From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Johnny was distressed, aggrieved, and furious.

Like a glass of absinthe. Bitter and strong, impossible to swallow, almost burning his throat, his internal organs starting to blaze.

Monday, they drew close.

Tuesday, they touched.

Wednesday, they couldn't help themselves.

Thursday, she turned and left, closing the door to her heart, declaring him guilty, yet refusing to give any response.

He put on a prison uniform, zebra stripes encircling his shoulders.

He wore iron shackles, the shackles binding his feet.

He tried to struggle, but to no avail; he tried to escape, but there was nowhere to run. He was locked in her prison, without even the chance to appeal.

Suffocating!

A suffocation that words couldn't accurately describe, almost exploding in his chest.

His entire brain was a mush, chaotic and scorching. The world was ablaze, he ignored the audience, his emotions transforming into notes and songs, recklessly venting. He had to make his voice heard.

Then, in a daze, he found that figure in the crowd, the figure that made him lose his mind but left him helpless, staring at her intently. Each line of the lyrics was like a question and a plea, venting towards June Carter with the force of a storm, igniting a raging wave.

June Carter looked slightly flustered.

Johnny - damn - Cash, it was that damned Johnny Cash again.

In front of everyone, Johnny's actions would inevitably cause rumors to fly again. Johnny could not care and could completely ignore it, but she would have to bear the final price; and what about Vivian? What should Vivian do?

It was all her fault.

June Carter hated herself; she shouldn't have been impulsive, it was all a mistake.

That frustration and suffocation made June Carter lower her eyes, hurriedly trying to hide herself, embarrassment and awkwardness appearing on her face. She hated herself for allowing herself to fall into this quagmire again.

Johnny was disappointed—

June Carter avoided his gaze.

He couldn't even see her eyes clearly. His questions, his accusations, his shouts, all crashed against the wall, weak and bitter, as always.

Like Maria the nun in "The Sound of Music," spinning and leaping on a hillside full of flowers and greenery, his tap-dancing feet stomping wildly on the stage floor.

Everyone was shocked, staring dumbfounded at the tall and dashing figure taking clumsy steps. For a moment, they couldn't tell whether it was tap dance or drunken boxing. His chaotic steps flew out with the inertia of centrifugal force, and he was about to disappear from the stage.

The whole place was silent.

The audience looked at the absurd and chaotic scene in front of them, even forgetting to clap and cheer, directly stunned, to the point of temporarily losing their ability to react.

Perhaps, only Anson was an exception.

Spinning, jumping, eyes closed.

With a turn, Anson came back with his guitar, stepping in tango steps, his cadence steps on the cheerful swing rhythm, mightily from one side of the stage across to the other side, regardless of other views, just immersed in his own world.

His dizzy head felt hot, thousands of troops galloped in different directions, his mind roared, and a wild force overthrew all reason.

He refused rules, he refused to be obedient, he refused to be bound. He just wanted to live freely and unrestrained, or rather he just wanted to be happy.

But, since when did happiness become so difficult?

Was it that he wasn't qualified to enjoy happiness?

People simply and rudely convicted him, using labels and shackles to brutally bind him, unwilling to give him a chance to speak, even before he could explain, they had already cast him into hell. They just needed a scapegoat, an object to vent their anger on. When they couldn't find his father's whereabouts, they blindly stabbed the innocent and helpless him.

Invisible shackles bound his hands and feet, and the hatred poured down overwhelmingly, with no escape, no breathing room.

But…

In fact, he was also a victim.

Because of his father's crimes, was he, as a son, unworthy of enjoying happiness? Because he betrayed his faith, was not loyal to his marriage, and sincerely liked a woman, was he unworthy of having happiness?

Because his father had hurt so many people, would his happiness become a sin? Because his actions led to his brother's death, must he bear shackles for the rest of his life?

Thoughts, intertwined.

Sometimes Anson, sometimes Johnny, sometimes the previous life, sometimes this life. Chaotic fragments of memory intertwined, the line between reality and illusion had long disappeared. Anson was Johnny, and Johnny was Anson, and emotions ignited in this way, erupting with a surging force from the depths of his soul.

Bursting out!

Guilt. Anger. Suffocation. Annoyance. Repression. Struggle. Torment. Pain.

All kinds of things, all kinds of things, burning wildly and unrestrainedly.

After his father's scandal, he had been restraining himself, controlling himself, even afraid to laugh, fearing that his smile might be rubbing salt into the wounds of those victims; he was unable to repay his father's debts, nor could he make up for his father's harm, the only thing he could do was punish himself.

He didn't dare to sleep peacefully, didn't dare to show a smile, didn't dare to enjoy happiness, didn't dare to be easily happy, only by constantly living in pain, did this seem to be the only way to alleviate the pain of those victims.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

When those people came to his door, those victims, those creditors, those former friends of his father, he couldn't say anything, couldn't do anything, even dared not cry, fearing that his tears would turn into a grievance in the eyes of the other party—

Yes, he didn't even have the right to feel aggrieved.

He held his breath, apologizing again and again, trapped in layers of invisible shackles, falling into an endless cycle.

But.

…Why?

Why didn't he even dare to breathe? Why didn't he even dare to smile? Why did his life just stop turning forever?

No, he refused.

The more painful, the more he needed to sing loudly, the more tormented, the more he needed to dance wildly, the darker it was, the more he needed to seize every minute and every second to enjoy life to the fullest.

Dilemma and struggle, burning and explosion, buzzing in his brain, he tried to break free from the shackles, unleashed his hands and feet in the boundless hellfire, stepping on the devil's dance steps, running wildly and spinning wildly.

The drumbeat, not enough—

Not enough power, not enough rhythm.

Obviously, the drummer seemed to be stunned by the scene in front of him, to the point that the action of drumming was bound, and the weakening of the drumbeat was particularly obvious in the swing music.

Johnny stumbled forward, roaring loudly, "Put some effort into it, buddy!"