"I knew you weren't a natural blonde. Not with that complexion." That was the first thing Judah said to me after the first time we had sex.

Nicky and I had been dying our natural red hair Cali-girl gold since we were teens. We went through all the stages of orange, like people go through stages of grief.

I remember tugging at Judah's long, inky strands and letting them fall over me like a curtain. "Next, I'm going to dye it black." I wriggled under the dark waterfall. "Does it suit me?"

My new lover touched his nose to mine and murmured against my lips. "You could colour it fluorescent pink and you'd still be the cutest gal around."

"Oh, come on, Casanova. You don't need to flatter me."

"Ain't flattery, gorgeous."

I tugged at his hair playfully. "You're a pathetic fanboy."

He shrugged. "Guilty as charged."

"Front row. Ten concerts, one after the other. Seven different cities. Holding up the same sign. Impressive."

"Is that why you called me backstage?"

"No, it's because I wanted you to see that I was born a redhead." I stuck out my tongue. Actually it was his eyes. Aquamarine and popping vividly from behind a ring of black shadow. He looked like an angel, the devil, a dream, a memory. I felt a pull. I needed to meet him. So I did.

I clicked with Judah from the start. It was as though I'd known him all my life. Even though he was not my only fanboy lover in the first few weeks. He slowly grew on me, and now, well, let's just say when he said he loved me, I was torn between wanting to rejoice or vomit.

Morning is cruel. There's silence in my over-priced house. Nothing here but us ghosts.

Fuck. Nothing's right, and I'm torn. I knew he'd leave. His car is no longer nestled between my Mercedes and the Mustang I had coveted since I was twelve.

Dawn plays havoc on my eyes. A morning person I am not. At least I slept for three and a half hours. Little victories.

I shower and dress. The kohl around my eyes is freshly smudged. I channel my inner Jem and the Holograms, but my eye makeup is black and not pink.

There are no pancakes a la Judah (that's a big reason why I miss him), so I make myself an iced coffee instead. In thirty seconds flat, it's gone. I'm on my second one when I realize I drink my coffee like I drink my liquor – fast and greedily.

The gig's tomorrow. I have to meet up with Lee and the band today. I promised them a list of the songs I'd sing. I have jack shit on my notepad.

I grab a pen and an old receipt and scribble titles of what I feel like singing.

I start with Hotel California.

Then I move on to Cryin' because Steven Tyler is still king.

A bit of Billy and Cradle of Love- why not?

Next is Manic Monday...no, wait, I scratch that out and write Torn.

I add Alive because it's not a gig without some Pearl Jam.

Learning to fly because it gives me hope.

Run to you because I cannot forget Brian Adams.

Alanis' Ironic is followed by Def Leppard's Animal (because every time I sing take me, tame me, make me your animal, I hear Judah's giggle in the back of my mind).

I end the list with someone whose voice is similar to mine, Courtney Love, and her song Doll Parts.

I set the pen down and watch a pair of butterflies dance in the garden. Silvery wings catch rays of the new day and turn iridescent.

I never did colour my hair black. It's still as blonde as my sister's, and I'm exclusive with Judah.

Nic and I are mirror images- if the mirror were broken. She's all sunshine and puppies. I'm all bad decisions after a drunken night out.

I look over the playlist before jamming it in my pocket. Grabbing the keys to the Mustang, I head out of my home and make my way to the Belladonna.

I keep a picture of Ozzy in my wallet. It's my good luck charm. I always open my wallet and whisper, Wish me luck, dark prince, before a gig. Tonight I forgot it at home. The feeling of dread washes over me moments before I walk on the tiny stage.

But ten seconds into my first song, the awful feeling fades. I'm on a high. This. God. Damn. This. Is. My Ultimate. Drug.

I close my eyes and slip from song to song, moving closer to the mic stand until it and I become one. I'm never even this intimate with Judah.

By the time the last song comes on, I am sweat, and song, and smoke. Weed clings to my hair. My clothes are a new skin. I am leather and lace and lust.

As I begin to sing, I spot my sister. She looks like she belongs in a magazine, even in her faux-punk couture.

"He only loves those things because he loves to see them break. I fake it so real, I am beyond fake."

I am ready to smile at her. My heart is on the edge of happiness, ready to leap forth when I hear the little sea of minions around her call over my song.

"Who even are you?"

"No one cares!"

"Go die alone!"

I squint through the fog of cigarettes and Mary Jane.

I can't remember the last time anyone heckled me. It must have been before I made it big. What I'm sure of is that the last person who did it ended up with a black eye. But I...I am a lady now. I don't punch anymore. I dive into a bottle.

I catch sight of the fools ruining my night. They're people I have never seen before. My sister always has an army of followers. I cannot keep up with her friends-of-the-week.

Then I see her. My darling sis is sliding off the jukebox to rush to the stage.

I want to tell them to fuck off, but I know how to take back my gig.

I reach for my fans. For the light. And pull them all back to me.

Wrapping my fingers around the mic, I continue.

"And someday you will ache like I ache, and someday you will ache like I ache. Someday..."

"UGLY!"

"SLUT!"

"FREAK!"

"WHORE!"

That's when I catch my sister's gaze. I am on fucking fire and not in a good way. Was she a part of this? Did she bring her entourage only to mess up my night?

I rage. It's not only me I am angry for, it's my fans, and Lee, who I see withering in a barstool like an unwatered daffodil.

I see Nicky give me a sort of apologetic smile. What good is it?

I drop the mic with an almighty crash. Thunder vibrates through the small venue.

I storm over to my band and whisper to them.

"You know this one, right?"

"Hell, ya, sister. We know every Heart song inside and out."

They all nod, and although we have not practiced it, they know exactly what to do.

I am not in the Belladonna playing for a handful of people. I am at the O2 in London with a full fucking house. I am not Annie Poise anymore. Fuck that. I am Cyanide Annie.

The band roars to life. I am not alone, I have them and my electric guitar.

I am meters from my mic. But I know how to scream. "Y'all losers ready to fucking rock?"

The crowd explodes. Hands come up. Fingers are horns. Long hair sways. The venue is electric.

"Caught you in the act, can't put up with that! Messing where you shouldn't be!" I dash across the stage. My hands work my guitar like I was born with it.

I fall to my knees and slide across the stage, coming nose to button nose with my sister.

"I want to hear you say you're sorry, 'cause nobody takes advantage of me!"

She mouths, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But too little, too late.

I leap up and skid away. A fist to the crowd to hear them roar. I am their god now.

"You're missing the mark, shootin' in the dark! I'm pulling the wool from my eyes!" My fingers slide over the strings. Power and energy blind me. "Baby, don't you push me further, it's gonna hurt you if it happens twice."

I snarl towards my sister and march to the opposite side of the stage. I ignore her for the rest of the song. For all I care, she can vanish, and I'd be a happier person if I never saw her again.