Lamont F. - 2/22/2007 10:32 AM ET
Sounds real. Keep it up!
The only things keeping her awake are those little pills she eats every day. Eight a day. Twenty or more on bad days.
As she slides the long black glove onto her milky skin, I look at the clock.
Sheís already 52 minutes late, but she doesnít care. No matter how late she is, theyíll all still be waiting for her. Theyíll congratulate her with applause, cover her rouged cheeks with dry kisses. Sheíll smile at them insipidly with coolness only she possesses.
The wait staff will keep the Dom Perignon glasses filled with champagne chilled to her required temperature. Stuffed figs, artichoke tartlets, and crab stuffed pastries will arrive, at her request even though she wonít eat them.
After about thirty minutes, sheíll start with her first panic attack of the night, escape to her private bathroom where Iíll supply her with her next does of pills. Iíll force her to eat crackers, maybe three, so that the pills donít tear up her stomach any more than they already have. Celia will fix her make up, covering the black tears with porcelain.
Before she goes back for another round of champagne and plastered smiles, Iíll remind her to kiss Iris goodnight.
Sheíll walk across the marble floor of the hallway to the babyís room, her four-inch spikes clicking. Iíll hear her talking to Iris in a shaky voice, tears forming in her throat. Sheíll tell her the same story that she tells her six nights a week.
She tells Iris the story of her father, never stopping to realize that Iris is still a baby and that, at 14 months, a baby doesnít understand these things. She doesnít understand that her mom sucked down 28 pills and about three bottles of champagne that night. She doesnít understand that her father, whose last name her mother hadnít bothered to get, was probably just as stoned and drunk as her mother was 23 months ago. He just wanted to sleep with someone like her so that he could go back to his bartender job the next night and tell his regulars about his latest conquest with a big screen actress.
Before the story ends with the usual, ďÖand thatís why I named you Iris,Ē I will have entered the room, gathered her so that Celia can fix the black tears again. She would need to make one more appearance.
Iíll feed her two more pills, maybe four, depending on how black the tears are and weíll return to the party.
Her return will be noticed, just as her departure was. Her publicist Ava will try to rattle off a list of appointments she has in the upcoming weeks, but Iíll introduce Ava to some B movie actor whose awkward, cocky flirtations will distract her from her job. Iíll do whatever it takes to get 30 more minutes out of her before the next attack comes.
Iíll see the safe place in the room. It wonít be crowded by anyone but her two friends who we employ to simply be everywhere we are. Besides the pills, they are the only things that keep her from melting.
Her latest co-star and ex-boyfriend will saunter past her, a skinny laughing blond on his arm. From across the room, I see it starting. This time, her friends grab her hands and lead her to the kitchen, giggling at nothing to create a distraction from the black tears.
In the kitchen, Iíll feed her some more pills, probably four because ex-boyfriends always destroy her. Iíll sneak her up the back stairs to the safety of her room, where she will completely collapse.
Kristy Smethwick 2006
Obviously this isn't complete. I need help determining where to go...
Comments 1 to 8 of 8
Comments 1 to 8 of 8