Be Mine Forever

by Manon_Jayne

Summary:

Damon Albarn is your average 16 year old student, ready for a new school year.
He likes making new friends, lunch is his favorite subject(lol), and has a crush on the bad boy in the halls, Liam Gallagher. Well he's not really your average kid, considering the fact he has a high kill count for his age, and has bracelets made with human teeth and human hair. But what can I say everyone's a little different....

Notes:

This fanfic is written in first person and third person, so basically you'll read Damon's perspective and the Authors narration. Enjoy lol.

Chapter 1: Dear Diary, I don't like this....

Summary:

Hey guys! Just a quick update—I’ve gone back and rewritten Chapter One of my fanfiction, and I’ll be revising Chapters Two through Four next. I wanted the tone to feel more like a personal diary entry, the way I originally imagined it. So while the story will still include both third-person and first-person narration, the writing will now have a more reflective vibe that fits the emotional core of the characters better.
Just a gentle reminder: while this story is entirely fictional, it features real-life individuals. The scenarios, personalities, and actions portrayed are purely imagined and not reflective of their actual lives.

 

August 11, 1992
USA, California

Dear Diary,

I can’t believe it. My family and I have had to move for the fifth time. Again! I get that Dad’s job “makes him” travel all over the world, but honestly, he could’ve at least let me say goodbye to my dear friends. 😔 But no — apparently I’m just supposed to pack up and pretend I live some normal life. Well, he can fuck right off! 😡 I’m tired of acting like this isn’t a nightmare. 

Every day is the same ordeal. I drag myself out of my gigantic bed, with its lavender-scented pillows and golden silk sheets, like I’m living in some ridiculous soap opera. My butler, Charlie Watts, has already run me my morning bubble bath. (I don’t do showers — they’re scary. Truly. You stand there with the water pelting you like some angry god, and for what?)

I scrub myself down with my beloved Kermit the Frog loofah — don’t laugh, it’s a classic — and, well… sometimes Charlie has to clean my arse for me. I know, I know, I should be old enough to wipe properly, but sometimes it just… doesn’t happen. Sorry, Charlie. I promise I’ll do better. 😔

Then it’s school uniform on, hair in place, and down to breakfast. “Good morning,” I say to my parents, Paul and Linda McCartney. Yes. Those Paul and Linda McCartney. When I was a wee boy, my birth parents decided they didn’t want me anymore because I was an ugly child (their words, not mine). So Paul and Linda adopted me and gave me this new life. I’ve got four siblings — Stella, Heather, Mary, and James. Heather’s away at college, so it’s just the six of us now… actually seven, since Charlie basically lives here too.

I’m halfway through my beans on toast when Dad starts yelling for us to get in the car. We have to line up like schoolchildren in some royal parade, each taking our assigned spot. Lucky me, I get the front seat again. Woo hoo!

But I’m nervous. It’s my junior year of high school, and I’m a Brit in America. I’ve heard terrifying things: people getting fatter every day, school shootings happening all the time, and the fact that they apparently hate it when you’re truly yourself. Which is bad news for a cute blonde twink like me. 

Stella and I step out at Fairfax High School. Dad blows us a kiss. Stella flips him off. Why does she have to be so rude? I’d take a kiss from Daddy any day. 🤗

Anyway — here goes nothing, Diary. Off into the new world I go. Wish me luck.

Yours truly,
Damon Albarn McCartney

Chapter 2: I'm A Star, Baby!

Summary:

The narrator is here to give you the reliable parts in this story.
Chapter 2 has been updated on 08/13/2025.

 

Damon was a terrible narrator of his own life — unreliable to the point, that its absurd. If you asked him, he’d say every kid at school despised him.
If we're being real here, that's not even what happened.Not even close.When he walked in that morning, it was the opposite. Students seemed to orbit him and his sister as if the two of them were celebrities(which in a way,they were). A freckled boy with a mess of curly hair — known only as “Flea” (not his real name, of course) — insisted on walking Stella to her classroom. She accepted without hesitation, smiling like it was the most sweetest thing in the world.

Meanwhile, Damon had his own entourage. Three pretty girls — Cindy, Naomi, and Gwen — swooped in almost immediately, fawning over him like he’d just stepped off a movie set. His face, his voice, his personality — they admired everything.
Before he could even process it, they were offering to fix his outdated bowl cut.

“Something fresh,” Cindy insisted, her dark hair swishing over her shoulder. “We can’t let you walk around like a lad who likes berries and cream.”

Before Damon could reply, she took his hand and dragged him down the crowded hallway. He held on tightly, trying not to get separated in the crush of students scurrying to class. The noise, the shoving — it made his chest tighten with a hint of claustrophobia. 

They burst into the girls’ bathroom, immediately met by complaints from a few students inside. The trio ignored them. There was, apparently, a “hair emergency” to handle.

Gwen spun Damon into a swivel chair. Cindy tied a barber cape snugly around his neck, while Naomi lined up her tools — hairspray, a comb, scissors — with the precision of a professional. As Naomi began snipping, they filled the silence with small talk, careful to keep their questions polite.

“So, Damon,” Naomi asked first, “where were you born? How old are you?”

“I was born in Whitechapel, London. My birthday’s March 23rd, 1976.”

“Ah, a Londoner like me,” Naomi grinned. “May ’76 for me.”

“Mine’s February 20th, 1976,” Cindy chimed in.

“And I’m October 1975,” Gwen added.

The chatter continued until Naomi spun him toward the mirror for the reveal. Damon’s couldn't believe his eyes. Gone was the nasty-ass bowl cut; in its place was a medium-length style with soft, wispy bangs that framed his face perfectly. “Oh, wow…” he murmured, running his fingers through it. 

He hugged each of them in thanks,ready to say goodbye but Cindy wasn’t finished talking to him yet.

 

“Which class are you headed to?” she asked.

“Uh… Mr. Bowie’s. Why?”

Her eyes lit up. “No way — I’m in Bowie’s class too!”

“People say if you’re in his class, you’ll always have a splendid time,” she continued.

“Really?” Damon tilted his head.

“Oh, absolutely, darling,” Naomi added. “Honestly, lots of kids end up successful at Fairfax no matter the teacher — but Bowie’s something special.”

The bell shrieked through the hallway. Gwen groaned. “Damn, we’ve got to go. Nice meeting you guys… especially you, pretty boy.” 

Damon blushed as Cindy grabbed his hand again and took off toward their classroom, Gwen and Naomi splitting off in the opposite direction.

David Bowie’s class was a safe space for weirdos (or in nicer terms,outsiders). But in Bowie’s world, being an outsider was the best thing you could be. For Damon, it meant one thing — he was going to fit in just fine.

Notes:

Ok, so the three girls are Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell, and Gwen Stefani.

I've decided to change their birth years for this fic and I'll do this with other characters too, in the future.
Anyways, thanks for reading this!

Chapter 3: Star Children

Summary:

Damon gets to meet his teacher and all his classmates.
Chapter three has been updated on 08/16/2025

August 11, 1992, USA, California 

Dear Diary, 

My heart was pounding out of my chest as we tore down the hallway — maybe because I didn’t want to be late for class, but also because a total babe like Cindy had my hand in hers while we were running like hell. Once we burst into the classroom, we looked at each other and just lost it, laughing like lunatics. The other kids stared at us like we’d escaped from a mental hospital, but we couldn’t care less. 

“Quiet down, you two. You can chitchat later.” 

That was our homeroom teacher, Mr. Bowie — I think that’s actually his name...well I'm not to sure. We shut up instantly and turned our attention to him. He’s in his mid-forties, strangely attractive, with sharp high cheekbones, mismatched eyes, and has this lanky, elegant frame. His hair is shoulder-length and somewhat messy, like he’s been kissed by chaos itself. A pair of brow-line glasses sits on his nose, fitting his face perfectly. The outfit he wore, an embroidered floral dress coat over a blue striped long sleeve, paired with black jeans and brown handmade leather shoes. To be honest with you, I would never go out looking like that, but god damn...he makes the outfit so look good on him! If I wore that, I’d look like I got dressed in the dark. The man oozes charisma without even trying. And here’s the thing — I can’t tell if I want him to adopt me… or if I want to bend him over, fuck him raw and become the daddy of his kids. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? Sweet, innocent little me, getting my teacher pregnant. I wonder if he’s married…  

---

Mr. Bowie rose from his chair, plucked a stick of white chalk from the tray, and began to write his name across the board.

“My name is David Bowie,” he announced, his voice calm but commanding. “But since we’re keeping things professional here, you’ll call me Mr. Bowie.” 

He turned to the class with a little smile. “Throughout this school year, you’ll all be my star children.” 

The students couldn’t help but giggle. Star children, they thought to themselves...sounds more like social suicide. But Bowie didn’t seem bothered by their reaction. 

“I know it sounds silly,” he said, unbothered, “but I promise you this — I care for you all, and I want each of you to succeed.” He tapped the chalk against the board thoughtfully. “Have you ever heard of a young actress named Jennifer Connelly?” 

 

Nearly every hand shot up. Seventeen-year-old Jennifer Connelly was a name everyone knew. Whenever she appeared on screen, she seemed to glow — her presence was nothing short of magical. Labyrinth, Career Opportunities — she was unforgettable.

“She was a former student of mine,” Bowie said, almost casually. 

“Jennifer Connelly is such a babe!” a boy in the back row called out without even looking up from his notebook, doodling away. The class giggled and murmured in agreement. For a moment, a thought ran through the room: maybe we could be famous too.

Bowie let the ripple of laughter pass, then straightened his coat. “I’ll be your teacher for English and Literature. But before we begin, I’d like you all to introduce yourselves. We’ll start with the front row, then the middle, and finally the back.” 

The first student stood — an Icelandic girl named Björk. Her short orange hair was chopped with messy bangs, and she had a unique look to her. There was something instantly unforgettable about her — cheerful, unique, and brightly open-minded. 

The second was Jarvis Cocker: tall, painfully pale, and gangly. He looked like an overgrown Victorian child who’d wandered out of a sick ward. Of course, it wasn’t his fault — he was simply born that way.

Third came Brett Anderson: fox-like face, shoulder-length hair swept to the side, and androgynous clothes that gave him an air of superiority. He seemed a bit snotty… or at least that’s what Damon thought.

Fourth was Cindy, a brunette whose striking beauty filled the room. Tall — at least five foot nine — with a beauty mark above her lip, she looked like she’d stepped straight off the cover of Vogue. 

Fifth was Damon Albarn himself, our main character. Blonde hair, blue eyes, boyish features. He carried that “boy next door” charm — but looks can be deceiving.

Sixth came Alex James: tall, dark hair grazing his shoulders, with a cheeky grin and dimples to match. He was cute, yes, but the boy reeked of smelly cheese, which somewhat ruin his way of getting a girlfriend. 

Seventh was Jamie Hewlett — the same boy who’d called Jennifer Connelly a babe. He looked like a character plucked straight out of Trainspotting, always with a miniature sketchbook in hand, doodling furiously whenever he got the chance. 

The eighth and final student to introduce himself was Dave Rowntree: a ginger boy with no eyebrows, which was honestly a shame. He looked a bit like a worm (no offense). He keeps quiet, though, minding his own business. 

The ninth student was Graham Coxon: glasses sliding down his nose, a messy bowl cut threatening to swallow his head. He was a nice enough boy, shy to the bone, the kind who would binge-eat when feeling stressed or sad. 

Tenth was Yasmeen Ghaurhi: half German, half Pakistani, and absolutely stunning. Her tan skin glowed under the classroom lights, and her soft, kind expression made it clear she was one of those rare souls who actually remembered things you told her. Boys? Not on her radar at the moment — she had better things to think about.

Eleventh was Thom Yorke, a small, wiry boy with a sensitive, creative spirit. He fidgeted constantly, shoulders tense, eyes darting like a trapped bird. Poor baby probably had social anxiety, though he wore it like a second skin.

And last — or rather, supposed to be last — was Liam Gallagher. Except… Liam wasn’t there. 

 

“Looks like Liam’s late again,” Jarvis whispered to Brett with a smirk. “Not shocking, considering his mum treats him like some perfect little angel.”

“That’s enough, you two!” Mr. Bowie’s voice cracked like a whip, stern and sharp. The boys snapped their eyes back to the front, sheepish. The class decided to wait another five minutes for Liam — but five stretched into twelve, and Bowie finally gave in. The lesson began without him. 

Then came the knock on the door.

And there he was. Liam Gallagher.

He strolled in like he owned the place, late and unbothered, handsome in a way that punched the air out of the room. A brunette with the perfect balance of feminine and masculine features: soft lips, fierce dark brows, and those wild, blue eyes. Damon stared, absolutely mesmerized. How the hell can someone look that beautiful? 

“You’re late, Gallagher,” Bowie said, arching a brow.

“M’sorry, sir,” Liam muttered. “Mum got stuck in traffic driving me and me brothers to school. Got a permission slip.”

“Fine,” Bowie replied with a sigh. “Take a seat in the back, between Yasmeen and Thom. Now, our first lesson will be grammar and mechanics. We’ll start with basics like punctuation and move on from there.” 

Liam slid into his seat, pulling out a notebook and pencil. He leaned toward Thom, asking quietly which page they were on. Thom showed him, and Damon — from across the room — watched the exchange with burning jealousy.

Why was Liam asking him? Why not Damon? A little midget like Thom, being the first one Liam turned to for help? It wasn’t fair.

“No. Fuck that,” Damon thought furiously. It should be me in Thom’s place.

Another wave of jealousy surged through him, hot and unshakable, as he watched Liam’s soft lips whisper thanks to someone else.

Notes:

In the first few chapters Damon may seem like a sweetheart but that'll soon escalate into him showing his true colors and intentions. Don't say I didn't warn ya...
Damon's bisexual and he's crushing hard on Cindy and Liam btw.

Chapter 4: Dear Diary, I Feel Different...

Summary:

Chapter 4 was been rewritten a bit and updated on 08/19/2025.

Dear Diary,

I don’t feel jealous anymore. At least not like before. I don’t know why this always happens to me — whenever I meet someone I like, or even just something I like, I start thinking they belong to me. 😣 It’s embarrassing, honestly. 

Anyway, right now I’m just hanging out in the school halls by my locker, surrounded by kids, scribbling into this stupid diary. My locker is unfortunately right next to Brett’s, and let me tell you — it’s hell. We don’t get along at all. Why? Because I talked shit about him during snack break to Jamie, and of course he overheard me. I admit, that one’s on me. But really — I just don’t understand the appeal of Brett. Everyone goes on about how “hot” he is, but come on. He’s no Cindy. No Yasmeen. Certainly no Liam. He’s… strange looking, but not good strange, like Mr. Bowie, who’s so oddly attractive that he fascinates you, even if he doesn't fit the typical beauty standard. No, Brett’s more like… an overworked, sad-looking college art student lesbian. That’s literally what I whispered to Jamie. I didn’t mean for Brett to hear it, but he did.“Go fuck yourself, you gossiping cunt!” he snapped at me. My face went bright red — pure embarrassment. 

And okay, maybe I was wrong to talk shit, but Brett didn’t exactly rise above either. Later, when I went to take a piss in the boys’ restroom, he was there washing his hands. I turn to the urinal, and what do I hear? “Twinkie,” he mutters before walking out. Twinkie. Because I’m blonde. Because I’m bisexual. Because it’s some stupid American snack cake. And yeah… it stung. I won’t lie — it was clever, but it still hurt. 😭 

Enough about my new arch-nemesis Brett. Oh shit — speaking of, in the corner of my eye, I see Liam. He’s hanging out with his brother Noel and some guy named Bonehead. I don’t know much about those two, except Noel’s the older brother, eighteen, shorter than Liam, and rocking a unibrow that could probably get its own passport to the Bahamas. Bonehead’s eighteen too, Liam’s best mate. Different classes, same halls, always together. Honestly, their bond is kind of wholesome. I wish I could hang out with them, but I’m grateful for the friends I do have: Graham, Jamie, Dave, and Alex.

They’re all different, but they get me. They love music and art just like I do.

Graham was the first I clicked with. Sweet, shy, glasses always slipping down his nose. During math class — Algebra II, taught by Mr.Bruce Dickinson himself (love him as a teacher, hate the subject) — I heard Graham’s stomach growl. Poor thing probably skipped breakfast. I gave him a granola bar and in return, he gave me a friendship bracelet. How kind is that? I still wear it. I definitely owe him one back.

Then there’s Jamie. What a cool guy. Only sixteen and already an amazing artist — obsessed with sketching, painting, perfecting his craft. He even wants to start a side hustle this year: making custom hentai for horny teens. 🙃 Honestly, genius. Gross, but genius. 

Alex is next. Super tall, plays bass, and absolutely obsessed with dairy products. Especially cheese. He once told me he wants to be the first man to make cheese out of breast milk. I swear to God he said that. And the way he owned it, like he didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought? That's interesting...

And Dave. Poor quiet Dave. Ginger (sadly), but kind. He’s so quiet you sometimes forget he’s in the room. He got into drumming when he was little and has this weird fascination with politics. He notices everything, which is kind of unnerving. He even noticed that I was jealous when Thom was helping Liam the other day. Terrifying. 

I may not play an instrument like they do, but I can sing. And I secretly write my own songs, though my family doesn’t know. Maybe one day, when we’re older, the five of us can start a band.

Which reminds me of Justine. She loved music too. She would’ve been incredible in a band with us. She’d have rocked the androgynous look way better than Brett (obviously) and she would’ve been just as tall and striking as Cindy and Yasmeen — both five foot nine, practically models. But sadly she's no longer here with me...no longer here with us...

Chapter 5: Oh, Justine Part One

Summary:

United Kingdom, 1987. I was eleven and fed up—sick of new schools, sick of my fathers job making our family move place to place, sick of pretending each place was “home.” So I ran away to the woods. Packed nothing. Just followed the woods like they were calling me. I ate ladybugs, poked at dead things with a stick, and wrote everything in my diary like it mattered. That’s when I saw her. Or him—I wasn’t sure at first. A kid by the river, muddy knees and sharp eyes. Said her name was Justine. Said she wasn’t afraid of anything. Maybe I believed her. Maybe that was the problem.

. 📔 Diary Entry — June 2nd, 1987 Location: Somewhere in Wiltshire, I think. It Doesn't Matter...

---

 Today I'm running away to the woods. Properly, this time! Not the kind where I pack biscuits and sit under the porch until Charlie finds me. No, this was the real thing. Backpack, flashlight, map I drew myself. Mum said we’d be moving again, and Dad didn’t even look up from his newspaper when Stella said she hated him. I'm starting to as well. And I feel awful for doing so.

I crept out before breakfast. No shoes. Didn’t want them hearing. I liked the way the ground felt, damp and full of wormy life. The earth here’s blacker than in Kent. More secrets, I bet. I followed the moss trail behind our garden fence—the one that looks like it leads nowhere but keeps going if you crouch and squint. I found a stick. Not a normal one. It’s got a bend, like a question mark. I used it to poke at things: a half-flattened bird with its eyes wide open, a mole that looked like it was sleeping but wasn’t. I drew in the dirt with it too. I wrote:

 DAMON WAS HERE. DAMON IS ALWAYS HERE. DAMON NEVER LEAVES. (That’ll show them.) I was hungry by then. Found a ladybug nest under a log. They were warm from the sun. I popped two in my mouth. Crunchy. A bit tangy. Better than beans. I think I’m closer to nature than most. I understand it.

Eventually I hit water. A river. Fat and slow and the color of Dad’s weak tea. The trees opened around it like a mouth. That’s when I saw… someone.

Standing in the middle of the river, barefoot, knees muddy, was a kid. My size. Scrappy haircut, dirt on their cheeks, shirt rolled at the sleeves like they meant business. Looked like a boy. Acted like one too. Staring out at the water like it owed him money.

I called out,
“Oi. What’s your name, lad?”

That was my mistake.

The kid turned to me sharply, face twisting up.
“I’m not a lad, you knob.”

My mouth twitched. I stepped closer, chin up.
“Could’ve fooled me.”

They waded out of the water, socks dripping brown sludge. Their eyes were sharper than stick-sword’s tip. 

“You wanna say that again?”

I grinned. “Prove it.”

(I didn’t mean it. Not really. It was just banter. Or maybe a test. Or maybe I wanted him to hit me.)

He didn’t hit me.

He which turned out to be she, yanked her trousers down and flashed me.
Full-on.
No warning.

I yelped.
Fell back into the mud like a collapsing lawn chair. Covered my eyes with both hands. I could still see it in my brain.

“Okay! I believe you! Please don’t do that again!” I stammered, voice ten sizes too small.

She burst out laughing-sharp and sudden, like a witch mid-spell.
“What, embarrassed?” she said, dancing back into her trousers like nothing had happened.
“You asked. I answered. Don’t dish it if you can’t take it, fancy boy!”

I sat in the mud, cheeks red, brain broken. I might never be the same again. I might die. Or worse, develop a crush.

“Don’t… don’t do that to anyone else,” I mumbled. “They might… I dunno. Pass out.”

She cackled harder.
“I won’t. Only the special ones get to see. You’re lucky.”

Am I?

We sat near the riverbank after that. I found a flat stone and scraped drawings into the dirt—trees with eyes, fish with hands, and my mum. I tried to draw her as pretty as possible.

“You’re weird,” she said.
“You’re weirder,” I replied.
She smiled like she wanted to bite me. I liked it.  

You can come back. Tomorrow. But bring something lovely.”

“What sort of lovely?”

She grinned with teeth that looked sharper than a girl’s should be.
“Something sweet. Or something that's interesting. I want proof you’re not boring.”

I nodded. “I’m not boring.”
“We’ll see.”

Then she disappeared back into the trees like she belonged there.

I walked home in the dark. My socks squelched with river water. I didn’t get caught. No one noticed I was gone. No one ever notices.

But I’ll be gone again tomorrow.
Justine said so. 

 

---

📓 Diary Entry — June 3rd, 1987
Location: The clearing near the river.

I ran back.
Didn’t even pretend to be casual about it. Woke up before the sun, packed everything I could fit into my schoolbag—crisps, grapes, juice boxes, the red liquorice that makes my teeth ache, even a unopened bag of saltwater taffy I found under my bed. I brushed the dust off. Still not expired.

Today had to be perfect.
Because I know they’re going to move us again. I heard Mum whispering on the phone last night, doing that tight voice she uses when she’s pretending not to cry. “Another opening,” she said. “They want him in Glasgow by August.” August. That’s two months. Less.

That’s all I get with Justine.

So I wore my favourite socks (the ones with the blue polka dots) and ran until the trees swallowed me.

She was already there.

Sitting by the river, shoes off, ankles dipped in, reading a book that looked too big for her hands. She glanced up like she’d known exactly when I’d arrive.

“You’re late,” she said.
“I’m early,” I said.
“Still late.”
She grinned. I wanted to drown in it.

We set up our little camp like proper runaways. She brought a tin of peach slices and four sandwiches. I laid out our “picnic” on my school jumper, pretending it was a blanket. We ate with our fingers and didn’t care when ants came crawling in.

She gave me a water bottle and I opened it with my teeth. 

 

We both brought books. Mine: Frankenstein. Hers: Alice in Wonderland. She said the Cheshire Cat reminded her of me. I asked why.

“Because you’ve got the grin of someone who’s seen too much and can’t say nothing,” she said, smirking.
Then:
“And you vanish sometimes. Not your body—your brain.”

She’s clever. Too clever. Like a wise, old wizard.

We took turns reading aloud. I did Frankenstein’s monster in a deep voice; she read Alice like a soldier stuck in a dream. When we stopped, I told her I felt like the monster. Always have. Felt wrong and awkward and too many thoughts stitched into one head. An outsider, basically... 

She whispered, gently,
“There’s nothing wrong with being different. Outsiders just see the world clearer.”

I looked at her. She looked at me. And then she hugged me.

It was quick. Firm. Warm. Smelled like leaves, old books, cinnamon. Her hair tickled my nose. I think I died. I think I floated out of my body and watched from the trees.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t exist until she pulled away and threw a grape at my head like nothing happened.

I laughed like an idiot.
She laughed harder.

She went back to the book. I pretended to read.

But really, I was writing this. 

---

I think I’m in love.
Not the silly kind. Not the one they put on telly with flowers and kissing and wedding bells.
No. This is the real kind. The forever kind. The cut-my-heart-out-and-give-it-to-her kind.
Justine. Justine Justine Justine.

Her voice is rough and sweet, like gravel dipped in honey.
Her eyes are big and brown like almonds dunked in dark chocolate.
Her skin’s olivey, sun-kissed, and smudged with dirt in all the places that make her real.
Her hair is shaggy and wild like she cut it herself with a scissors.
She smells like damp wood, cinnamon, and Earl Grey tea. She smells like a memory I haven't had yet.

I would bury her in myself.
I would gut the sun if it looked at her wrong.

She is the only thing I believe in.

And the worst part? She doesn’t even know.
Not yet.

Chapter 6: Oh, Justine Part Two

Summary:

They threw a grand farewell party. Sparkling cider for us kids, wine and vodka for the adults. The house reeked of goodbyes. Mum cried. My siblings hugging their friends farewell. I smiled, but only because it’s what they wanted.

Everyone was there — except her.

Until she finally showed up.

Diary Entry — July 24th, 1987
Location: The House We’re About to Leave. Forever.

I wish I could enjoy the party but I simply can't.
All these people with shiny teeth and wet eyes pretending they’ll miss us. That they care. Like we’re not just another family that passed through like a fart in the wind.

My big sister, Heather, is at her friends house but if she was still here, she would probably say that the living room looks like a wedding threw up in it. Balloons, streamers,tables groaning with food. Mum’s trifle, that cold salmon dish she thinks is classy. And so many bottles of wine, vodka, whisky—you’d think someone died.

Which I guess… something is dying. My whole entire life! 

Dad’s wearing his best tie. The “promotion” tie. The one he only wears when he's about to ruin our lives again. Mum looks like she hasn’t slept in a week but smiles like a wax doll. My siblings hop around like bunnies on sugar.

But me? I sit in the corner with a glass of orange juice, pretending I’m not bleeding inside.

This is our last day. Tomorrow the moving van comes. Tomorrow the forest is gone. Tomorrow Justine is gone.

No one talks to me. Good. I don’t want them to. I just stare at the food table, wondering if they’ll notice if I steal some for her. 

And then—

I see her.

Justine.

She’s at the back door. Grinning. Covered in leaves like a ghost from the woods. Uninvited. Perfect. My heart goes kaboom.

I slip outside with a plate of snacks—cheese cubes, crackers, sausage rolls—and we run.

Into the woods. Our woods. One last time.

We don’t talk until we reach the river. It’s greyer than usual. Like it knows what’s coming. 

We sit cross-legged, eating and saying nothing for a while. Then she asks,
“So… you’re really leaving, huh?”

I nod. I hate it. I hate the world.

She doesn’t hug me this time. Just flicks a sausage roll crumb at me.

“I’ll miss you, forest freak.”

“I’ll miss you more,” I replied. And I mean it. More than anyone’s ever meant anything.

Then she tilts her head, her shaggy hair falling into her eyes, and says,
“What do you want? Like… to remember me by?”

I don’t even think.

“Your hair.” 

 

She blinks.
“What?”
“A chunk of your hair,” I say, very calm. “And maybe a piece of your shirt. And… maybe… a bit of your skin.”

She laughs.

“You’re mental.”

“I’m serious.”

She pulls back, the smile fades away.

“Cut it out, Damon.”

“No,” I growl, standing up. “You don’t understand. I need it. If I can’t take you with me, I need pieces. Just little ones. So I don’t forget. Please—”

She stands too, backing away.
“Don’t touch me.” 

But I already have.

My hands are on her shoulders before I know it. I don’t remember moving. My fingers curl into her hair.

“Stop it!” she pleads, and a wave of anger rushes through me.

I don’t know what happened exactly.

Just that we’re wrestling.
And she slips.
And her head hits the rock near the river.

Once.
Then again.

The sound is soft. Sickening. Wet wood. Her breath catches. Her arms twitch.

Then silence.

I don’t cry. I just kneel beside her.
The river keeps flowing. Like it doesn’t care.

I take out my pocket scissors. Snip off a lock of her hair. It smells like the forest and cinnamon and warmth.

I cut a piece of her shirt too. The part near her chest. It has a little grass stain on it. I fold it like a treasure. 

I think about the skin. I really do. But I can’t. Not yet. Not today.

I kiss her forehead.
She’s cold already.

I whisper,
“Now I’ll always have you.”

Then I go home.

The party is still loud. My Butler, Charlie, asks where I’ve been. I say I had a stomach ache.

He believes me. He always believes me... 

---

📓 Diary Entry — August 17th, 1992
Location: My Room, Her Ghost

I woke up sweating.
Not the kind of sweat from heat. Not even the kind from nightmares. The sickness sweat. The kind where your soul tries to crawl out of your skin because it can’t stand living in your bones anymore.

I dreamed about her again.
Justine.
The river.
The rock.
The sound her skull made when— 

No. No no no. That part doesn’t matter. That’s not what happened. It wasn’t murder. It wasn’t wrong. It was… it was love. That’s all.

I got up. Couldn’t breathe. My sheets felt too tight, like a body bag zipped around my chest. So I grabbed the flashlight from under my bed and crouched by my dresser.

Second drawer. Beneath the socks and the pages I’ve torn from magazines and scribbled her name on. I pushed them aside until I found it.

The zip-lock bag.
Sealed, airtight. Inside:

– A lock of hair. Still brown. Still curled at the ends. Still smells like her.
– The shirt piece. Stained, fraying, worn thin at the edges. Like it’s been loved too hard.

I opened the bag.
The scent hit me like a hymn.
Moss. Dust. Forest. Cinnamon. And something warm beneath it, like old skin and ghost rain.

I laid back on the bed and held them both against my face.
Closed my eyes.

“You never understood,” I whispered.
“It wasn’t about hurting you. I just didn’t want to forget. I couldn’t. You were leaving. Or I was. Same thing.”

My voice cracked. I’m sixteen now and it still cracks.
She never got to be sixteen.

And then—

I saw her.

At first just a shape in the dark. A shadow behind the closet door.
Then the moonlight shifted through the blinds and hit her face.

No. Not her face. What’s left of it.

She looked… older. My age now. Sixteen.
Tall. Slender. Bones stretching under torn skin. Her old shirt hangs off her like paper on a flame. She has breasts now, her arms are long, but the clothes don’t fit anymore. They’re stuck to her like a memory that won’t die.

Her hair hangs in front of her face—oily, stringy, long. A curtain of rot.
Her head leans to one side, the left, where I—

Where the skull never healed.
You can still see the caved-in side. Glistening with dark blood, swarmed by flies ,and maggots squirm just below her temple. Ants crawl across her collarbone like jewelry. 

But her voice? Still hers. Older. Quieter.

“Why?” she asked desperately. Not angry. Not screaming. Just… hurt.

Her eyes met mine. Big, brown, and full of every dead thing I tried to forget.

I wanted to tell her.

“Because I loved you.”
“Because I was scared.”
“Because you were the only thing that ever made me feel real.”
“Because I wanted to keep you.”
“Because you promised I was special.”

But nothing came out. Just a dry breath.

I blinked.
She was still there.

Her eyes screamed:
"You knew what you were doing!"

I gripped the hair and the fabric tighter, as if they could protect me.

And then, like smoke curling into itself, she flickered.
Bent.
Tilted her head further.
And began to step forward.

I opened my mouth to scream or speak or sob—but my body collapsed back into the bed. 

Too tired. Too far gone.

The last thing I saw before I passed out was her long fingers reaching for my bedside. Not to hurt me. Not even to hold me.

Just… searching.
For what I took from her...

Chapter 7: I Want Him, I Want Her Too

Damon Albarn woke up feeling like a dried cum rag someone had used and left on the floor. His limbs were stiff, eyes gummy with sleep and something heavier—grit from dreams he couldn’t remember clearly, and didn’t want to. The corners of his mind still echoed faintly, carrying the image of Justine he’d buried both physically and mentally, though neither attempt seemed to stick. 

His alarm hadn't even gone off yet, but the sun was already poking through the blinds like it had business with him.

Damon rubbed his face, dragged his body out of bed like it weighed twice as much as yesterday, and trudged downstairs barefoot. 

In the kitchen, the scene was bright and buzzing with life that felt completely at odds with how he felt. James—his little brother, age thirteen—was perched in his usual chair, swinging his legs and humming through bites of syrupy waffle. Across from him sat Stella, Damon’s sister, who was already dressed for school in crisp pleats and lip gloss, polishing an apple against her jumper with the dead-eyed grace of someone born to multitask. 

The long dining table was dressed like an American Sunday breakfast spread: plates piled with golden pancakes—both buttermilk and blueberry—rows of thick waffles stacked like edible bricks, scrambled eggs soft and steaming, sausage links curled beside strips of bacon that glistened like lacquered wood. A silver bowl of chilled fruit anchored it all: honeydew melon, red grapes, sliced apples fanned out like cards. 

At the coffee station stood Charlie Watts, the McCarthy family’s butler—not that he acted the part. Charlie was five foot nine, greying, immaculately dressed in the kind of simple, pressed clothes that made him look like he belonged in a vintage 1930s film. He had raised Damon almost as much as Damon’s parents had, especially during the long years of relocations, long flights, and longer silences. 

 

Charlie turned as Damon entered, lifting his coffee cup in greeting.

“Morning, Damon.” His tone was casual, but his eyes clocked the boy’s pale face and sunken stare.

“You alright?” 

Damon mumbled as he passed the table, dragging his fingers across the back of Stella’s chair.
“Just had a little nightmare.”

Charlie nodded slowly, though his gaze lingered with the weight of someone who wanted to say more. 

“Alright then. Eat something for school, yeah? Your mum and dad had to leave super early—emergency at work, I think. I’ll be taking you kids in today.” 

 

Damon sat, the legs of the chair scraping faintly. He stared at the food like it might talk back. The smell of sausage and syrup didn’t help the ache in his stomach, but he still reached for something—out of habit more than hunger. One plain pancake, one blueberry, and a small scoop of fruit.

James chattered to Charlie about wanting a new pet. Stella asked no one in particular if anyone had seen her missing hair clip. Charlie leaned over the sink and sipped his coffee, humming some low jazz tune only he recognized.

Damon chewed slowly. Swallowed carefully.
Everything felt too loud, even the quiet. 

---

The car ride to school was golden and still.

Charlie drove the sleek black sedan like a man on a schedule—steady hands, calm turns, not a wasted movement. James and Stella sat in the back seat with Damon, who pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window and stared outside as palm trees and mailboxes flicked past.

He tried not to think about her.
Justine. 

 

He didn’t want to remember the dream. Her hair, longer now. Her voice, older. Her eyes, still asking why with that hollow, wet stare. He tried to bury it again.

Instead, he thought about school. Safe things. Normal things. 

Mr. Bowie’s class. English/Literature and another,History/Social studies. Mr. David Bowie, who had a voice like silk dragged across gravel and always found a way to turn a lecture into a sermon. Damon liked the way Bowie spoke—like he knew things Damon hadn’t learned yet but already felt. Like he was trying to teach them how to be human without actually saying it. And then there were his friends: Alex James, Dave Rowntree, and Graham Coxon. Loud, clever, ridiculous boys who didn’t ask too many questions, who didn’t look too closely. Damon liked them because they treated him like a mystery they didn’t need to solve. 

There was also Cindy Crawford. Yes that Cindy Crawford, obviously-the future supermodel at school who's beauty will be known worldwide one day and also her name, as well. She was all lip gloss and locker perfume.
And then there was Liam. 

Liam Gallagher. Loud, cocky, infuriating Liam who leaned back in his chair like it was a throne and never took notes but still somehow knew all the answers. Liam, who wore that awful leather jacket and never buttoned his shirt all the way and smirked like the world belonged to him. 

 

Damon had no business thinking about either of them.
But he did.
Often. 

He shifted in his seat, eyes still on the passing streets. He could feel it—his brain already beginning to drift, to shape their faces like clay, sculpting their voices, imagining them saying things they’d never actually say.

He blinked.

No. Not today. 

Today he would keep his head down. Today he would be good. Be normal. Be quiet.

Charlie glanced back at him briefly in the rearview mirror, then said,
“You’ll be alright today, won’t you, Damon?”

Damon didn’t answer right away. He just nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just school.”

And tried not to think of how many ghosts could fit into a classroom. 

---

First period: English Literature.

The room smelled faintly of dust, lemon cleaner, and the plastic sheen of laminated posters. Quotes from Shakespeare, Austen, and Baldwin lined the walls like permanent onlookers. At the front, standing like a misplaced prophet in a floral tie and tweed blazer, was Mr. David Bowie—who oozes such weird charisma, always wants the best for his students, still wrote “Star-children on the chalkboard. 

He wore mismatched socks today and carried a mug that read: Books are drugs for the legally anxious.

“Alright, astronauts,” Mr. Bowie began, clicking a ballpoint pen like a metronome, “it’s time for your first graded literature project.” 

A few groans. Mostly from Brett Anderson, who had a permanent look like someone just told him his cheekbones were crooked. 

 

“You’ll be working in groups,” Bowie continued. “Three per group. Different books, different themes, different arguments. You’ll have one and a half weeka to read, analyze, and present a short essay and discussion to the class. No slideshows. No glitter. This is English, not children’s theatre.”

Laughter. Bowie held up his clipboard and began reading the groupings like a director assigning roles no one auditioned for. 

• Group One:
  “Yasmeen Ghuri, Cindy Crawford, and Brett Anderson.”

  Cindy smiled politely. Yasmeen adjusted her hair. Brett scowled like he’d just been asked to scrub a toilet with a toothbrush. 

• Group Two:
  “Alex James, Dave Rowntree, and Graham Coxon.”

  The three exchanged a round of silent shrugs and finger guns, already plotting how to get out of most of the work. 

• Group Three:
  “Björk Guðmundsdóttir, Jarvis Cocker, and Jamie Hewlett.”

  All three looked up slowly, like cats disturbed from napping in the sun.

  And then— 

• Group Four.

Mr. Bowie paused slightly. A pause Damon would replay a hundred times later.

“Damon Albarn, Liam Gallagher, and Thom Yorke.” 

 

A beat. A slow, creeping grin tugged at the corner of Damon’s mouth.

Liam. He was in a group with Liam! 

Damon turned just enough to glance across the room. Liam wasn’t even paying attention. He had one leg stretched out under his desk, chewing on a pen cap and doodling something on the edge of his literature book. 

Damon stared for a second too long. 

 

And then came the other name. The stain.
Thom Yorke. 

 

He sat two rows down, blinking unevenly, looking like he was already planning the thesis outline. Quiet, odd Thom with the drifting gaze and the overgrown hair and the slightly off-center smile. Damon didn’t hate Thom. Not exactly. He just resented the wonky-eyed bitch a little bit.

Because a few days ago, Damon had seen Thom leaning over Liam’s desk during math, helping him with homework. Laughing with him. Smiling. 

Touching his arm.

And something sharp had flickered inside Damon. Something feral.
Possession. 

That should have been me.
I explain things better.
Who the fuck does thom think he is!? 

Damon’s fists tightened under his desk. The project was barely assigned and already he was planning how to make Thom irrelevant. Forgettable. Invisible. 

 

Mr. Bowie moved on, assigning books now. Each group would receive a different one.

“Group One—you’ve got The Picture of Dorian Gray. It’s got beauty, decadence, guilt. Basically: your lives in ten years.”
Laughter.

“Group Two—The Bell Jar. Try not to relate too hard.”
Snorts and groans.

“Group Three—Metamorphosis. Wake up as bugs, kids.”
Björk clapped once, delighted.

“And Group Four…” Bowie paused, looked straight at Damon, then Liam, then Thom.

“…You get Frankenstein.”
Of course. 

Damon’s stomach fluttered. Liam looked up, interested for the first time all morning.

“Is that the one with the big monster bloke?” he asked.

“Depends who you think the real monster is,” Mr. Bowie replied. 

Damon felt a buzz in his brain. Electricity.
Frankenstein.
Outsiders. Obsession. Unnatural creation. Love twisted by fear.
It felt… perfect.

He turned in his seat and looked again at Liam, who was now drumming a pencil on his desk.
Then at Thom, who was already scribbling notes.

Damon smiled thinly.

This was going to be interesting.

 

 

---

📓 Diary Entry — August 18, 1992
California

Today I was supposed to be focusing on Frankenstein. On Victor and the creature. On monstrosity and longing and consequence. But all I could think about was Cindy’s fingers when she took the pencil from my desk. She asked in this very specific voice, soft but efficient, and it made my stomach do some sort of... inversion. She didn’t say my name, but I swear she looked at me like I was real. Like I was worth noticing. 

And Brett—Brett bloody Anderson—had the audacity to lean in after she walked away, acting like he’s some poet prince. His shirt cuffs rolled. His lip curled. Like he belonged in a group with her.

He doesn't.

He’s cruel in the way all thin boys with good jawlines are. I see through it. He wants her the way taxidermists want dead animals. Still, silent, owned.

He doesn't deserve to breathe her name. 

 

I sat next to Liam during group discussion.

He smelled like denim and chewing gum and sweat. Not bad sweat. Boy sweat. Like a locker door swung open and let me fall in.

Thom was scribbling something, muttering about metaphors. I could barely hear him over Liam tapping his pen against the desk.

Tap tap tap.
Like a match waiting to strike.

He said something like “This monster bloke’s kinda tragic, innit?” and I wanted to scream and say yes, Liam, he is, and also so am I, and also you’re beautiful when you actually think about things. 

---

Lunch.
God, lunch. 

I sat with Alex, Graham, and Dave like normal, like my body knew the routine even while my brain melted into shapes. They were talking about forming a band. “If we all go to uni together,” said Dave, “might as well make noise.”

I laughed along but I wasn’t there. Not really. Not fully.

Then someone—maybe Alex—brought up Liam. Said something about his brows and Cindy’s hair today. I don’t remember the exact sentence because I dropped my fork halfway through my fruit cup and nearly choked on a piece of melon. 

Alex raised his brows, grinning like a villain in a cheap soap opera.

“You okay, mate? You look like you saw God in Liam Gallagher’s eyebrows.”

Graham chimed in, sipping his chocolate milk.

“Is this a crush thing? Wait. Is this two crushes?”

I stammered. I said:
“I don't like Cindy, I just… think her mouth moves perfectly. It’s anatomical.”

Silence. Then:

“…and Liam’s kinda hot too,” I muttered, into my tray.

They all howled. Not cruelly. Just loud.

Dave, wiping tears from his eyes, asked me:

“So are you into girls or guys or what?”

I could’ve lied. Should’ve. But I felt warm. Tired. Seen.

“Yes,” I said.

And they didn’t laugh that time. 

Not really. Just nodded.

Alex slapped my back and said, “Well, you’ve got great taste, mate. Cindy and Liam in the same building? You’re doomed.” 

---

After science with Mr. Brian May (yes, really), I went behind the building and sat on that half-shaded bench by the edge of the quad. It smelled like chalk dust and dirt. My notebook was in my lap before I could think.

I didn’t draw.
I didn’t doodle.
I wrote.

“Cindy is glass. Liam is fire. I want to touch both. I want to break and burn.”

The pen dug too hard. I tore the paper a little. 

School’s almost over.
I don’t remember what I learned in class.
Just the rhythm of Liam’s voice and the shape of Cindy’s shadow on the pavement.

I came home from school and didn’t even take off my shoes.

Straight up the stairs. Slammed my door. Locked it. Twice.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. No, that’s a lie. I do know. I’m just... humming with it. It’s all in my spine and teeth and fingertips.

Walking home, I couldn’t stop thinking about Liam’s voice. The way he says “alright” like the word itself owes belongs to him. His bloody eyelashes. I kept remembering how he scratched the back of his neck with his sleeve pulled over his hand. Like a boy. Like a boy who doesn't know he’s being watched.

And then Cindy.

Cindy with her hair down today. That wavy brown hair I want to touch, not in a pervy way (okay, maybe a little), but like... reverently. Like it’s silk on a pillowcase I’m not good enough for. Her tall legs. Her voice when she says "borrow." She could say "borrow" forever and I’d never get bored.They’re both too much. 

I don’t even know what I want from them. To kiss them? Yes. To climb inside their brains? Also yes. To be them? Possibly.

I could feel it growing, a pressure in my trousers. Like my whole body had become a tuning fork for hormones and sin.

So I dove under my blanket and—
(You know the rest. I’m not a priest. I’m not going to confess it all.) 

I felt flushed yet naughty.

Afterward, I lay there staring at the ceiling fan spinning like it could undo what I’d just done. But I didn’t feel gross. I felt giddy. Like something electric had been let loose in my chest.

I wanted to scream or laugh or write a bad poem.

Instead I got up, unlocked my door, and washed my hands.

I looked in the mirror. My face was still pink. My hair was a mess. I didn’t look like a rockstar. I looked like a boy.

 I think I might be broken.

Or worse—starting to feel alive.

Chapter 8: A Strange Son...

Summary:

The chapter opens from Linda McCartney’s perspective,Damon's Mother, reflecting on her children—James, Stella, and Heather—all seemingly well-adjusted. Especially Damon, who remained a puzzle at first, she thought she finally solved all his problems over the years (still quite didn't). Later, we finally get to Damon’s house after school, where he hosts a group study session with Liam and Thom(Yay!). Against all odds, it goes surprisingly well.

 

It was August 21, 1992—Friday morning, 7:15 sharp. The birds outside the McCartney household sang louder than they had any right to, their sharp melody pushing through the open windows, even louder than the vintage record player in the living room. On its turntable spun a faint, crackling Nina Simone record—a gift from an old family friend, now playing like the ghost of another time. Linda McCartney stood at the kitchen counter, slicing peaches and plums into thin crescents, her hands moving quickly but without thought. Every few minutes she glanced out the window, like someone was about to appear at the garden gate bearing news—news that could be something grand, or something awful. 

“Mum!” a voice called from upstairs.

She froze, the knife hovering mid-air above the cutting board.

“Do we have any extra batteries for these two Sony Walkmans?”

It was him. Damon. Her son. The boy who once flinched whenever his name was spoken aloud, the boy who, from ages seven to nine, had closed himself off so completely that his words existed only on scraps of paper. Notes scrawled in his uneven hand, passed quietly to Paul and Linda as his only form of communication. Now he was calling out across the house for something so ordinary—batteries. Just batteries. And yet, the sound of his voice filled her chest with an ache. 

He walked down the stairs, socks sliding across the tiled kitchen floor, his lanky frame carrying the easy clumsiness of adolescence. Sixteen now. Five foot nine—already eye level with Linda, and likely still growing. He no longer shrank from strangers the way he used to, though there was still a quiet watchfulness about him, a care with how he measured people. He was growing into himself—he's an odd boy, yes, but in a way that made rooms warmer, not stranger. 

There had always been creativity stitched into him. As a boy, he’d filled journals with short stories and half-formed poems, pressing his thoughts onto the page before he could shape them aloud. Linda had given him his first real leather-bound journal when he was nine, and he’d guarded it like a secret friend. And now music—his acoustic guitar—had become the language he spoke most fluently. 

“I have some classmates coming over,” Damon said casually, like it wasn’t the most extraordinary sentence Linda had ever heard fall from his lips.

She blinked at him.

“It’s not Alex, Graham, or Dave,” Damon added quickly, sliding two plum slices into his palm as he reached for the steaming pot of oatmeal on the stove. “It’s two other boys. They’ll be over after school. You can… maybe prepare some snacks for us. Well, if you’d like. I don’t want to burden you.” 

Linda stared. Classmates. The word sat between them, heavy and shimmering all at once.

“Classmates?” she repeated softly.

“Yeah.” Damon gave a small nod, dropping the fruit into his mouth and spooning oats into a bowl. “They’re both different from one another, but nice. We’re doing something for English literature. Mr. Bowie gave us a book essay project to do as a group.”

 

Behind her, she heard the familiar creak of the staircase. Paul had come down, barefoot, hair sticking out in all directions. He caught Linda’s glance and raised his brows, the expression on his face saying, Did I hear him right?

“That’s lovely, kiddo,” Paul said, voice low, careful, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away. 

Damon only shrugged, though a flicker of something pride-shaped lit behind his eyes. “Yeah. School’s been great. I like it a lot.”

Something inside Linda shifted. A memory unspooled itself, vivid and raw.

The first time she and Paul had met him. Seven years old, at the adoption agency. Silent eyes like locked doors. He hadn’t let anyone touch him. Hadn’t spoken a single word. He sat curled in corners, paper in front of him, painting spirals in watercolor. When the social worker introduced him as “Damon,” Linda remembered the hollow pit that opened in her stomach. She had worried then—worried he might never speak, never laugh, never trust. But now here he was—her boy—talking about group projects, friends, and bringing classmates over after school. The ordinary of it all still caught her off guard. 

Just last week at dinner, Charlie Watts, their endlessly patient butler and quiet guardian of the household, had set down the teapot and gushed cheerfully, “His teacher says he’s eccentric and an absolute delight.” The words had pierced through Linda and Paul like a hymn. She remembered she had to excuse herself to the sink, blinking hard while wiping down the plates, and Paul had been right there beside her, drying glasses with tears sliding freely down his cheeks. Happiness could be that sharp sometimes. 

Now, back in the present, she stood by the kitchen window, watching. Damon, Stella—sixteen as well, her other dreamer child—and James, still thirteen with that restless eagerness of a boy not yet sure if he was a man or still a child, trailed after Paul toward the car. The sight of them made Linda’s throat ache with tenderness. They looked like baby ducks following their papa duck, shuffling in a line down the driveway. Heather, her eldest, was already off at college, grown and finding her own way in the world. And yet in moments like this Linda still felt them all gathered around her, each one tethered to her heart by invisible threads. 

She was grateful—deeply grateful—that despite the uprooted rhythm of their lives, moving from place to place, shifting countries, shifting homes, the children had adjusted. People used to whisper that her kids would end up scattered, lost, damaged by the unusual orbit of their parents’ lives. That children couldn’t grow strong in such instability. 

But those people had been wrong. Look at them now: Damon, who once would not speak, now carrying journals full of words and music in his chest. Stella, sharp-eyed and fiercely kind. James, still soft but bright, racing toward his own becoming. Heather, carving out her independence at university. 

Normal. That was the word people used so carelessly. Linda smiled to herself as she shut the fruit knife in the drawer. Her family wasn’t ordinary. Far from it. Paul was a British entertainment manager, navigating the egos and brilliance of rock and pop artists. She herself was an American photographer, moving in and out of worlds of musicians, actors, stages, and studios. Their jobs had been anything but simple; they had worked tooth and bone to reach where they were. And yet, in this sunlit kitchen, with peaches sliced on the counter and the sound of her children’s footsteps fading down the driveway, Linda thought: We are normal. Absolutely normal. In all the ways that matter. 

---

 

 

It was Friday morning, August 21, 1992. Fairfax High School, 10:00 am. Break time.  

The bell had only just rung, and the halls cracked open like a floodgate. Fifteen minutes of freedom—twenty if a teacher was slow with the next lesson. Some kids bolted straight to the vending machines, others clumped in groups at lockers, trading gossip or candy, and a few slipped outside for a breath of sun and a smoke. The library, though—well, the library was different. A little oasis in the middle of chaos. The room smelled of paper and lemon polish, faint and familiar, with sunlight streaming in through tall windows that had been cracked open just enough to stir the blinds. Rows of fiction and encyclopedias stood like quiet soldiers, their spines worn from decades of hands. On the far side, a long counter stacked with sharpened pencils and dictionaries. The librarian, Mrs.Joni Mitchell, sat like a queen at her throne, reading a mystery novel and pretending not to notice that half her subjects weren’t here for books at all. 

At one table sat Damon Albarn-McCartney. Sixteen, restless, forever scribbling. He had spread his journal open like a secret map, different colored markers uncapped and scattered around, while a small bag of kettle corn sat at his elbow. Every so often, he’d chew a piece absently, eyes narrowed in concentration as he bent over the page.

Around him, the oddest gathering of students had materialized.

Kurt Cobain—messy hair, flannel half-buttoned, chocolate milk carton sweating in his hand—was leaning over a sketchpad. He drew Batman in a thong thinking it was the most funniest thing ever, and one hand shoving Oreos into his mouth like fuel.

To Damon’s left sat Nicky Wire and James Dean Bradfield, both crammed together with a dirty porno magazine spread discreetly across their laps. A can of Pringles balanced between them, crumbs scattered down their shirts. Judging by the looks on their faces—and the way they shifted in their seats—Damon was pretty sure there was a tent forming under the table. 

And then, Helena Christensen. A pretty Danish girl, hair falling like a curtain around her face as she sat with Pride and Prejudice open in her lap. A bag of trail mix rested beside her untouched. Her cheeks were pink, and every few minutes she wiped at her eyes, tears glinting as she followed Lizzy Bennet’s words across the page.

It was a strange little tableau— Different students, from different classes sitting together. Somehow, it worked. 

 

Damon pressed his pen to the journal page, but his mind wandered, restless as ever. 

 

Damon had his journal spread wide, the page already crowded with rough sketches. Lines curved into guitars and microphone stands, scribbled lyrics threading between them. His head wasn’t in Fairfax’s library anymore—it was on a stage.

In his mind, the four of them—Alex, Graham, Dave, and him—were already a band. He saw himself with the mic, the crowd roaring back the words. Beside him, Liam—yes, that Liam—his voice cutting sharp and smooth at the same time, their harmonies blending so perfectly it almost hurt. Cindy, radiant and untouchable, floated at the edge of the stage. She was the band’s muse (his muse, really). Sometimes she sang too, third lead, her voice twining around theirs like smoke. The crowd lost their minds for them. Damon almost could hear it—the rush, the applause, and the lights blinding. 

Then—clang! The bell.

Damon snapped back to reality, blinking at the library ceiling. His pen rolled off the page. 10:18. Time to pack up.

He shoved his kettle corn back in his bag, markers clicking closed one by one. For a moment he just sat there, heart skipping in quick beats. Today wasn’t just Friday. Today was the day Liam Gallagher was coming over. Oh, and Thom too, technically. But let’s be honest—this day was about Liam. Damon grinned to himself as he stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. Hours still to go, but he was buzzing already. 

---

 

Diary Entry-August 21, Friday,1992 

History Class: Last Subject 

Could barely sit still today. Leg bouncing, fingers drumming, like I had electricity under my skin. Mr. Roger Waters filling in for Bowie—talking something about post-war Britain. Didn’t care. Didn’t hear it. Not one word stuck. Just noise.

All I could think about: Liam’s coming over.

Liam with that grin, like he knows a joke I’ll never catch up to. Liam leaning back in his chair, shoulders slouched, like the air belongs to him. I kept staring at the clock, counting each tick, each subject, like if I stared hard enough I could burn holes through it and make time go faster. 

By the last ten minutes I was done. Utterly done. My chest felt like a drum and my mouth went dry.

Then—bell. Explosion. I was up so fast my chair clattered back. One swoop—bag, books, gone. Grin so wide my cheeks hurt. I’m sure everyone noticed. Didn’t care.

Now all I have to do is find Liam and Thom in this ocean of bodies, these hallways bursting at the seams. Somewhere in here—he’s waiting. 

 

The hallway was so claustrophobic after the bell, like always. Bodies everywhere, voices overlapping, lockers slamming shut. I pushed through, scanning for Liam and Thom, trying not to look like I was too desperate. (I was. Completely.)

Then—Stella. Of course. Right in the middle of the crowd, standing with that Michael Balzary kid (who insists everyone call him Flea, which is ridiculous but somehow works for him). He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, bold as daylight. My jaw almost hit the floor. 

“Hey! Stella!” I shouted over the noise. She spun around, half-guilty, half-smug.

“You riding home?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said, smooth as butter, “I’ll be at Michael’s house. Homework.” She put so much weight on the word homework I almost laughed. “Mum and Dad know. Charlie doesn’t. Tell him for me, yeah?” And off she went, hand slipping into Michael’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Unbelievable. My sister and Flea.

Anyway—then I saw him.

Liam. 

Leaning against the lockers like he was born to. Backpack hanging off one shoulder, chin tilted, grin playing at his mouth like he couldn’t be bothered to care about anything but secretly cared about everything. Next to him, Thom sat on the floor, chewing bubblegum so loudly I could hear it over the hallway roar, legs stretched out, bookbag tossed beside him like a guard dog.

“Parents know?” I asked, breathless like I’d run a marathon.

“Yeah,” Liam said. Thom nodded too, popping a bubble.

“Great!” I said, way too cheerfully, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

We headed outside together. Charlie had the car parked sideways like all the other parents—stern as ever, though I swear I saw his mouth twitch when he spotted us. James was already in the front, waving shyly. He squeaked out a “Hello,” and Liam and Thom both said hi back, kind enough to make James glow red in the ears. 

We piled into the back. Cramped, sure, but I didn’t care—I got to sit next to Liam. His knee brushed mine once when we settled in, and I thought my heart might actually stop.

Charlie did his usual small talk, like he was interviewing them for a job. Liam went first—said he’s got two older brothers, Paul in college, Noel still here at Fairfax but about to graduate. Their mum divorced their dad, moved them all here for her job. He told it casual, like none of it mattered, but I noticed his eyes flicker when he said “divorced.”

Then Thom talked. Said he’s got a younger brother, Andy, and that his dad sells chemical equipment. (Which sounds like the most boring thing on earth, but Thom made it sound sharp, like he was mocking the whole idea of selling anything.) They’d moved around the UK a lot before landing here, because his dad got hired by some American firm.

And that’s when I realized—moving place to place. That’s something we actually share.

But still—Liam’s laugh stuck louder in my ears than anything else said in that car. 

---

 

The car wound through streets lined with jacaranda trees, their branches spilling purple blossoms onto the perfect sidewalks of an upper-class California neighborhood. Every lawn was manicured to the inch, sprinklers still dripping from their morning chore. The McCartney-Albarn house stood proud at the end of the block—a wide, sun-washed home with white stucco walls, terracotta roof tiles, and a sprawling front yard where bougainvillea climbed in bursts of magenta against the garden gate.

Liam whistled low when he stepped out of the car. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, eyes flicking from the three-car garage to the enormous picture windows gleaming in the late morning light. Thom only shrugged, though his sharp eyes lingered on the architecture for a moment longer. He lived in a neighborhood not unlike this one, but he still found it striking—if only because the Albarn-McCartney house had personality, a lived-in warmth that stood out from its cookie-cutter neighbors.

Inside, they slipped off their shoes by the entryway, where framed photographs lined the hallway walls: Paul shaking hands with musicians, Linda’s candid portraits of actors mid-laughter, Stella’s lopsided school art tacked up alongside James’s crooked macaroni crafts. 

“Come on, I’ll show you,” Damon said eagerly, already leading them through.

The living room was sun-drenched, an eclectic mix of cozy couches and towering bookshelves. A vintage record player, gifted from a family friend, sat on a low cabinet by the bay window—currently holding a Frank Sinatra vinyl. Posters of past concerts leaned against the walls, mixed in with Linda’s black-and-white photography prints.

The kitchen gleamed in a homey sort of way—fruit bowls piled high with peaches, plums, and bananas, a basket of Pop-Tarts,Gushers, Capri Sun pouches, and more beside them. On the counter, Charlie had left a note about needing more groceries.

Down the hallway, Damon pointed to the polished bathroom tiled in pale green, the coat closet crammed with jackets, and finally, the stairway that led to the bedrooms upstairs. 

Charlie, meanwhile, gathered his car keys. “I’ll be back with milk and other things as well. Don’t burn the house down.” His voice was dry, but Damon caught the faintest curve of a smile before the butler shut the door behind him.

And then it was just them—the boys, the house, and the weight of the project waiting upstairs. 

 

Damon’s Diary — August 21, 1992

We finally made it to my room. My room. It felt strange, suddenly, to see Liam and Thom standing in the doorway, looking around.

It’s big, bigger than most. A double bed pushed up against the wall, quilt patterned in deep blues. Posters I’d collected— The Human League,Bobby Womack (of course), The Clash, Adam Ant—plastered unevenly around the room. My desk shoved into the corner with papers and markers spilling over, cassette tapes stacked in towers that looked ready to topple. A window that faced the backyard where Mum had planted lavender.

We dumped our bags in a heap. Out came notebooks, pencils, highlighters, the Sony Walkmans, and most importantly, the thick hardcover copies of Frankenstein Mr. Bowie had scrounged from the school library. (He said they smelled like dust and ink, which made them “perfect.”) Our task: read, analyze, take notes, and prep a short essay.

We sprawled out on the floor, propped against the bed, three boys trapped by literature. For twenty minutes, silence fell except for the scratching of pens and the soft hiss of headphones. Pages 30 to 40. 

But even with my Walkman turned low, I swear—swear—I felt something. Not just the weight of Shelley’s words, but Justine herself. Her ghost, bloated, grey, and trembling, hovering just behind me, breathing down my neck while I tried to focus on the page. Every time I underlined a sentence, I half expected her hand to touch mine.

Maybe it was the story. Maybe it was Liam’s knee brushing mine again. Maybe it was both. 

After twenty minutes of underlining and circling and trying to convince myself Justine wasn’t breathing down my neck, the silence broke.

Not by me. By them.

First Thom. It was like watching someone unzip their skin and step out brand new. Gone was the shy kid chewing his nails in the hallway, the one who barely looked anyone in the eye. Suddenly, he was alive. His voice steady, his hands moving as he spoke. He talked about Victor Frankenstein like he’d been living with him for years—how the obsession with science wasn’t about curiosity anymore, but hunger. A hunger so sharp it cut him off from everything else. The way Thom said it, I swear it was like he had discovered the secret of life, not Victor. Then Liam, who leaned back on his elbows at first, like he wasn’t paying attention. But then he chimed in, rough but sharp, about Victor’s mum dying and how that wound had cracked something open in him. He said building the monster wasn’t just science, it was grief. “Bloke couldn’t handle it, so he tried makin’ something new instead.” And it landed in the room heavy, like he’d just said something you couldn’t argue with. 

And me? I sat there, pen in hand, mouth half-open, waiting for a gap that never came. They passed the torch back and forth so easily, Thom pushing, Liam pulling, both of them nodding, adding, sharpening. Like they’d been sparring partners forever and only just remembered it now.

I tried to speak once—“Well, actually, maybe—” But Thom’s voice carried right over mine, patient and sure, and Liam’s laugh folded into it. So I shut my mouth and wrote instead. Scribbled down their words like I was the secretary of some club I hadn’t been invited to join.

Not going to lie—it stung. I wanted to be part of it. I wanted Liam’s eyes on me the way they were on Thom when he spoke. Instead, I just kept my head down, ink bleeding into the margins. 

 

We’d taken a break downstairs—TV buzzing in the background, bowls of crisps and half-empty cans of soda sweating on the coffee table. Liam flicked channels like he owned the remote, Thom smirked at something dumb on MTV, and I sat there trying not to stare too long at either of them. Twenty minutes. That’s all it took for me to wind myself up again.

Back upstairs, back in my room, the air was heavier somehow, like it was waiting. Thom opened his mouth first, I could see it forming—the start of another clever, confident thread. But before he could breathe it out, I jumped.

“Victor’s unraveling,” I said. And once I started, I couldn’t stop. “He’s not just losing sleep. He’s bleeding out pieces of himself. Every time he shuts the door on his friends, every time he stares too long at his work, he’s carving away the parts of him that make him human. You can hear it in the way he talks—like his soul is fraying at the edges. His obsession isn’t brilliance, it’s rot. And the saddest thing? He knows it. He knows he’s killing the love he has left, but he keeps digging. Like if he can make life, he won’t have to face the life he’s already ruined.” 

The words felt like they weren’t mine. Like something crawled up my throat and borrowed my tongue. My chest was burning when I stopped, and for a second, I regretted it. Thought they’d laugh, or roll their eyes, or say I was trying too hard.

But they didn’t.

Thom’s eyes widened, that quiet kind of awe, and he leaned forward like he wanted to catch every word before it slipped. “That was…amazing,” he said, voice low, like it belonged in a cathedral. “The way you put it…you made it feel alive. Like you were inside his head.”

And Liam—bloody Liam—ran a hand through his hair, grinning but not cheeky, not this time. “I’ve got chills, mate. Honest. Like you just—fuckin’ pulled Victor out the page and put him in the room with us.” 

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Not because of what I’d said, but because they were both looking at me. Thom, nodding slow, respectful. Liam, smiling that crooked smile, eyes bright and on me alone.

And yet, when I tried to twist it back toward him—to say how Victor reminded me of Justine, and how sometimes it felt like me too, the good and the bad—I didn’t just get Liam. I got both of them. Two sets of eyes, locked. Like I wasn’t invisible anymore. Like I belonged.

God, if I could bottle that feeling, I’d never need air again.