Down From the Summit of the Sy

I might get sued for what I'm about to write. I'm anonymous. Not anonymous enough. Any family member or sufficiently smart fan will clock who I am. Search up Billie's childhood photos; I'm in the background of dozens of them.

But I have to tell someone.

I'm haunted by memories of that day. They swirl through me like deathsmoke through an alembic, too insubstantial to grasp and too real not to choke me. Her face, her lips, her body...the past is an obsidian knifeblade, driven deep and then snapped off. I'm bleeding to death on the blank, undeniable fact of what I did to Billie Eilish...what I had done to me by Billie Eilish...make up your own mind who's the bad guy in this story. It's one of us. When two stand at a crime scene, they can't both be innocent.

I'm doomed. I realize that now, as I watch the setting sun turn the Baja Californian skyline to a bloody amaranth-red. There's nothing coming tomorrow that I want. The future's more of the same broken memories, growing duller with each day. Childhood love. Teenage lust. Adult heartbreak. Eventually, it's all gone. The past thirsts and hungers for all we that we are.

Fuck that. Throw the sun in reverse gear. Bring back yesterday. Bring back the day before. Return me to 21st October, 2022, when the daylight erupted apart, darkness consumed us both, and huge hot breasts flooded my hands.

Sue me, bitch. Here's a dead man, telling the world about the last day he was alive.

* * *

I grew up with Billie. Our parents were in the same Highland Park homeschooling group, and we became friends, pairing off for everything. We went dune-buggying on Pismo Beach, snorkeling at Malibu Lagoon. Two kids. One life. Our friends joked that we were already a married couple. These didn't seem like jokes to me; they seemed like auguries. Prophecies. A future on collision course with the present.

She was my first kiss. We were playing spin the bottle at a party, so maybe that doesn't count...but when the party ended, the second, third, and fourth kisses belonged to us alone. The third was my favorite. It had some tongue.

We were young; there was nothing sexual in those kisses. Yet her lips were blades, engraving memories so deep they seem to bleed. Her smile tore me to pieces, reduced me to a living mass of scar tissue.

Her

scar tissue.

And do you want to know what the headstrong girl with a dancer's body told me that night? She wanted the world. And in my eyes, she'd seen it.

I'll never forget those words, even though she has.

* * *

In her teenage years, she became someone else. Moody. Withdrawn. You've heard rumors about sexual abuse--who knows if it's true. That's her story, when she's ready to tell it.

She started dressing in oversized, boyish clothes. Plaid shirts and ties. Baggy JNCOs with flares. Thrifted hoodies the size and color of surplus military tents. She seemed to be hiding in plain sight. Burying her own body in shame, like it was the corpse of someone she'd murdered.

In 2020, I discovered what she was hiding under those clothes.

I was at a house party, along with Billie, Finneas, and two kids from our homeschooling group. We decided to play Twister. We were all eighteen or nineteen--

way

too old for a kid's game--but we were bored, and it was something to do. We laid out the Twister mat--it seemed laughably small--and tried to remember the rules.

It was awful. Threading our huge, pubescent bodies around each other, everyone giggling in embarrassment, everyone trying to avoid contact with an...area. I was praying it would end as soon as it began.

But then Billie's ass pressed into my side.

My brain broke. Raw lust surged through me like a wrecking ball. Her teenage body felt hot. Thick. Breedable. As she twisted herself around me, an erection swelled in my shorts, throbbing like a rotten tooth. I'd never had feelings like this before for a girl. I did not trust my next movement. I wanted to gorilla-slam her to the ground, rip away her clothes, mount her, fuck her, claim her.

Make her mine. Forever.

"Left hand, blue!" Finneas called.

There was a scramble of limbs. Billie slid off me, flowing with pantheress grace onto her hands and knees. The last blue circle lay underneath her body's arch. I tried to wriggle underneath her chest to tap the circle...but couldn't. I was blocked by two huge masses of flesh, dangling unseen under her shirt.

What the fuck?

Billie had tits the size of small pumpkins swinging from her chest. Where had those monsters sprouted from?

Her giant teenage breasts shocked me with their size and weight. I felt like a hungry dog, with slabs of raw meat pressed against my face. Billie squeaked--first in shock, then in outrage--as I mindlessly tried to shove my face

through

her jugs. She tried to push me away, but I slipped, and her hand landed between my legs, on my erect penis. It pulsed under her hand, and she screamed.

Horrified, we canceled the game, apologized, packed the Twister mat away, ripped disposable vape carts, and tried to act like nothing weird had just happened.

And then I said goodbye, ran home, yelled to my parents that I was sick, charged up the stairs to my bedroom, locked the door, and masturbated four times straight. I tore muscles in my wrist.

"Jacking off to Billie Eilish's slaughtermelons" isn't the world's most exclusive club, but I was doing it long before it hit the mainstream.

Plus, I got to touch them.

* * *

That year, her career exploded. From bedroom musician to the most famous star on the planet.

It was unbelievable to watch. I can't even imagine what it was like to live. From my laptop computer I watched her conquer the world, feeling like Oppenheimer in the Trinity bunker, watching a primordial force unleashed that I could not control. Suddenly, she a heart-consuming fire that did not belong to me, and maybe never had. All I could do was strap on antiflash glasses and watch heaven burn. My heaven.

If it's not obvious, I despise her brother and his music. It's the soundtrack to Billie leaving my life.

She was never around. She was constantly on tour, constantly recording, never stopping. The music industry assumes you'll be a nine day wonder and works you into an early grave. I spent the next three months on Tiktok and Instagram, watching her meteoric rise through a computer screen, blowing hundreds of loads into tissues. My raging hormonal lust coiled and mestasized into loathing, like a chemical reagent. I couldn't tell if I hated myself or hated her, just that hate was now all I could feel.

Billie Eilish. The queen who'd forsaken her king. Was I unworthy of her, or she unworthy of me? I still don't know.

In my loneliest nights, I prayed that her career would fail, prayed she'd fall back to Earth, back into my arms. Instead, she soared from height to height. Maybe this was the way it had to be. Maybe I only would have held her back.

Occasionally, we caught up when she returned to Highland Park. Things weren't the same anymore; fame had changed her. She spoke to me like I was a dumb kid, someone couldn't possibly understand her new, adult, jet-setting life. Soon after that, she was impossible to reach at all. Stage managers, bodyguards, and sleazeballs surrounded her, six-deep. I was now just one more fan among millions. Another giddy screaming moron to be shoved aside by her entourage.

I still had her number and we texted sometimes. But her texts always took so long to come back, and dripped with a palpable disinterest.

lol. k. cool. yeah.

Sometimes she asked for my opinion on stuff. Like whether Urban Slow Decay would click with her Versace 4377's. Yeah, fashion advice. Like I was her gay best friend or something.

It got even worse: lots of the texts were about whether she should fuck someone.

She's Hollywood's bicycle. Sorry if hearing this ruins your magical fairytale world, but right now she's fucking men, women, fans, producers, celebrities, and probably her goddamn brother for all I know. Whatever you think her body count is, multiply it by eightfold and substantially increase the melanin level. I know because of all the texts she sent me.

~hey. there's this ghetto looking freak who wants to piitb. should i let him?? he has bc kush haha

~can you use the same condom twice? me and these 2 college kids ran out lol.

Slut. Whore. Letting countless men dump cum into her, night after night. Why would you send texts like that to a boy who loves you? Don't you know what that will do to him?

I still can't banish the thought that right now, a black man whose name she probably doesn't even know is rowing himself into her guts. Him instead of me, the one she promised herself to, because he has drugs and a nine inch dick and I have neither, and to hell with what we had.

We were supposed to be together forever, Billie. You said I was your world.

How can I

not

hate you?

* * *

I made mistakes in the pit of my obsession.

I said and did things I regret. Or would regret, if I was a better man.

After the texts from Billie became fewer and fewer and finally stopped, I sent her two of my own, asking where we stood. Then two more. Then six more. Maybe the last one was a little angry, because she blocked my number. That destroyed me, and sent me spiraling into depression.

I know I was being an obsessive stalker, but when a girl is your entire world, you want to exist in her head the way she does in yours. The worst insult is silence. You reach the point where you'll say

anything

to her to trigger a response--even "fuck off" is better than

absolutely nothing

from the girl you love. If SHE doesn't think you exist, YOU don't think you exist.

For a year or two afterward, I worked as a landscaper in LA, trying to forget her. I had no girlfriend. It would have felt like cheating on Billie, even though there was nothing to cheat on.

My co-workers would listen to "Bad Guy" and "You Should See Me in a Crown". When I told them I'd grown up with that girl, they laughed at me. Said I was full of shit. Soon, I almost didn't believe it myself. I couldn't even masturbate to her anymore without feeling sick.

It was like none of our past life together had ever happened, except in my head.

* * *

In late 2022, my landscaping company got a call one day.

An event management company needed a handyman, and they'd asked for me by name. A rising star was throwing a house party at an AirBnB in Big Sur, where they wouldn't be mobbed by fans. Urgent repairs were needed before insurance would approve coverage.

The star would also be there to inspect the AirBnB, and had requested I give them a ride back to the greater LA area.

Fine

, I thought. I like hanging with celebs. Most are cool. It's the dipshits hanging off their coattails that have the egos.

I packed my gear into my Land Rover, and drove out to Big Sur. I threaded my way along switchbacking mountain roads for several hours: on one side, an encroaching army of redwoods and golden oak threatened to push me off the road. On the other, a cliff's edge plunged down sharply into a canyon's dark throat. I got lost twice--there was no phone coverage or GPS in that area--and finally found the AirBnB in the late afternoon.

I rounded a corner and saw it: a cabin the size of a house, built on a raised concrete pad. It was a three-room, double-gabled structure made of crosscut logs, slashed with marks from a scribe, saw, axe, adze and chisel. I wonder who had built it--it felt like some of their essence was captured in the wood. Large ferns grew up over the windows.

Parking my truck, I explored the house. It had a bedroom, a bathroom connected to a well and a sump pump, and a wide central space decked out with a hot leather couch and an LCD TV on the wall. All the usual tacky AirBnB shit. There was a power hookup for a generator. Add some lights and a smoke machine, and this party would kick like a sensei.

I set to work, making sure it was safe for Mr (or Mrs) Big. Loose floorboards needed to be pulled and re-caulked. I tapped out some rusted nails and replaced them with screws, and rehung a loose door. Otherwise, it wasn't in bad shape. I've seen better AirBnBs, but many more worse ones.

The sun was almost gone when I finished. Just as I was packing up, a monolithic tour bus pulled up in front of the property, parking alongside behind my Land Rover. On the side was a globe logo, with UNIVERSAL MUSIC GROUP printed underneath.

Wasn't Billie signed to UMG?

It's not her. It's not her.

I chanted this thought like a catechism, even after the bus doors had opened, steps had unspooled to the ground, black combat Doc Martens were stomping down those steps, and my words had become lies.

Fuck.

Just...fucking

fuck

!

* * *

You think the past is over. Then you blink, and it's not even the past anymore.

Billie Eilish slung a backpack onto the ground in front of the house.

She looked like a succubus of trash, summoned from hell via a burning dumpster fire. Her fierce black mane flashed poison-green at the roots, as though her body was toxic and slowly infecting her hair. Her thick thighs and ass, bulked up by years of dance school, poured out of boy shorts so tight they fitted her like a coat of paint. She far bustier than I remembered. When she moved, cannonball-sized tits swung, jiggled and seesawed inside a black 100 gecs shirt.

She turned, made a peace sign to the driver, and he started to pull away. I saw him leer at her bent-over ass as the UMG bus chugged past us. I wondered if he was laying pipe in her too.

Then Billie turned, and saw me. Her jaw fell. Mine didn't, but only because it was already on the ground.

"Hi," I said tonelessly.

"Um, hey," confusion creased her face. "Wait, aren't you...?"

Hearing her try to remember my name--

pretend

to try to remember--tossed me into a fierce spiralling rage.

"You know my name, Billie," I said tonelessly. "I don't care if you hate me, but don't pretend to not know my name."

Her lip screwed up, and she glared at me. "Fucking creep."

Instantly, she broke eye contact, seeming ashamed. "Look, sorry. That was out of pocket. Thanks for helping out with the place. I just thought I'd stop by and check it out myself."

"All good," I grumbled with all the insincerity I could muster. Oh God, how I was dreading the ride back... "I'm just packing up my stuff. I'll be ready to leave when you are."

Her pretty, metallic-painted eyes darted toward the house. "Not a fan of those ferns over the windows. Mind if I cut them back?"

I shrugged. "It's your AirBnB."

She bounced toward me, big fat tits slamming under her shirt. "Got a set of garden shears in that truck?"

I rummaged for some, and passed them to her. "Don't be too long. I want to get back to LA before midnight."

Fuming pointlessly, I returned to the back of the house, packing up the tools I'd left strewn over the bedroom floor. It took several minutes. Finally, I lugged my gear out to the Land Rover.

I found Billie waiting for me, Doc Martens arrogantly kicked up over onto the front seat. Ever the passenger princess, she had her head down, and earbuds in. She probably wouldn't look at me or talk as we rode back to the city. Fine.

I turned the key. The Land Rover wouldn't start.

Billie's mascara'd eyes flicked up, watching me in naked suspicion. I popped the hood, and checked the terminals with a nine-volt. The battery seemed good. Maybe the alternator was toast? I had no idea, but I'd broken down at the worst place possible.

I gestured for Billie to take the Beats out of her ears.

"Bad news," I told her. "I can't start the truck. I'll have to call a tow company..."

Then I remembered I was in the asscrack of Big Sur and could call precisely two people:

Jack

and

Shit

.

"...Ugh, there's no reception here. Damn it."

Billie swore, and tried to call her bus driver to pick her up. That annoyed me. What had I just told her? As her phone failed to connect, I realized that I could probably walk a few miles down the road and make a call. That's always how it is. Dead spots are just that. Spots.

But it was dark. If I walked down the road, I would be blind, and might fall to my death.

And however enticing death might seem during the darker watches of my nights, I don't plan on doing it for Billie motherfucking Eilish. Once things might have been different. Not now.

"So we're stuck here..." Billie said, eyeing the cabin.

"...Until the sun's up and I can hunt for reception. Sorry."

Billie slung her legs down from the front seat, and got out of the truck.

"Hey, maybe there will be a song in it. Let's go inside. I've got sandwiches in my backpack"

She swaggered toward the house; her rump swaying rhythmically, pigtails bouncing like springs. Her boobs wobbled thrillingly around each side of her body.

My dick became hard. One thing hadn't changed: she was murderously hot.

* * *

Night landed on us like a coffin lid, leaving us trapped in Billie's remote AirBnB. With no generator, we used our phones as lights until our batteries ran low. Then we sat on the couch in the living room, submerged in pelagic dark.

I couldn't see her. She couldn't see me.

She had a CamelBak, and let me take a pull off it from time to time. A foul liquor of unclear provenance swilled inside--the kind that promises fun, alcohol poisoning, date rape, or all three.

We didn't talk. We didn't have anything to say. The night wore on endlessly, grinding upon us like ocean stones. The couch seemed like a prison cell we were confined to.

How can I be so close to another person...and yet still so alone?

I heard a silken rustle. Movement at my side.

"Can I ask something?" Billie's voice came out of darkness.

"Yeah."

"Did you ever have a crush on me? Back when we were kids?"

The question seemed absurd. She was either the dumbest person alive, or a sick bitch pretending to be the dumbest person alive just to fuck with my head. Pick your poison.

"Yes," I said. The truth seemed permissable now that she couldn't see the hatred on my face. "I thought...things would turn out differently. That's all."

"What went wrong?"

I barked a harsh laugh. "You got famous."

"I'm sorry," she said in the dark. "It is what it is."

She slid even closer to me in the dark.

"I don't think I'm capable of love," she said. "And I'm never going to marry anyone. I want life. I want pleasure. I want it all, without limitations. Giving myself over to someone means the handcuffs go on. And I don't want handcuffs. I don't want to die, wondering what I gave up to make someone else happy."

Her nearness caused my breath to drag in my chest, as though it had physical weight.

Is this what a heart attack feels like?

My emotions--a wild marbled mix of lust and sadness and inchoate fury--raged through me like lightning. My pulse hammered a miserable cantata from the lowest Malebolge of hell. I couldn't control any of my feelings. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to be elsewhere. I hated her, yet as I heard her slide across the couch, I strangely wanted her even closer.