I was sitting on a folding chair backstage, eating chili-flavored chips from a half-crumpled bag when a seven years old looking girl bounced Infront of me.
"Hey! What's your name?" she asked without hesitation.
"Adam," I answered, brushing crumbs from my hands.
"My name's Ellie, but you can call me El. All my friends call me El. You're my friend now, since we already know each other's names. Anyway, I'm here to dance ballet. What about you? I bet you're here to dance too. You look so cute! Can you be my little brother? I always wanted a little brother. Please, please, please."
I blinked at her speed. My brain stalled trying to keep up. Energetic didn't even begin to describe her.
"...Sure," I said finally.
Her eyes lit up like sparklers. She twirled in place, squealing, then launched into an improvised pirouette, arms stretched, face glowing with joy. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The sight was… surreal.
I was just thankful my mother was in the bathroom, doing God-knows-what. If she had been standing here while this girl got clingy with me, I could already imagine the cold hostility that would've poured out of her.
Before I had to invent another response, Ellie's mother came bustling over, scooping her away. "Come on, honey, it's our turn."
"Bye, little brother!" Ellie called out as she was dragged toward the stage wings.
I exhaled. My brief moment of peace ended when my mother returned. She wrapped her arms around me without a word, her embrace too tight, too lingering.
Again.
It had been like this more and more—her touches clinging, her voice soft but invasive. At first it was amusing. Now it was smothering, and beneath it, something darker grew.
Still, I endured it.
...
Soon my name was called.
I walked out in black shirt and black pants, my shoes silent on the wooden floor. The stage lights cut across me like blades, swallowing the audience into shadow. A sea of faces stared back. Rows upon rows. The hum of anticipation rolled like a tide against my chest.
My pulse quickened—not out of fear, but a strange excitement.
I looked at the judges.
David Hasselhoff leaned back with practiced ease, hands clasped, smile sharp as neon.
Brandy's eyes softened the moment she saw me, pen hovering, almost maternal.
Piers Morgan already looked bored, lips pursed, ready to pounce.
"Welcome to America's Got Talent," Hasselhoff said with a grin. "Tell us your name."
"Adam." My voice came out clear, steady.
Brandy tilted her head, eyes widening. "So cute," she murmured before catching herself. Then, warmer: "And what are you going to be doing for us today?"
I smiled. "I'm going to sing."
"Alright then, the stage is yours," Hasselhoff gestured.
I nodded, eyes drifting to the wings. My mother was there, her face taut, her lips pressed thin in silent disapproval. A message in her eyes: We shouldn't have come here.
I turned away.
The music began.
...
A single piano note.
Soft. Lingering.
The opening chords of "Je Suis Malade."
I closed my eyes, inhaled once, then let the first words escape.
"Je ne rêve plus…
Je ne fume plus…"
My voice carried, low but controlled. The French syllables slipped into the vast auditorium like smoke curling in the air.
The audience shifted. Silence fell, a tension coiling.
I poured more weight into the next line:
"Je n'ai même plus d'histoire…
Je suis sale sans toi…"
Brandy's pen lowered. She leaned forward, lips parted.
Hasselhoff's smile faded into something else—focus.
Even Piers, arms crossed, uncrossed them slowly.
...
The music swelled, and with it, my voice climbed.
It cracked deliberately, not from weakness but from intent, carrying that raw fracture the song demanded.
"Je suis malade…
Complètement malade…"
A ripple shot through the crowd. Somewhere in the dark, someone gasped.
I sang like bleeding—every note sharpened into confession, every lyric like dragging glass across skin.
"T'arrive on ne sait quand…
Tu repars on ne sait où…"
The French rolled out heavy with despair. I let the vibrato shake, controlled, deliberate, letting it sound like I was drowning mid-note.
Faces blurred, but I caught glimmers.
A woman in the third row pressing a tissue to her eyes.
A man in the aisle leaning forward, jaw tight.
...
The song rose into its climax. I pushed harder, voice ripping through the hall:
"Je suis malade!
Parfaitement malade!"
The words cracked thunder in the air, echoing against the rafters. The orchestra behind me swelled, the piano hammering, strings soaring, and my voice cut through it like a blade.
I could feel it landing. Each syllable like claws in the audience's chest.
Some tried to resist—hands clenched, jaws stiff. But others had no choice. Tears broke. Shoulders shook. A woman buried her face in her partner's sleeve. Even one of the cameramen sniffed, lowering his lens for half a beat.
...
By the final refrain, my throat burned.
"…Comme un rocher…
Comme un péché…"
I forced it out, scraping my voice raw, holding nothing back.
"…Je suis malade!"
The last note fractured into silence.
A breathless void filled the room.
Then—eruption.
Thunderous applause surged like a wave. The audience leapt to their feet. Cheers, whistles, claps pounding like rainfall on rooftops.
Brandy wiped her cheek, blinking rapidly, but she smiled through it.
Hasselhoff was clapping hard, on his feet, his grin returned but humbled.
And Piers—of all people—had gone still. His jaw clenched, his throat bobbing like he'd swallowed something. He wasn't smiling. But he wasn't tearing me apart either.
For a moment, under the blaze of the lights, I stood in the storm of it all. My mother's face flashed in the wings— unreadable, caught between pride and unease.
And I just smiled.
The stage, the sound, the tears of strangers—
all of it belonged to me.