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Unfinished The red light from the sleazy motel across the street has somehow found its way through my simple slat shades, and is bathing my room with a mute clarity matched only by the clarity of my mind induced by three months of isolation. Three months ago, I had my phone disconnected in the hopes of attaining a true separation from society. Two weeks later, after having watched a continuing saga between three sets of intermingled lovers, I witnessed the most insane plot development take place. Of course Suzanne's child was Damien's. He was Suzanne's half brother and the only one who knew that was Cherice, Damien's wife. And she couldn't tell anyone because Damien knew about her and the senator. It all fit into place. It was ridiculous, and I threw the television out my third story window in a rage. You could say I was in a black mood. For seven months. I had been an easy going actress, a pale blonde in a world of dark, mysterious girls. I was the newest trend. Pastel and fluffy was here, dark and sleek was on its way out. I had the world at my beck and call. But I never liked being treated like a child, being waited on. I was a shy hayseed from a small town. But soon, I found myself snapping at well-meaning gophers and make-up artists. I always tried to be pleasant toward fans and friends, and I thought I had succeeded. Until one morning, when I found a girl sitting on my couch in my dressing suite, looking very tired and angry. I wondered how the hell she got in, but I asked who she was instead. She answered, You don't know?, and her voice was like silk, warm and dark. I had to admit this creature was beautiful. Jet black hair, dark red lips, sleek and smooth, dark mysterious eyes. One of those whose time had come and gone. I answered her. I didn't know who she was. Hallory Parker, she spat. The name meant nothing to me. In an effort toward hospitality, I moved to the bar in the corner and reached behind to get some glasses and a bottle of some sparkling something or other, turning my back on my visitor. I turned halfway to bring the bottle into the light so I could see what we were to drink. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a sudden movement and ducked instinctively. I winced as the brass candlestick shattered the glass bartop. I heard some panic at the door of the suite, but Parker had already locked the door. As she came at me again, her hand bloody from the bartop, I ran toward the door to unlock it, screaming like a small child. She caught up with me and knocked me to the ground. I suppose I hit my head, because that's all I remember until I stuttered awake in a cold hospital room. Policemen, nurses, staff from the movie I was filming, and reporters poorly disguised as staff from the movie I was filming thronged around the room asking questions. I asked about Parker. Knowing looks shot between people. She's dead. I didn't understand. --into a coffee table right? -- I don't rememb-- What happened this evening miss-- I don't think that-- Do you think you could answer a few-- Excuse me, miss-- I'm sure I don't know what you're--EVERYONE OUT NOW! She was a big nurse, but not unkind. Everyone left the nurse and I alone. I was confused and sleepy, but she was patient with me and helped me understand what had happened. Parker fell into my glass coffee table. I didn't push her. She must have tripped. She was in a rage. She wasn't thinking straight. Everyone thought I killed her. I asked for a gossip mag. I had made the front page of the one the nurse brought me. Apparently, I had been sleeping with Parker's husband, Kerry. Hallory was a saint, of course. Out of a job because of me, out of a husband because of me, and, understandably, out of her pretty little mind because of me. It was clear which side the mags would take on this issue. Of course, nothing was true. I had never even met her husband, I didn't intentionally put her out of a job, and therefore, she was already out of her mind before I even met her. The nurse left to get me some Jell-o I didn't ask for, and when she came back, she asked me for my autograph. Oh, I said, Are you a fan? She nodded. We looked at each other uneasily. I handed her back her pen and signed photograph, and she left without another word. I went home two days later determined to work right away, but I found that though I had been cleared of all charges because Parker was on some drug and I supposedly killed her out of self-defense, nobody wanted to take the popularity risk I would pose. See, everyone still thought that I killed her, that it was self-defense. My career seemed to be over. I had enough money to live off for a while, so I moved into a cheaper apartment in a worse part of town and tried to write for a while. I could have sold a novel if it had been some cheesy slop job of "My Story," but there was no story, and besides, the whole thing was pissing me off. I gave up writing and began to watch television. I read books. I grew introspective. I threw out my phone. Who knows what I'll do tomorrow. Probably, I'll move to the seventh floor. The higher you are when you fall, the more complete the solitude. |
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