Taking a deep breath, the bald, well-built body guard infront pushed the glass door open and the London air filtered through the open door. Sprinting towards the black car that waited, Justin was familiar with the bright lights and noisy camera clicks that surrounded him. He clambers into the car, and releases his phone from his pocket.
As he types his passcode in, he heres the familiar shouts of the fully grown men outside trying to snap a picture for money. But inbetween the loud exclamations of his name, something differs itself from the rest of the comments.
'Fuck off you little cock' A deep voice loudly mutters. 'Fuck off back to America'
Without thinking, Justin leaps up from the leather seat and tugs violently at the heavy car door. Sliding it open, he lunges towards the pig-faced papparazzi, who is now pre-occupied with his camera, flicking through the pictures he'd taken.
'What did you fucking say?' He screams, desperately pushing passed the man trying to hold him back. A sense of rage overcomes him. All the horrible comments from the paps that he'd simply ignored, all the pushing and shoving, all the flashes that struck him like lightning as he tried to do normal everyday things. 'I'll fucking beat you the fuck up'
His head started to spin as he burst out into a rage, throwing his fists towards the camera men. He felt a hand on his back and another hand on his shoulder as his crew desperately tried to prise him into the car. Eventually giving up, Justin turned around, shouted something else, and dispersed into the open door.
As he sat in the car, he placed his head in his hands. The headlines tomorrow were already running like an old tape through his head, replaying like a scratched CD. The hate comments were materializing in his thoughts and he felt his skin prickle with heat and anger.
The car engine rumbled and he felt his phone vibrate several times. A message from Chaz, Twist and as he opened them an incoming call from his mother. Letting out a violent, low pitched shout, he chucked his phone onto the car floor, leaning his head on the window.
He could just about make out the shouts from the people behind him. Whether they were fans, paps or just voices in his head, they were pushing him closer to giving everything up; packing his bags and going back to Canada.