. True, I had been in the army during an active campaign, so you'd think I'd recognise the sound for what it was, but I was playing a song in a crowded concert hall and the only thing that came to mind was, "who brings firecrackers to an indoor venue?"
Then something hit me in the shoulder so hard that I spun around careening into the drum riser behind me, knocking over the bass drum and a cymbal on my dizzying journey. I slid to a semi-sitting position, trying to get my bearings.
It was still so unreal that I took the time to unhook my guitar strap and examine the guitar for damage before it even occurred to me to look down at the front of my shirt, it was changing rapidly from the normal white to a crimson red.
I guess I was in shock because even then it didn't seem to connect that it was my blood. My shoulder felt like it was on fire, and I felt sick to my stomach. I tried to stand up but was having trouble with balance and so I abandoned that idea.
The whole world seemed to be really bright, loud and totally still. I looked out at the audience, I could only see the few first rows but almost everyone had looks of horror frozen on their faces, and screams were coming from somewhere but no one seemed to be moving.
My drummer, Paul, came out from behind the wreckage of his equipment tearing off his tshirt as he ran towards me in slow motion.
At the same time a figure came from somewhere off stage and strode toward me with great purpose, holding a gun aimed at my head. It was then that I finally caught on that I had been shot.
Paul had his back to the gun holder and didn't see the approach as he bent over me pressing his shirt into my shoulder, when I saw the gun raise to Paul's head I kicked Paul square in the shins knocking him out of the way.
As he toppled over the gun holder knelt in front of me, putting the gun to my head. I felt the cold metal against my temple and all will left me. I didn't try to push it away; I just closed my eyes waiting for it, I knew I was in no position to fight and so I accepted the inevitable. I was sort of disappointed that my whole life didn't flash before my eyes as I waited for that last click.
I heard a jarring clang right in my ear and opened my eyes to see Paul standing over a prone figure holding a cymbal like a Frisbee. Just then security finally made a move and rushed the stage. Some veered off towards me, and other swarmed the person who had fired the shot.
Paul sat down next to me again pressing his shirt hard against my shoulder, and said something. His voice sounded like the adults on the Peanuts TV specials; I had to really concentrate to try to understand what he was saying. He repeated it and I wasn't able to get a word of it, it struck me as really funny and I started to laugh.
I was now surrounded by my band and security; they formed a tight ring around me. That too struck me as hilarious as they all had distorted fun house mirror faces.
By the time the paramedics arrived I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. I was lifted up, strapped onto a gurney and loaded into the ambulance before I finally lost consciousness.
But let me rewind a bit.
It had been a pretty incredible year, I had recorded and released my first album and beyond my wildest expectations it shot to the top of the charts. The minute it did, I hit the road touring to support it.
I was totally unprepared for the trappings that come with sudden fame. My every move was recorded in the tabloids; unflattering pictures, rumours and scandal seemed to be the rule of the day. My girlfriend of two years had bought into the shit they wrote about me and left me over yet another story of my supposed flings with this or that starlet.
Another side of fame that I hadn't ever really considered was the stalker. I had at least one that I was aware of. It started out pretty mildly. Love letters, flowers sent to me care of that night's concert venue, the promise to see every show on the tour. Then the gifts became more lavish, the letters more desperate, a bit more intimate and then vaguely threatening.
Still, it didn't really alarm me. I would shrug it off as an overly active imagination on this person's part and didn't give it a lot of thought. My tour manager, Robert, tried to warn me that this person was most likely unhinged, and as I found out later, sometimes he would intercept the letters or gifts, not passing them on to me at all.
That fact would become very important.
The day I got shot started out pretty much the same as most days on this tour. I made the rounds of radio stations doing promo work, and all that stuff that my manager loves to schedule me to do.
It was unusual to have most of the afternoon to myself. I had lunch with Paul, in the restaurant at that night's hotel. He and I had just become lovers, but he knew I was still very much into women. For some reason our intimate meal was not going as I had hoped.
