38. Marcus

38

Marcus

The tattoo artist’s needle hovers over my wrist. The sharp point catches the light like a star about to fall. The mechanical buzz fills the quiet studio.

“You sure about this?” the tattoo artist asks, his voice gruff.

“Yep. Completely sure.”

I always said I would never mark my body with a tattoo.

It appears you should never say never.

I’d talked to Dr. Emerson about this, about wanting something to signify the anniversary of being sober for a year, to have some outward sign to remind myself of the progress I’ve made.

It’s been the hardest battle of my life. I’ve had to relearn how to feel, how to exist in my own skin without numbing myself. For the first time in my adult life, I’ve had to learn how to be authentic rather than hiding behind the version of Marcus Johnson everyone expects to see.

There were nights when the cravings clawed at me, when the guilt threatened to swallow me whole. Nights when I’d pace my house like a caged animal, every cell in my body screaming for chemical relief, my fingers trembling as I clutched my sobriety chip like a lifeline.

Nights when my body would remember the artificial peace it once knew, leaving me curled in my sheets, counting breaths instead of pills, forcing myself to feel everything I’d spent years trying to forget.

I’ve had to look my past in the eye—my sister, my mother, my father—and find a way to forgive myself, to believe I deserve more than self-destruction.

It’s been so slow.

But gradually, gradually, Dr. Emerson has helped me lift the veil of grief and guilt that I shrouded over the events in the past so I could examine them properly.

I’d been a child. And I’d made a mistake, like children do.

As Dr. Emerson pointed out, most children’s mistakes don’t have the consequences mine did.

My mother’s response to me telling her the truth was not my fault either. She was fighting her own battle I couldn’t see, let alone comprehend.

And now, memories of my family aren’t the explosions of guilt that used to detonate in my chest without warning.

Now, I remember Mum dancing in the kitchen to Elvis songs, flour on her nose as she taught Emmy and me how to make Anzac biscuits, her laugh echoing off the walls when we got more dough on ourselves than in the oven. I can remember Emmy following me around the yard with her butterfly net, convinced she could catch fairies if she just waited long enough.

I can even remember the day Dad taught us to make paper airplanes, turning the lounge into an airport, Emmy insisting on drawing passengers in every window of her planes before launching them into the sky.

As part of my healing process, I wrote a letter to my father about everything—the guilt, the grief, the years of silence between us, and most importantly, the child I was and the man I’ve become.

I haven’t received a response.

But that’s okay.

He’s on his own journey. And I hope that one day, he gets the help he needs to cope with the loss of his family.

The needle pulses against my skin like a tiny jackhammer, feeling like a bee sting in slow motion. But the pain of the needle on my skin is nothing compared to what I’ve had to go through this year.

I watch as my tattoo takes shape, stark black lines gradually resolving into the precise anatomy of a wing.

Because that’s what I’m tattooing into my skin.

A fairy tern.

It represents so much to me.

It’s a permanent reminder of Seb, of the fact that someone like him exists in the world, of all the other researchers and volunteers who work tirelessly for creatures that will never be able to thank them, yet they persist with their dedication.

It also signifies resilience, the fact that such a small bird is still surviving against all odds.

But most of all, it reminds me of the power of love to be a transforming force.

The artist works steadily, each stroke of the needle adding depth and detail as the complete fairy tern silhouette emerges, its wings outstretched as if in mid-flight.

“It’s kind of like a mutant bandit seagull,” the tattoo artist says as he fills in the coloring around the eyes.

“Yes,” I say with a smile. “It’s kind of like that.”

The fairy tern on my wrist flutters as I adjust my cufflinks.

“You ready for this?”

My new agent Helen is here, helping me get ready for the Academy Awards ceremony.

Jake and I parted ways soon after I left rehab when I realized I needed someone who would let me recover at my own rate, someone who saw me as a person first, not just a commodity to be exploited for the next big paycheck.

Helen was the one who suggested I audition for The Weight of Whispers .

It’s a role I would have never considered playing before, an in-depth look at a father-son relationship. It felt like twisting the knife, like more than I could handle when I had a nonexistent relationship with my own father.

But Dr. Emerson helped me see it as a chance to understand and maybe even forgive my father through the lens of this character. And she was right.

I found I could use my grief over the losses in my past to deepen my performance, to create a performance that was as much catharsis as it was acting, letting my own healing process inform every moment on screen.

Jake’s words to me have echoed inside me. When your heart is broken, make art with the pieces .

There’s definitely some beauty and power in the statement. But my personal motto has become: When your heart shatters, use the pieces to build something stronger.

I feel like I’ve managed to do that.

Through therapy, I’ve come to a point of acceptance for the loss of my mother and Emmy.

But my chest still feels hollow every time I think about Seb.

I promised I wouldn’t contact him.

And I will keep that promise, no matter how much I want to talk to him, to tell him how I’ve changed, how, at times, I now believe I could actually be the partner he deserves.

Because I’ve taken enough from Seb for a lifetime.

The limo glides through the LA streets, a cocoon of quiet before the storm. I adjust my bow tie, fingers brushing over the fairy tern tattoo. It’s healed to a deep obsidian, each line distinct and perfect.

The tinted windows of the limo offer a last moment of privacy. I close my eyes, centering myself. The car stops, and I hear the muffled chaos outside.

This is it.

I step out into a world of light and noise—camera flashes exploding like stars, my name being called from every direction. It’s overwhelming, but I feel oddly calm, grounded in a way I’ve never been before on this carpet.

“Marcus! Marcus! Over here!” A reporter waves frantically, her microphone outstretched.

I take a deep breath and approach her.

“Marcus, you’re favored to win tonight. How are you feeling?” she asks, her smile dazzling.

I pause, considering. The old Marcus would have deflected with a charming quip, but that’s not who I am anymore.

“Honestly? I’m nervous,” I admit, my voice steady despite the flutter in my stomach. “This role…meant a lot to me. It was a chance to explore some deep, personal stuff. And win or lose, I’m really grateful for the opportunity to have told this story.”

The reporter blinks. “Can you tell us more about what made this role so personal?”

I glance down at my wrist. The fairy tern inked there gives me the courage to answer honestly. “It’s about fathers and sons, about the words we leave unsaid. I’ve…had my own struggles with that. This film was a way to explore those feelings, to maybe start some conversations that need to happen.”

“Wow,” the reporter breathes, her professional mask slipping for a moment. “That’s beautiful, Marcus. Thank you for sharing that with us. Good luck for tonight.”

“Thank you.”

The red carpet becomes a blur of faces and flashing lights.

“Marcus, over here!” is the soundtrack, and I obligingly pause for photos and to speak with reporters.

It’s a dance I’ve done many times before, but tonight feels different. Tonight, they’re getting the authentic me, like it or not.

The Dolby Theater gleams like a temple to cinema, crystal chandeliers catching the light from a thousand sources. Hollywood royalty fills every row—legends I used to watch when I was a nobody in New Zealand now air-kissing my cheeks. The combined net worth in this room could probably fund a small country.

From my seat, I can see nine Academy Award winners, three living legends, and at least twelve future Hall of Famers.

The ceremony seems to stretch on forever. Every acceptance speech is punctuated by the soft clicking of countless cameras.

I try to focus on the speeches, the performances, anything to distract from the growing tension in my chest.

The theme of tonight is Hollywood History, and a highlight reel shows clips from every best actor winner since 1929—Brando, Olivier, Hopkins—giants whose shoulders we’re all trying to stand on.

And all it does is make me breathless with want to join their ranks, to be remembered forever as one of the greats.

Eventually, Abigail McFay takes the stage to read the nominees for Best Actor.

She introduces the nominees and my heart pounds so loudly that I’m sure the mics must be picking it up. Each breath feels like a conscious effort, my mouth dry as sandpaper.

“And the Oscar goes to…Marcus Johnson, for The Weight of Whispers .”

Holy fuck.

I stand on shaky legs, the world spinning around me. Helen squeezes my arm as I set off for the stage. The opening notes of the walk-up music float through the theater like a dream. Faces blur past—some familiar from magazine covers, others from decades of cinema history—all turned toward me with expectant smiles.

Somehow, I make it to the stage, where Abigail hands me the Oscar statue.

I grasp the statue as I look over the crowd.

Rows of beautiful people, glittering in their finery, stretch before me like a human jewelry box—diamonds glinting, sequins shimmering, gold thread catching the light. These are the people who shape global culture with a raised eyebrow or a turned head.

Right now, they’re all applauding me, recognizing me for my talent, holding my performance up as the pinnacle in our industry.

I know social media will be exploding with accolades and praise for me, with hashtags trending worldwide, with clips of my performance being shared millions of times, with countless strangers declaring their love for a version of me they think they know.

And I suddenly realize none of it matters.