An Accident Is Never Accidental by Mike Posner

Couldn’t save him.

Couldn’t help the fact that I’ve lost a friend. He wasn’t just a man, whose concerts I organized, or whose papers I’ve signed. These standing ovations, that were so fulfilling and heart-warming as if I was the one on the stage. A car accident… No, this clearly doesn’t make any sense. His wife says he’s a great driver, and he really is. We once had the mountain trip together, and he never went above 90. He couldn’t just hit a telephone pole at a speed of 150 km/h. Nick wasn’t at the wheel.

He never really had the people he could call “rivals”. How come a pop singer in his early 30s can be someone’s rival? He had tons of endorsements, worked with the biggest companies like Nike and Coca-Cola, and the stadiums were always full when he came to any city. His ego was never too big, and he never had arguments with other, well-respected famous artists. He once spilled a drink on Kanye West, but that made them record an album together. What can I personally do to find the real reason?

That evening, I was sitting at the window and looking at the rain dripping from the dark grey sky. It was a heavy one. The sound of the rain hitting on my window was making me even more focused, and I was more and more concerned that the accident is never accidental. I fell asleep right at my desk, having misty dreams and visions in my sleep. I was lucid dreaming. Suddenly, I heard a hard knock on the window. It was definitely not rain that hit so hard that the sound made me jump out of my chair. I was frustrated and scared, but I didn’t really seem to be able to consciously assess the situation that was happening. The first and the stupidest thing, that I could have possibly done, and I did, was coming up to the window and looking outside. I saw nothing but darkness, and beautiful yellow lights shining on the Main Street of Hollywood. I’ve rented this hotel to run away from unnecessary attention. The press were all over me in the recent days. The only place where I could’ve possibly hid was no longer so hidden. I was staring out the window for about 5 minutes, and I was so sleepy that this hit on the window made me neither nervous, nor afraid. I was ready. I mean, my life is technically over, now that Nick is gone.

Next morning, I called Luka Doncic, another well-respected manager, who was the main reason why Donovan Mitchell, another pop-singer, who was Nick’s former bandmate. I asked him if he knew any good investigators that could help me. First, he said that he was sorry and that he would do anything to help. He gave me the phone number. Something about his voice just wasn’t right. He sounded too corny and shabby.

It was 2 o’clock, the day was hot. The only thing that was on my mind was Luka’s voice. I mean, I never really studied psychology, but this voice was something else. Sarcasm, irony, hate, lust? What is it that he wanted to hide? Is there some sort of message? I might be going insane. I’ve decided to call the police. Not just the regular police. As the superstars and famous, well-recognized people, we’ve had a squad of private police, which we could ask for help at any time that we needed. I’ve called them and asked them to hide in the bathrooms and storage rooms of the Starbucks, where I was waiting for this mysterious detective. Do I even need a detective at this point? Seems like I’m doing fine myself.

The detective came into the main room, and he had all the eyes focused on him almost immediately. This has to be a joke. He was dressed like Sherlock. The most stereotypical hat, brown jacket, pants and shoes. Is he a detective or a great actor? Right now, he either looks like he was the one who solved the JFK assassination mystery, or like a clown. 

“Good afternoon, Mr?…” - I asked, realizing that I was not even told his name.

“Mr. Time to die” - he whispered at my ear and pulled out his gun - “don’t do anything stupid now. You do exactly what we ask you to, and you’ll live a bit longer”.

I was shocked. I saw a barrel of the gun right at my chest. The craziest thing is that it was actually real. He sat me down and stared at me with his ugly eyes. What a coward. Luka! Donovan! I had some thoughts about it, because Donovan never really was satisfied with what Nick was doing professionally. He was a greedy person and always wanted more for himself. Guess that was the motive. Focus. You’ve got a gun at your chest. What’s the next move?

The moment I thought about that, I saw a police officer approaching him from behind. He hit him with a gun and he immediately fell to the ground. Luka entered the building the next minute and started shooting at us. He had a real gun. There was no time for impressions, I needed to hide. All I’ve heard is shots being fired all over this small Starbucks. I raised my head and say Donovan. I guess I was about to meet my end. He kicked me with his pistol and I went unconscious. I opened my eyes for a moment and saw him pointing a gun at me. There was a loud blast that finished it all. 

The next thing I remember is that I woke up in the hospital with a broken nose. I guess I went unconscious. Everything was blurry. I was in a white room, had some flowers and a newspaper on the bed shelf. The newspaper was titled “an accident is never accidental”. It was an article about a massive shooting in the Starbucks in Hollywood. It said that one dead man that was found inside was Donovan Mitchell, a famous pop singer. Luka Doncic, his manager, was taken into custody and was accused of attempted murder of Nick Jonas, a famous pop singer, who was though to have died in a car accident up to this moment.