Nearly an entire year has passed since my friend fell to his demise at the base of the Pilgrim's Tower monument in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Yet to this very day, the majority of the details following Casey's death (and my unexpected marriage to Sam Hain) remain a blissfully forgotten segment of hours. There are bits I still remember.
I distinctly remember emerging from the monument, bewildered and be-wedded to find Casey crumpled at the foot of the tower. A circle of little girls had gathered around his body.They were crying and covering his wounds with rose petals.
And I heard the voice -- his voice.
Not Casey's voice. Casey was dead. But his voice. That bellicose, belligerent, belittling voice. The voice that I had endured for what felt like years, even though my contact with the person had only been a few weeks. The producer's voice.