Where Stars go to Die

VI. Oakwood Apartments

         Billie Holiday spun on my record player. Somehow the crackle of the vinyl soothe me; it gave me hope that one day artists will sing, not for profit, but for the love of song; the dream that one day fans will actually want lyrics over synthetic, soulless beats and substance over repetitive melodies. I love records because you can see the physical music; it is there, on the disc. No other music medium allows you to see music waves, captured and strung around, spinning in circles, like life.

            So there I was, flat against the ground, staring at the ceiling  with Billie Holiday playing, on full blast, in my lonely and worthless little apartment at the Oakwood complex. I was still in agony from my beating the other day and to make matters worse, my meds had just run out and the waves of pain began to crush me relentlessly. I was still hurt in so many ways; my heart had been battered, along with my face. All I could do was glare at the ceiling, in misery; even the most beautiful and melodic of records couldn’t ease my mind or numb my pain. 

            All I could think was how important it was to get Claire out of this place. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but I also knew that it had to be done. She has grown quite accustomed to life here, with these narcissistic parties of celebutantes and entourages, parading around, imitating people of great importance, showing off their tasteless thoughts and pretentious ideas. These Hollywood believers will list-off names and connections from far off places even if they have never met. They all have their masks, their façades, and their lies. The popular culture exploits the social order and society’s norms, when sex is given away and every drug provided for a small fee. It is a microcosm of their fantasies, recreating what they hear, and see on TV, or read in the latest issue of the Cosmopolitan Magazine. Being a part of that theatrical chaos nearly killed me; I have seen so many lost souls, just trying to be found; instead of finding themselves, they look to the crowd and the crowd watches Hollywood. I know Claire loves it; she lives for it, but she doesn’t realize, most of those poor souls will die, alone with their vices. After she puts in her few hours serving coffee she’ll rush home and begin her routine, spending hours to get ready just to be seen, as something she’s not; she thinks this is her way, her path to the stage. But I know that it’s not; the people and this place are holding her back. I brought her here and it was my obligation to save her from this enchanting hell.

            Hours later Claire and her beautiful flowing blonde hair walked in; Goosebumps rose on my arms. I knew I had to tell her; I had to say anything to convince her that we should pack our few things and run, run far away from this place. Hell, we could even stay in the city, just not here, not at the Oakwood.

            “Hello Claire, how was work?”

            “Good,” she replied with a slight sigh and an offsetting look in her eye.

            “Is something bothering you? I would like to talk,” I said. She looked confused, as if wanting to have a serious talk was crazy since we’d drifted so far, so far that now communication only existed through distant looks and glairs, texts and emails, which replaced our everyday intimate conversations and phone calls. We were drifting further apart, I saw it in that awkward look in her eye, that confused face. My universe is in upheaval; there is a civil war occurring inside her, and I was on the losing side.

            “I have a party to go to; some big shot producer is supposed to be there. You’re welcomed to come if you want; we can talk there.” She smiled and sipped her wine ever so gracefully as she walked into her room.