The lamuring lady, the sacrifical lamb and the woman who was in the newspapers, in large letters claiming to tell her story through art.
You are one of the members of the yellowjackets team, the number twenty three.
However, most people knew you lik...
There wasn't much to it, it wasn't lavish or too eccentric, it was just filled with paint brushes, partitures and broken ballerina shoes on the floor, it was like entering an artist's mind: I made this and it feels, i made this and I have to bare the anger and godhood of creation.
You always thought you were over it, that you were truly healing — until you stared at your paintings and your dance routine and you realized every movement you make, either with your foot or brush, was following the same pattern, the same symbol.
You look at your reflection in the mirror and wonder if being perceived by others is less terrifying than being known as one's own. You wish you could take a vacation from your body and mind as you turn the tv on and scroll the channels, looking for something to make you forget your problems for a bit.
Except it only worsens the problem once you see Taissa on the tv.
You stare at the commercial immobilized, like you were just put on hold.
You feel anger, a deep rotten eager to scream at her.
But again, who were you to complain about Taissa on the tv? You were at the stage almost every week, you relished on the importance of the spotlight's —relished on having the attention, but not being truly seen.
You were nothing but your art, perhaps Tai was the same: nothing but her morals. You would not take that away from her, you had a piece of you stolen once. You wouldn't be the one holding the knife.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
When you are on the stage, you don't feel anything but pure bliss.
To be seen by so many people in awe was almost as good as being looked at by Lottie, you loved it, to remember the sensation of having the sun itself perceiving you — shining just for you.
You loved all kinds of arts, even if you had a degree in biology. You liked to know how the brain feels, not how it works. Besides, Lottie always enjoyed more art than science.
In small moments, where you weren't the center of attention, you would steal glances of the public — you would pretend she was there, cheering you up, calling your name, simply looking at you with that smile of hers.
You would pretend you haven't lost it all when they found you.
Too many thoughts would come to your mind when you were on stage. Today, you were thinking about your blood donations from yesterday, you thought that when being cut with the needle and given to another, the receiving end would feel this new blood boiling with the aching, with the need of being seen.
Will your blood carry your love for Lottie?
Will they bite their own hands and suck every drop of it in hopes of getting out this thirst for an unknown woman?
Your soul ached for hers like an earthquake.
Your eyes tear a bit, would God forgive you for your sins?
You shake your head while spinning, God's forgiveness didn't mattered — only her, only her mattered.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
You heard a new voice once you reached the backstage.
— I'm Jessica Roberts, from Star Ledger, you know?
She got her hand out to you, her eyebrows getting higher. You take her hand. She had a tight grip but soft fingers, not really the type of finger that types so much like she claims she does.
— Not really if I'm being honest.
— Well, we work with stories.
Oh, you see where this is going to go.
— I appreciate your presence, but no. — you needed to get her out of here, so you walked to the door, opening it.
She takes a deep breath, already tired, and you can imagine you're not the first she had seen today.
— Don't you wish to take it all out? Once it's gone, no one will ever bother you anymore.
Or they will bother you more, you think.
— I understand your need for truth, but I don't want that, I want to just bleed —I'm tired of making red paint out of my wounds.
Jessica looks at you puzzled, but she nods and gets out silently. You knew she would come back.
— But hm, thank you for the flowers!
— What flowers? — she frowns and so do you.
You hide it quickly with a smile.
— Nothing, don't worry, have a nice night!
Once she gets away, you turn around, if those flowers weren't hers then who sent you? You didn't have those types of friends and distanced yourself from all your family.
You get close to the pretty bouquet, taking it onto your hand and opening the letter.
