December 8, 2025 • 20 mins
This episode examines a real case involving psychological decline and missed warning signs. It is not intended to sensationalize violence or mental illness. If you recognize similar patterns in yourself or someone you care about, professional help is available and can make a life-saving difference.
In the United States, the official, nationwide mental-health crisis hotline is: 988
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A rising young artist.
A devoted online following.
A quiet, smiling performer whose kindness felt limitless.
And somewhere in the glow of her growing fame… a shadow began to form. In this haunting episode, Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast opens the pages of a forgotten journal — the unraveling thoughts of an isolated mind who mistook admiration for destiny. Through diary entries, news reports, and chilling narration, we explore the dangerous line between fandom and fixation, and the silent fractures in our mental health system that allowed an obsession to grow unchecked. This isn’t a story about how a life ended.
It’s a story about how a society failed to see the darkness gathering around someone who gave everything she had to the world. A cautionary tale of obsession, delusion, and the devastating cost of ignoring red flags until it's too late.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
In the United States, the official, nationwide mental-health crisis hotline is: 988
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A rising young artist.
A devoted online following.
A quiet, smiling performer whose kindness felt limitless.
And somewhere in the glow of her growing fame… a shadow began to form. In this haunting episode, Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast opens the pages of a forgotten journal — the unraveling thoughts of an isolated mind who mistook admiration for destiny. Through diary entries, news reports, and chilling narration, we explore the dangerous line between fandom and fixation, and the silent fractures in our mental health system that allowed an obsession to grow unchecked. This isn’t a story about how a life ended.
It’s a story about how a society failed to see the darkness gathering around someone who gave everything she had to the world. A cautionary tale of obsession, delusion, and the devastating cost of ignoring red flags until it's too late.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. Here we go
again with another story from music's dark side. Some obsessions
don't begin with a spark. They begin with silence. A
silence so heavy it presses against the ribs, A silence
(00:23):
so vast it fills rooms where no one else sins,
A silence that becomes a kind of religion for those
who have nothing left to worship but the glow of
a screen. This is a story about a voice, pure, bright,
disarming in its sincerity, a voice that grew out of
a bedroom in New Jersey and reached millions of strangers
through pixels and wires. But some strangers they inhale too deeply.
(00:48):
Some strangers make a mistake of believing that a voice
meant for everyone is a message meant only for them.
And when a lonely mind starts rewriting reality, nothing is
more dangerous than the belief that that a person is
calling to you, even when she is not. Tonight, we
walk into the dark not to celebrate it, not to
(01:09):
understand it, but to expose it. This is Script twenty.
The darkness that followed her act one, the quiet place
where things start to rot. He lived in a room
that never changed temperature, always cold, always stale, always dim,
like the light bulbs had given up somewhere in the
middle of the day and never fully recovered. He didn't
(01:31):
have friends, he didn't have hobbies. He didn't have conversations,
only the imagined ones that he replayed in his mind,
the ones where people remembered his name, the ones where
no one looked through him anymore. But then he found her,
not in person, not face to face. He found her
the way so many lost people do, through a glowing
(01:54):
rectangle that promised connection but delivered only the outline of it. Christina,
a girl singing from her bedroom, A girl who didn't
know he existed, a girl who smiled after every chorus,
like she was smiling directly at him. To anyone else,
she was a rising star. To him, she was a message,
(02:15):
not a person. A message. Her laugh became a prophecy,
her compassion became permission, her generosity became intimacy. She wasn't
talking to the world, she was talking to him, only him.
Because that's what loneliness does when it has nowhere else
to go. It invents connections where none exists. You're there
(02:37):
inside the quiet living room, an outdated computer screen glowed
like a tiny sun. The music video played. Her voice
filled the emptiness, soft and warm, bouncing against the hollow walls.
A chair creaked, a body leaning closer, each breath sinked
with hers like a duet. No one agreed to. Outside
the world keeps spinning inside, a fantasy begins to take root.
(03:02):
Act to the journal entries, entry one. It's dated but smudged, handwriting, shaky,
ink grooves pressed too hard into the page. I don't
sleep much anymore, haven't for a long time. Doctor says
it's stress. He offered me another pill, something soft, edge
(03:23):
that pulls the curtain shut for a few hours. But
I don't like it. I don't like the way it
makes me feel. It makes my head feel hollow. The
apartment is too still at night. I can hear the
ac it's so loud. I hear the pipes click, the
neighbors move around me. It's too loud, too alive. But
when I put my headphones on, it goes quiet. Her
(03:44):
voice makes makes everything quiet. I found Christina again today,
new video, same smile. She talks like she's talking to me,
not the normal way people talk online. It's it's different.
It's this is different. Yeah, yes, it's different. It's personal.
She understands something about me. Nobody else ever. Has The
(04:05):
doctor told me last year, you need to reach out,
find someone who sees you well. I think I think
I finally have Christina. You see me, don't you? Entry two.
The paper shows eraser marks, crossed out lines, rewritten sentences.
He's searching for clarity he never finds. Therapist said, I
(04:26):
should write down my thoughts so I can track patterns.
Track patterns. What good is tracking them if they never stop?
I went online today, just read comments under her videos.
People love her too much. Maybe some of the things
they say it bothers me. They don't know her, not
(04:47):
like I do. They don't hear the small changes in
her voice when she's tired. They don't see the way
her eyes drift when she's distracted. They don't catch the
tiny laugh she makes when she thinks nobody heard her
mess up lyric, I notice I notice everything. That's what
connection is real connection. Someone wrote that she saved their life,
(05:09):
but she didn't mean it that way. She doesn't give
herself to everyone, just the ones who were meant to
hear her doctor doesn't get that. He warned me again
about parasitic attachment. I told him he's wrong. He wrote
something down in his chart after that, I didn't tell
me what You're there in the room. The journal sits
(05:31):
open on a stained kitchen table. Beside it a prescription
bottle tipped over, two untouched meals, a stack of unopened mail,
a laptop paused on the frame of Christina midsong Handah
raised eyes bright. The apartment smells like old carpet and
microwaved meals, but the journal smells like ink and obsession.
(05:52):
Entry five. He writes this one on a line paper
torn from a notebook. The edge is frayed, the ink blotchy.
Today I watched a video where she talked about being
shy shy. It's funny. People think performers are loud and outgoing,
overflowing with confidence, but she wasn't. She says she was
(06:12):
quiet and school introverted, didn't fit in with the popular kids. Oh,
I get it, me too. I felt important, like a
thread tying us together. She'd loved video games. She talked
about playing Legend of Zelda with her brother talked about
how music felt safe. I understand safe. I've been searching
(06:33):
for safe my whole life. I tried telling the doctor that,
but he asked me what safe looks like. The answer
came immediately I I I it looks like her, it
sounds like her, it is her. He wrote something down.
You're there again. The journal is open on the floor,
now surrounded by scattered printouts, screenshots of interviews, articles, quotes
(06:54):
scribbled in the margins. On his TV, Christina live streams.
He watches her life. Someone watches a fireplace on a
winter night, longing for warmth, but never understanding the fire
can burn. At three, the show next, at three, the
(07:20):
show entry ten. This entry is long, pages folded back.
He writes, like a man possessed. I rewatched Christina's blind
audition from the Voice God. That moment she stepped out,
small and nervous, and then she opened up her mouth
and just wow, just wow. Those coaches slammed their buttons
so fast. It was like they were afraid someone else
(07:42):
would claim her. First, her family was backstage, her mother crying,
her brother was jumping up and down. I could see
how much they loved her, how proud they were how protective.
I wish someone had looked at me like that. Even
once she talked about her faith and her family, and
she said she wanted to share her gift with the world.
(08:05):
She wasn't bragging, she wasn't pretending it was pure. That
kind of purity doesn't last long in this world. People
corrupt it, exploit it, and twist it. I won't let
that happen to her. I can't. The doctor asked me
today if I understood boundaries. I don't think he liked
my answer. Entry twenty two. The pages are creased from
(08:28):
being gripped too tightly. Words are sharp and precise, her
coach called her once in a generation voice. I believe that,
And what I noticed what the others don't is the
exhaustion behind the smile, the pressure, the way she tries
to be strong for everyone. I can see that she's hurting.
Nobody else seems to notice. She pushes herself too hard.
(08:50):
I don't like that. I wrote a comment tonight, erased it,
wrote another raised that too. It never feels right. I
don't want to say like everybody else, I want her
to know I understand her not worship. Worship is meaningless
without understanding. The therapist said something strange today. He asked me
(09:11):
if I thought she was sending me messages. Of course,
not not messages, not deliberately, more like resonance. Some people
are tuned to each other, whether they know it or not.
You're there again. On his desk, a cold cup of
instant coffee, A pile printed lyrics from Christina's covers, a
(09:31):
sticky note with the phrase resonance partially written, the journal
lying open, edges curling from overuse. On the screen, Christina
sings Wrecking Ball, her voice raw, emotional and powerful. He
flinches when she hits a note too beautifully, like it's
too much for his nervous system to hold act for
(09:53):
the show ends Entry twenty five. The handwriting is jagged here,
not sloppy, but agitated, words pressed hard enough to dent
the pages underneath. She didn't win. She should have. Everyone
knew it, The coaches knew it, the crowd knew it,
everyone with ears knew it. But they picked someone else.
(10:14):
How could they? I sat in front of the TV
a long time. I could not believe it. Long after
the confetti fell on the wrong person, long after her
smile that brave, too bright, smile, told the world she
was fine. She wasn't fine. I could see it, and
the way her eyes flickered when they said the winner's name,
(10:35):
and that tiny hitch in her breath, the way she
hugged the others too tightly, like she needed a second
to stay standing. The therapist called this catastrophic thinking. But
they're blind. This wasn't fair, this wasn't right. It wasn't
what was supposed to happen. She gave everything. Her voice
was the best, her performances were the strongest. Everyone said
(10:57):
she was the front writer. Everyone expected her to win.
She didn't. She deserved more. She deserved everything. She deserved
to win. If the world can't see that, maybe I'm
the only one who actually sees her. I love you, Christina,
you'd love me too, if we could just meet. I
know it. Entry thirty eight tight, minimal, focused obsession. She
(11:22):
announced the tour, small venues, small crowds, nothing flashy. Of course,
she choose that she's always cared more about people than
the spectacle. I watched videos from her first shows. She
smiles through everything, even when fans pull her too close,
even when someone screams her name, even when she looks overwhelmed.
She pretends to be fine. She shouldn't have to. I
(11:43):
could tell she was sick last week. Her voice cracked.
She apologized to the crowd, like she she owed them something.
She owes them nothing. The doctor called it hyperfixation. I
call it vigilance. Someone has to pay attention. Someone that's me.
Entry forty five, neat symmetrical, the handwriting of someone who
(12:03):
thinks they've attained the truth. I know what I'm going
to do tomorrow. I've rehearsed every step in my head,
not because I want to, because I have to. The
world won't understand. They never do. But she'll see me,
not on the screen, not in an online comment thread,
not in my dreams, in real life, up close finely.
(12:24):
After tomorrow, everything changes for her, for me, for everyone
who never paid attention until it was too late. This
is the moment my life has been circling around. The
orbit ends tomorrow. Then comes the fall. Entry forty six.
The calmest handwriting of all straight lines, even pressure, no hesitation,
(12:47):
the kind of calm that should terrify any one who
understands it. The sun isn't up yet, but the sky
is turning. That pale blue that feels like the world
is holding its breath. I didn't sleep, didn't need to.
The mind is sharpest right before the decision becomes action.
Everything is packed, laid out neatly on the bed, clothes, ticket, wallet, backpack.
(13:16):
I checked it all twice, not out of nervousness, out
of respect for the importance of the day. There's no
noise in my head this morning, no doubt, no static,
no drifting, just stillness. I've never felt before, the kind
of clarity that feels almost holy. For once, the world
isn't pulling me in a hundred directions. For once, everything
(13:38):
points to one single path. She'll be there tonight, smiling.
I know she'll be smiling, as always, giving pieces of
herself to people who don't deserve them, people who don't
see her the way I do, people who take her
kindness like it's their own. They don't understand what she means,
what she's worth, what she needs, But I do. I've
(14:01):
always known therapist says I'm escalating. He'd say this is
the edge, but he doesn't understand what certainty feels like.
Certainty is peace, not anger, not scared. I'm aligned. I'm aligned.
I'm aligned. The sun the sun is rising now, the
light is coming through the window. It feels like a sign,
(14:23):
a beginning disguised as an ending. I'll leave soon. I
want to be early. I want to see the venue
before the crowd fills in, before the noise returns. There's
nothing left to right. The rest happens today at five
The Meet and Greet Next. We begin tonight with breaking
(14:50):
news out of Orlando. Authorities are confirming the singer and
former Voice finalist Christina Grimmy, has been shot and killed
at a meet and greet following your concert at the Plaza.
Lin Police say the gunman approached her as she greeted fans,
opened fire and was immediately subdued. Moments later, the assailant
turned the weapon on himself. We go live now to
Fox four's Mel Turner, who's been on the scene. Mel,
(15:13):
what can you tell us? Thanks Mark, It's been a
deeply emotional scene here at the Plaza Live. Just after
ten thirty pm, twenty two year old singer Christina Grimmy,
a rising star who first captured national attention on NBC's
The Voice, was finishing what fans described as an incredible performance.
After the show, Christina went out to the lobby area
where she was signing autographs and was taking photos with fans.
(15:35):
She was known to do this and it was a
big part of every show she played. According to police,
that's when a man, an unidentified assailant, approached her in line.
Witness tell us he said nothing, no warning, no argument,
no confrontation, simply stepped forward and opened fire. Christina's brother
immediately rushed the gunman, tackling him to the ground. Authorities
here say it was her brother's actions that prevented further casualties,
(15:58):
but tragically it was too late for Christina. Paramedics transported
her to Orlando Regional Medical Center, where she was pronounced
dead shortly after arrival. The gunmen, again whose name police
are not releasing at this time, then turned the weapon
on himself and died at the scene. Right now, investigators
are looking into how he entered the venue armed, whether
he acted alone, and what his motive may have been.
(16:20):
They're also searching his residence and digital history for any
signs of planning or prior fixation. Fans have been gathering
outside the venue, leaving flowers, notes, and candles, many in tears.
One young woman told me Christina hugged every person in
that line called us friends and didn't deserve this back
to you, Thank you, mel. The music world is reacting
with shock and heartbreak. Tributes are pouring in from fellow artists, fans,
(16:43):
and former coaches. On The Voice. Will continue to follow
this story as it develops. Acts six Christina Grimmy's epilogue.
Next Christina's epilogue. It's hard to understand how a life
(17:04):
like hers, a voice like hers, a spirit like hers,
could end in a place as ordinary as a lobby hallway,
a few velvet ropes, a folding table, a meet and
greet line full of teenagers holding sharpies and dreams. You
expect tragedies to happen in shadowy alleys or desolate highways
at three am. You don't expect them to bloom in
(17:25):
the exact place. Someone feels safest, in the open arms
of her fans, in the warmth she offers strangers in
the final minutes of a night filled with music. But
that's the thing about violence born from obsession. It doesn't
follow logic, it doesn't wait for darkness, It brings its own.
Christina Grimmy was just twenty two years old, a daughter,
(17:48):
a sister, a friend, a believer, an artist who sang
from her soul and treated the world like a place
worth trusting. She smiled until the very end. Her last
act on Earth was an act of generosity, leaning in
to embrace someone she believed was simply another fan. She
(18:08):
met openness with openness, kindness with kindness, humanity with humanity.
The world responded with something twisted, broken, and entirely undeserved.
And that is the story. We rarely tell, that one
about the systems that missed, the signs, the mental health
cracks we ignore, the way obsession goes unnoticed until it explodes,
(18:30):
the way fame makes people luminous and also vulnerable. Because
Christina didn't die from fame. She didn't die from meeting fans.
She didn't die because she was too trusting. She died
because someone fell through every gap we leave open in
our society. The untreated illness, the isolation, the parasocial delusion,
(18:52):
the silent red flags, the weapons brought easily, the fantasy
mistaken for fate. And she paid the price for someone
else's unraveling. But even after everything, her voice didn't go silent.
Her fans still play her covers in bedrooms that look
like hers. Her family carries her legacy with grace. Her
(19:13):
message that kindness is worth giving, even if it costs something,
still echoes across the Internet, like a soft note that
refuses to fade. The world lost Christina Grimy, but it
never lost the part of her that mattered most. The light,
the laughter, the courage, the ridiculous, radiant generosity she carried
(19:36):
everywhere she went. It lives on not in the way
her life ended, but in the way she lived it, open, brave,
unimaginably bright. Some stories haunt you because they end badly.
This one haunts because she deserves so much more. I
(19:57):
hope you enjoyed Scrip twenty, the darkness that followed her,
The Christina Grimmy Story. This has been Johnny's Dead Air podcast.
I'm Johnny Artwell, Thank you so much for listening.
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. Here we go
again with another story from music's dark side. Some obsessions
don't begin with a spark. They begin with silence. A
silence so heavy it presses against the ribs, A silence
(00:23):
so vast it fills rooms where no one else sins,
A silence that becomes a kind of religion for those
who have nothing left to worship but the glow of
a screen. This is a story about a voice, pure, bright,
disarming in its sincerity, a voice that grew out of
a bedroom in New Jersey and reached millions of strangers
through pixels and wires. But some strangers they inhale too deeply.
(00:48):
Some strangers make a mistake of believing that a voice
meant for everyone is a message meant only for them.
And when a lonely mind starts rewriting reality, nothing is
more dangerous than the belief that that a person is
calling to you, even when she is not. Tonight, we
walk into the dark not to celebrate it, not to
(01:09):
understand it, but to expose it. This is Script twenty.
The darkness that followed her act one, the quiet place
where things start to rot. He lived in a room
that never changed temperature, always cold, always stale, always dim,
like the light bulbs had given up somewhere in the
middle of the day and never fully recovered. He didn't
(01:31):
have friends, he didn't have hobbies. He didn't have conversations,
only the imagined ones that he replayed in his mind,
the ones where people remembered his name, the ones where
no one looked through him anymore. But then he found her,
not in person, not face to face. He found her
the way so many lost people do, through a glowing
(01:54):
rectangle that promised connection but delivered only the outline of it. Christina,
a girl singing from her bedroom, A girl who didn't
know he existed, a girl who smiled after every chorus,
like she was smiling directly at him. To anyone else,
she was a rising star. To him, she was a message,
(02:15):
not a person. A message. Her laugh became a prophecy,
her compassion became permission, her generosity became intimacy. She wasn't
talking to the world, she was talking to him, only him.
Because that's what loneliness does when it has nowhere else
to go. It invents connections where none exists. You're there
(02:37):
inside the quiet living room, an outdated computer screen glowed
like a tiny sun. The music video played. Her voice
filled the emptiness, soft and warm, bouncing against the hollow walls.
A chair creaked, a body leaning closer, each breath sinked
with hers like a duet. No one agreed to. Outside
the world keeps spinning inside, a fantasy begins to take root.
(03:02):
Act to the journal entries, entry one. It's dated but smudged, handwriting, shaky,
ink grooves pressed too hard into the page. I don't
sleep much anymore, haven't for a long time. Doctor says
it's stress. He offered me another pill, something soft, edge
(03:23):
that pulls the curtain shut for a few hours. But
I don't like it. I don't like the way it
makes me feel. It makes my head feel hollow. The
apartment is too still at night. I can hear the
ac it's so loud. I hear the pipes click, the
neighbors move around me. It's too loud, too alive. But
when I put my headphones on, it goes quiet. Her
(03:44):
voice makes makes everything quiet. I found Christina again today,
new video, same smile. She talks like she's talking to me,
not the normal way people talk online. It's it's different.
It's this is different. Yeah, yes, it's different. It's personal.
She understands something about me. Nobody else ever. Has The
(04:05):
doctor told me last year, you need to reach out,
find someone who sees you well. I think I think
I finally have Christina. You see me, don't you? Entry two.
The paper shows eraser marks, crossed out lines, rewritten sentences.
He's searching for clarity he never finds. Therapist said, I
(04:26):
should write down my thoughts so I can track patterns.
Track patterns. What good is tracking them if they never stop?
I went online today, just read comments under her videos.
People love her too much. Maybe some of the things
they say it bothers me. They don't know her, not
(04:47):
like I do. They don't hear the small changes in
her voice when she's tired. They don't see the way
her eyes drift when she's distracted. They don't catch the
tiny laugh she makes when she thinks nobody heard her
mess up lyric, I notice I notice everything. That's what
connection is real connection. Someone wrote that she saved their life,
(05:09):
but she didn't mean it that way. She doesn't give
herself to everyone, just the ones who were meant to
hear her doctor doesn't get that. He warned me again
about parasitic attachment. I told him he's wrong. He wrote
something down in his chart after that, I didn't tell
me what You're there in the room. The journal sits
(05:31):
open on a stained kitchen table. Beside it a prescription
bottle tipped over, two untouched meals, a stack of unopened mail,
a laptop paused on the frame of Christina midsong Handah
raised eyes bright. The apartment smells like old carpet and
microwaved meals, but the journal smells like ink and obsession.
(05:52):
Entry five. He writes this one on a line paper
torn from a notebook. The edge is frayed, the ink blotchy.
Today I watched a video where she talked about being
shy shy. It's funny. People think performers are loud and outgoing,
overflowing with confidence, but she wasn't. She says she was
(06:12):
quiet and school introverted, didn't fit in with the popular kids. Oh,
I get it, me too. I felt important, like a
thread tying us together. She'd loved video games. She talked
about playing Legend of Zelda with her brother talked about
how music felt safe. I understand safe. I've been searching
(06:33):
for safe my whole life. I tried telling the doctor that,
but he asked me what safe looks like. The answer
came immediately I I I it looks like her, it
sounds like her, it is her. He wrote something down.
You're there again. The journal is open on the floor,
now surrounded by scattered printouts, screenshots of interviews, articles, quotes
(06:54):
scribbled in the margins. On his TV, Christina live streams.
He watches her life. Someone watches a fireplace on a
winter night, longing for warmth, but never understanding the fire
can burn. At three, the show next, at three, the
(07:20):
show entry ten. This entry is long, pages folded back.
He writes, like a man possessed. I rewatched Christina's blind
audition from the Voice God. That moment she stepped out,
small and nervous, and then she opened up her mouth
and just wow, just wow. Those coaches slammed their buttons
so fast. It was like they were afraid someone else
(07:42):
would claim her. First, her family was backstage, her mother crying,
her brother was jumping up and down. I could see
how much they loved her, how proud they were how protective.
I wish someone had looked at me like that. Even
once she talked about her faith and her family, and
she said she wanted to share her gift with the world.
(08:05):
She wasn't bragging, she wasn't pretending it was pure. That
kind of purity doesn't last long in this world. People
corrupt it, exploit it, and twist it. I won't let
that happen to her. I can't. The doctor asked me
today if I understood boundaries. I don't think he liked
my answer. Entry twenty two. The pages are creased from
(08:28):
being gripped too tightly. Words are sharp and precise, her
coach called her once in a generation voice. I believe that,
And what I noticed what the others don't is the
exhaustion behind the smile, the pressure, the way she tries
to be strong for everyone. I can see that she's hurting.
Nobody else seems to notice. She pushes herself too hard.
(08:50):
I don't like that. I wrote a comment tonight, erased it,
wrote another raised that too. It never feels right. I
don't want to say like everybody else, I want her
to know I understand her not worship. Worship is meaningless
without understanding. The therapist said something strange today. He asked me
(09:11):
if I thought she was sending me messages. Of course,
not not messages, not deliberately, more like resonance. Some people
are tuned to each other, whether they know it or not.
You're there again. On his desk, a cold cup of
instant coffee, A pile printed lyrics from Christina's covers, a
(09:31):
sticky note with the phrase resonance partially written, the journal
lying open, edges curling from overuse. On the screen, Christina
sings Wrecking Ball, her voice raw, emotional and powerful. He
flinches when she hits a note too beautifully, like it's
too much for his nervous system to hold act for
(09:53):
the show ends Entry twenty five. The handwriting is jagged here,
not sloppy, but agitated, words pressed hard enough to dent
the pages underneath. She didn't win. She should have. Everyone
knew it, The coaches knew it, the crowd knew it,
everyone with ears knew it. But they picked someone else.
(10:14):
How could they? I sat in front of the TV
a long time. I could not believe it. Long after
the confetti fell on the wrong person, long after her
smile that brave, too bright, smile, told the world she
was fine. She wasn't fine. I could see it, and
the way her eyes flickered when they said the winner's name,
(10:35):
and that tiny hitch in her breath, the way she
hugged the others too tightly, like she needed a second
to stay standing. The therapist called this catastrophic thinking. But
they're blind. This wasn't fair, this wasn't right. It wasn't
what was supposed to happen. She gave everything. Her voice
was the best, her performances were the strongest. Everyone said
(10:57):
she was the front writer. Everyone expected her to win.
She didn't. She deserved more. She deserved everything. She deserved
to win. If the world can't see that, maybe I'm
the only one who actually sees her. I love you, Christina,
you'd love me too, if we could just meet. I
know it. Entry thirty eight tight, minimal, focused obsession. She
(11:22):
announced the tour, small venues, small crowds, nothing flashy. Of course,
she choose that she's always cared more about people than
the spectacle. I watched videos from her first shows. She
smiles through everything, even when fans pull her too close,
even when someone screams her name, even when she looks overwhelmed.
She pretends to be fine. She shouldn't have to. I
(11:43):
could tell she was sick last week. Her voice cracked.
She apologized to the crowd, like she she owed them something.
She owes them nothing. The doctor called it hyperfixation. I
call it vigilance. Someone has to pay attention. Someone that's me.
Entry forty five, neat symmetrical, the handwriting of someone who
(12:03):
thinks they've attained the truth. I know what I'm going
to do tomorrow. I've rehearsed every step in my head,
not because I want to, because I have to. The
world won't understand. They never do. But she'll see me,
not on the screen, not in an online comment thread,
not in my dreams, in real life, up close finely.
(12:24):
After tomorrow, everything changes for her, for me, for everyone
who never paid attention until it was too late. This
is the moment my life has been circling around. The
orbit ends tomorrow. Then comes the fall. Entry forty six.
The calmest handwriting of all straight lines, even pressure, no hesitation,
(12:47):
the kind of calm that should terrify any one who
understands it. The sun isn't up yet, but the sky
is turning. That pale blue that feels like the world
is holding its breath. I didn't sleep, didn't need to.
The mind is sharpest right before the decision becomes action.
Everything is packed, laid out neatly on the bed, clothes, ticket, wallet, backpack.
(13:16):
I checked it all twice, not out of nervousness, out
of respect for the importance of the day. There's no
noise in my head this morning, no doubt, no static,
no drifting, just stillness. I've never felt before, the kind
of clarity that feels almost holy. For once, the world
isn't pulling me in a hundred directions. For once, everything
(13:38):
points to one single path. She'll be there tonight, smiling.
I know she'll be smiling, as always, giving pieces of
herself to people who don't deserve them, people who don't
see her the way I do, people who take her
kindness like it's their own. They don't understand what she means,
what she's worth, what she needs, But I do. I've
(14:01):
always known therapist says I'm escalating. He'd say this is
the edge, but he doesn't understand what certainty feels like.
Certainty is peace, not anger, not scared. I'm aligned. I'm aligned.
I'm aligned. The sun the sun is rising now, the
light is coming through the window. It feels like a sign,
(14:23):
a beginning disguised as an ending. I'll leave soon. I
want to be early. I want to see the venue
before the crowd fills in, before the noise returns. There's
nothing left to right. The rest happens today at five
The Meet and Greet Next. We begin tonight with breaking
(14:50):
news out of Orlando. Authorities are confirming the singer and
former Voice finalist Christina Grimmy, has been shot and killed
at a meet and greet following your concert at the Plaza.
Lin Police say the gunman approached her as she greeted fans,
opened fire and was immediately subdued. Moments later, the assailant
turned the weapon on himself. We go live now to
Fox four's Mel Turner, who's been on the scene. Mel,
(15:13):
what can you tell us? Thanks Mark, It's been a
deeply emotional scene here at the Plaza Live. Just after
ten thirty pm, twenty two year old singer Christina Grimmy,
a rising star who first captured national attention on NBC's
The Voice, was finishing what fans described as an incredible performance.
After the show, Christina went out to the lobby area
where she was signing autographs and was taking photos with fans.
(15:35):
She was known to do this and it was a
big part of every show she played. According to police,
that's when a man, an unidentified assailant, approached her in line.
Witness tell us he said nothing, no warning, no argument,
no confrontation, simply stepped forward and opened fire. Christina's brother
immediately rushed the gunman, tackling him to the ground. Authorities
here say it was her brother's actions that prevented further casualties,
(15:58):
but tragically it was too late for Christina. Paramedics transported
her to Orlando Regional Medical Center, where she was pronounced
dead shortly after arrival. The gunmen, again whose name police
are not releasing at this time, then turned the weapon
on himself and died at the scene. Right now, investigators
are looking into how he entered the venue armed, whether
he acted alone, and what his motive may have been.
(16:20):
They're also searching his residence and digital history for any
signs of planning or prior fixation. Fans have been gathering
outside the venue, leaving flowers, notes, and candles, many in tears.
One young woman told me Christina hugged every person in
that line called us friends and didn't deserve this back
to you, Thank you, mel. The music world is reacting
with shock and heartbreak. Tributes are pouring in from fellow artists, fans,
(16:43):
and former coaches. On The Voice. Will continue to follow
this story as it develops. Acts six Christina Grimmy's epilogue.
Next Christina's epilogue. It's hard to understand how a life
(17:04):
like hers, a voice like hers, a spirit like hers,
could end in a place as ordinary as a lobby hallway,
a few velvet ropes, a folding table, a meet and
greet line full of teenagers holding sharpies and dreams. You
expect tragedies to happen in shadowy alleys or desolate highways
at three am. You don't expect them to bloom in
(17:25):
the exact place. Someone feels safest, in the open arms
of her fans, in the warmth she offers strangers in
the final minutes of a night filled with music. But
that's the thing about violence born from obsession. It doesn't
follow logic, it doesn't wait for darkness, It brings its own.
Christina Grimmy was just twenty two years old, a daughter,
(17:48):
a sister, a friend, a believer, an artist who sang
from her soul and treated the world like a place
worth trusting. She smiled until the very end. Her last
act on Earth was an act of generosity, leaning in
to embrace someone she believed was simply another fan. She
(18:08):
met openness with openness, kindness with kindness, humanity with humanity.
The world responded with something twisted, broken, and entirely undeserved.
And that is the story. We rarely tell, that one
about the systems that missed, the signs, the mental health
cracks we ignore, the way obsession goes unnoticed until it explodes,
(18:30):
the way fame makes people luminous and also vulnerable. Because
Christina didn't die from fame. She didn't die from meeting fans.
She didn't die because she was too trusting. She died
because someone fell through every gap we leave open in
our society. The untreated illness, the isolation, the parasocial delusion,
(18:52):
the silent red flags, the weapons brought easily, the fantasy
mistaken for fate. And she paid the price for someone
else's unraveling. But even after everything, her voice didn't go silent.
Her fans still play her covers in bedrooms that look
like hers. Her family carries her legacy with grace. Her
(19:13):
message that kindness is worth giving, even if it costs something,
still echoes across the Internet, like a soft note that
refuses to fade. The world lost Christina Grimy, but it
never lost the part of her that mattered most. The light,
the laughter, the courage, the ridiculous, radiant generosity she carried
(19:36):
everywhere she went. It lives on not in the way
her life ended, but in the way she lived it, open, brave,
unimaginably bright. Some stories haunt you because they end badly.
This one haunts because she deserves so much more. I
(19:57):
hope you enjoyed Scrip twenty, the darkness that followed her,
The Christina Grimmy Story. This has been Johnny's Dead Air podcast.
I'm Johnny Artwell, Thank you so much for listening.
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