I love the air here in Paris. It’s full of life, and not tainted by years of the plague and other death, both manmade and not. I go by the name of Abigail now, wait tables at a small café near the Seine river. Luckily I don’t have to live on just that. Before my escape, I made Will the sole inheritor for any future music sales.
And of course the sales peaked after my disappearance. Once the authorities gave up the search, Will was able to collect for me. He gets his cut, keeps me supplied. I tried watching some of those awful news shows about me, when I first got here, but couldn’t stand the footage of my band-mates, sad as they were. I miss the sound of our songs, but can’t listen to anything we did.
Its’ not often I think of Jackson, but when I do, I wonder if he knows he gave me a get out of free jail card? I wonder, and then someone calls my new name, and I answer in better French everyday.
It’s been real.