START The Ember Files HERE: A Real Rock and Roller Comes Over - The ProLOG
The Prologue to "Case Study: Psychic Entanglement With Unstable Male"
START HERE: The ProLOG
This is the very first file in The Ember Files series.
While the numbering may appear out of sequence, this log - The ProLOG - is the recommended entry point.
All subsequent logs unfold from what begins here.
To read the the next log - Log 1 - click here.
Date of Incident: December 8, 2023
Circulation: Restricted
Classification: Internal Literary/Behavioral Analysis Only
Note: Raw narrative data. No metadata. No speaker tag. Retained for pattern-tracking and mythological mapping. Do not excerpt for clinical sessions.
Fuuuuuuuuck. He was on tour again.
He texted at midnight: two lines. “I need you. Come over.”
Didn’t even need to check the name.
Wyatt Vega.
Still touring. Still a god to some. Still packing stadiums. Berlin. São Paulo. The younger fans had found him. But lately, he’d been calling more often. Saying things like “they just don’t get it anymore” and “I feel like a relic out there.” And “I’m fucking tired.”
Every time he played within a two-hour radius, it was the same: The show. The drink. The coke. The hotel. The text. Me.
He never asked. He summoned.
He’s in his fifties now. When he’s wired, he can’t get it up. When he’s drunk, he gets cruel. When he’s lonely, he calls me - not his wife. Never her.
I ignored the first text.
A few minutes later: “I know you’re up. Come to my hotel.”
I replied: “Can’t. I’m with someone.”
Phone rings immediately. Same as always.
Wyatt: “Who the fuck are you with?”
Mara: “None of your business.”
Wyatt: “It’s that bass player, isn’t it? That little pussy bitch from Topanga. You two were eye-fucking each other backstage.”
Mara: “How drunk are you?”
Wyatt: “What is he - 25?”
I waited. Then I twisted the knife.
Mara: “He’s 24. Strong back. Their last album outsold yours by 80K.”
Silence. I could see it - him alone, phone in hand, bottle sweating on the bedside table. No audience. No spotlight. Just him.
Wyatt: (pauses) “You’re fucking with me. C’mon, baby. Just come over.”
Mara: “No. Fuck off. Ain’t no stadium lighting on you right now, bitch,” I said calmly.
Wyatt: “Then I’m coming to you. And I hope that kid’s still there. I’ll beat his ass and make him watch while I fuck you.”
Classic Vega.
For the record: the bass player’s 37. But men like Wyatt don’t register age. They register threat.
I hung up. Threw the phone on the floor. Stared at the ceiling. Feeling … not rage. Not grief. Just calculation.
This isn’t love. It’s not even lust anymore. It’s just what we’ve always done.
And yeah - I’m expecting him to show. Going through the motions in my head. What I’ll say. What I won’t. Whether I let him in or just let him scream at the door.
But here’s the shift:
Since the sessions started - since the Institute started peeling it all back - I don’t confuse this with anything sacred anymore. Not with desire. Not with devotion. Not with power.
I used to think Rook was the problem. That he scrambled me. Made me see Wyatt as small. But that was projection.
Rook only mirrored me. Long enough to make me believe no one else could. And then he called it friendship. Said he was glad I’d found someone. Said I deserved something real.
That’s how it works. Rook lights the match. And calls it a candle. Claims he’s my “coyote” leading me to my divine path.
It’s not about Rook anymore. It’s about what I do now that the fantasy is gone. With him. With Vega. With myself.
And right now, I’m just listening for the sound of car tires on my gravel driveway.
END OF ProLOG
To read the next log - Log 1 - click here.
