Time And Time Again

4

The lights were blinding and she could feel sweat dripping down her forehead. a shoe—a simple yellow high top canvas shoe— tapped on the stage. her fingers danced along the fretboard as she played through the guitar solo. Lovingly, she gazed at the man standing a few paces in front of her. his denim jacket felt heavy on her shoulders, but she didn't care. she liked how heavy it felt, and how it smelled of his cheap cologne.
she hated the pressure of standing in front of a crowd. people were staring at her, she could feel it. they were judging every note she played, she was sure.
yet she felt safer than ever up there with the singer, the drummer, and the keyboardist.
the band crescendoed, and there was a deafening cymbal crash as the band ended their last number of the night, and the audience cheered while the curtain fell.
As she made her way backstage, she was lined to the wall, and thin, pale lips collided roughly with hers. she leaned into the kiss and she felt goosebumps crawl up her neck. his thick, girthy fingers entangled in her hair, and his lips tasted like coffee and chocolate. she felt like she was floating. when the two broke for air, flames of passion ignited within her heart.
flames of passion burning. flames of passion raging, reaching up to lap at the air. they blazed brightly as she stood there still in shock as to what had happened, and burst into explosions later that night as she lay in bed with a hand down the front of her pants.
and then she was falling, and that falling turned into running. she didn't know what she was running from or why. she wasn't sure where she was going, but she was running and she couldn't stop. she could hear voices calling out to her, and police sirens. her feet ached with the lack of support the platform shores she was apparently wearing offered. and her stride shortened as with every step, an inch or so was added to her shoes.
she looked down, finding herself many feet above the ground; looking down in terror; a spiral path; decorated like keys of a piano, which she was running down. and her legs ached. her heart thudded again her breast. and finally, she didn't think she could run anymore, so she jumped and closed her eyes tight.
all went silent. there was no more sirens or yelling. whatever had been following her was long gone.
when she opened her eyes she realized she was floating through space. stardust swirled around her, and several inanimate objects drifted by; record players and guitars, boxes of cigarettes, microphones.
she had no helmet; just a glittery white costume; an angel costume; with large feathered wings, glittery eyeshadow, and a pair of rhinestone studded sunglasses.
it was...so quiet. she just wasn't used to it.
a playing card floated lazily by her, and she reached out and took it between her fingers.
as soon as her fingers made contact, she fell fast. one by one, her costume pieces fell off, and soon enough she was seated perfectly in a mahogany chair. swirls of glitter-stardust settled on the table placed before her, in piles and lines. playing card still in her hand.
Blue-grey eyes fluttered open, pain ricocheted against the inside of her skull. There was an awful taste in her mouth.
"God." The redhead thinks to herself. She feels absolutely disgusting. Her head is banging. Her mouth feels dry, and God, the taste— It was thick and metallic, with just the slightest chemical tang in the back of her throat. And it felt like she couldn't remember anything for the first few seconds she fully regained consciousness. She sits up and takes a look around the room.
A few different guitars...a keyboard... There are shoes thrown everywhere; Ranging from house slippers to simple black flats, and extravagant pairs of platform heels. There were posters on the wall, familiar faces of stars with bright makeup and tight clothing. On a nightstand to the left of her sat a large fish tank, full of plants. Shit. How long had it been since she'd fed the thing?  Her stomach dropped as she leaned to look through the glass, to see the fish swimming towards, side fins flapping as if though it were greeting her. It was still alive and well. Thank god. That fish was one of the few things holding her together at this point.
And by the door, a large pile of Manila folders.
With a groan, the young woman reached for nightstand and grabbed a cig and a lighter, and she lit the end of the cigarette. Her lungs burned as she took a long drag.
She stood shakily on her feet, and made her way to the door, making sure to give her poor fish a pinch of flakes before she left. After kicking a pair of shiny leather platforms out of her way and tiptoeing around the pile of papers, she made her way to the master bathroom to clean herself up.
She hesitated before looking in the mirror, and for a good reason.
Her box-dyed red hair was tangled and frizzy and still grossly coated in hairspray — her caked on makeup hadn't been wiped off in lord only knows how long. Streaky glitter and eyeliner left smudges around her eyes, her lipstick was smeared across her cheek, and even her false lashes still cling to her lids.
The woman peeled the lash extensions off and wiped her face down with a cool flannel, making herself look slightly more presentable. She reached for a brush and ran it through her thick knot of hair.
Finally, she dug into her closet to grab a pair of loose fitting pants and a plain white tank. Her outfit was far less than comfortable— The same sweaty, damp undershirt she'd been wearing since whenever she blacked out. They probably reeked. The sickly woman pulled the garment over her head and slowly changed into the other outfit she'd chosen.
And then she turned sideways and pulled her shirt tight to her frame. Thin and lanky. Just how she liked it. How everyone liked it. Because in the music industry, nobody likes an average body. Except for maybe one person she knew of. Who was most certainly going to lose it when she came down the stairs.
You cant make everyone happy though, she tells herself.
So you just have to please the crowd.  The majority.
Huh. Like that's not what the whole career is about when you're in the damn industry. You sign another contract, and go on another tour. Release another album. You sing for others to listen. You put on a damn good show. Pour your whole heart and soul into all of your performances, sing until your throat is raw, dance until your feet are numb and blistered, and you don't stop until that curtain closes, even if it kills you.
"And for what?"  You ask yourself.
What do you gain from it?
Recognition. Attention. You get your name on signs and posters, hear your music on the radio. You feel the love of millions of fans, the kind of love that won't hurt you like the love of a partner. The kind of love you've never really gotten to feel. But love can only get you so far. It can't cure all of your problems, and there comes a point when you've gotten enough, you're overwhelmed, yet you crave more. And you seek more, you get more.
And getting more is exactly how you end up like Frankie May.
Your mind is scrambled, everything is numb, and everything is collapsing in on itself, but you're the new face of glitter rock, and that's all that matters. Right?