The Rockstar (The Fan #2)

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Fans were celebrating today to learn that Death in the Asylum frontman, Kyle Donovan, has been found not guilty of manslaughter over the death of eighteen-year-old stalker Candice Coleman during July's nationwide blackout.

Donovan, 28, was discovered by fire and rescue services in the lift of The Dorchester Hotel, over fourteen hours after it broke down when cyber-hackers disabled the National Grid. The body of Coleman, a self-confessed superfan of the group, was found with the star, after Donovan killed her, in what his solicitor maintained, was an act of self-defence.

Following further investigations of Coleman's home, where she lived with her parents and fifteen-year old brother, Cruise, police confirmed they had discovered disturbing evidence that the teenager had stalked the star for a lengthy period of time before her death and had even hatched a plot to kill him and herself, detailed in a bizarre series of fan fiction stories posted on popular writing community website Wattpad.

Coleman's close friend Becka Jennings said yesterday "Candice told me of her plans to kill Kyle but I never thought she meant it. I mean, she loved him, like, really loved him, she was his biggest fan. She said they were going to be together forever."


There it was again. The crack of bone. The dull thwack of skull as it hit the floor.

Again, and again and again.

And all the while that damn camera shutter sound clicked furiously as if he was being papped while he smashed in her head, until the crack of bone was replaced by the soft squelch of brain tissue.

Kyle Donovan, lead singer of the internationally famous rock band, Death in the Asylum, son of Rita and Brian Donovan, coke addict and now murderer of an obsessed fan, sat bolt upright up in bed, the sweat streaming down his back as his eyes strained to see into the shadowy corners of the bedroom.

He'd heard something. Something beyond the nightmares. Something that had come to him in the dead of night and whispered into his ear. Something that had left the scent of apples hanging in the air. Or maybe that was just him.

The smell of her perfume had stuck with him since that night in the lift. No matter how much he scrubbed at his skin, he'd not been able to rid himself of it. Of course, he'd not been able to rid himself of the stench of piss or blood either, but it was that sharp, sickly apple fragrance that haunted him wherever he went.

Even in the police cell where they'd made a half-hearted effort to cover up the cloying stench of urine with extra-strength bleach that clung to every surface, Kyle had still smelt her apple scent, not just on his own skin, but in the air, as if she were sitting right next to him on the cot, with her ample cleavage pressed against his arm and smiling that inane, plastic grin. The same grin that her corpse wore for the next five hours that Kyle was stuck in the lift. The same grin that seemed to mock him as the doors finally opened and his rescuers gawped at the sight of her broken skull and Kyle - international superstar no less - covered in her blood.

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