Prodigy

Meeting Him

The morning sun dawned against the green grassy horizon of the Brown Estate. The warming rays of the star wiggled it's way into the large, almost gigantic, master bedroom and fell against Chris's flawless face. He stirred, eyes closed he blindly reached with his left hand to hurriedly snatch up a handful of his thick deep red satin bed spread and pull it over his face. With a weary yet content sigh, the famous rhythm and blues singer fell back into his slumber. And for a moment, all was calm and still. But only for a moment. The loud cackle of Chris's home phone cried out from the receiver. He groaned even louder with his frustrations growing and the idea of sleeping in late slipping through his long somewhat muscular fingers. He propped himself up on his inked elbows and pulled his body back to sit up in his massive size bed. He leaned his back against the extravagant carved wooden headboard and tilted his torso over to the right to grab the phone off the hook.

"Hello?" His exhausted voice croaked, sleep and the lack of drenched deep into his voice.

"Oh good morning to you too, Christopher!" A perky male voice chirped back to him. His voice ranged in the musician's head, making him a little woozy. In his state of half consciousness he forgot to roll his dark chocolate eyes to the mention of his real first name.

"What do you want, Jeff?" Sleep dripped off his words. Honestly, his manager was one of the most annoying people he has ever had the displeasure of knowing. He has had it on his secret mental agenda to fire the man for over a decade, but still hasn't done it yet.

What can he say? He's a lazy rich celebrity who is used to assigning people to complete tasks such as these for him. Nothing more and certainly nothing less.

"I want you to come into the studio today." That's an odd request, the young singer isn't scheduled to come in for a recording this month?

"For what?" He groaned loudly and impatiently. After all his precious sleep had been abruptly interrupted and hauled because of this random call.

"A surprise!" The chipper male exclaimed into the phone.

Chris signed. He already knew the answer to this but what's the harm in asking? "Do I have to?" He asked the question somewhat timidly and quietly.

"Certainly do! See ya in.. Ooo.." He dragged on the 'o's for a timespan of a few seconds, "let's say.. Hmm,, three hours?"

"Fine okay.. What time is it?"

"Oh uh.. 6:15 why-"

"Your ass woke me up at 6:25 in the fucking morning!?" Chris angrily exclaimed as he is prone to do, has a fiery tempter after all.

Jeff only laughed at his famous client. "See you soon!" He chirped, ending the phone call.

Chris slammed the phone down on the hook and plopped his back flat against his plush bed. He let out a groan and took a deep breath, rubbing his face. Minutes passed as he stared up at his high ceiling blankly, his body appearing to struggle to muster up the strength needed to get his lazy ass out of the bed. Finally ten full minutes later, he rose and hopped down to his hardwood floors, barefoot. As he stood, his grey and blue plaid pj bottoms fell around his ankles and the tops of his feet. Then at the pace of a speeding turtle, he was off and headed for his master bathroom.

Two tattooed hands came to plant themselves on top a marble countertop as their owner peered into the large mirror encased in an elegant golden frame and installed into the creamy little beige wall. He looked at he was, miserable. Miserable, sad, depressed most likely the better term as the saddens has stuck with him for at least five years currently, just an utter hollow shell of his former self in every since of the word imaginable. He didn't even know how it had got that bad, this bad. You'd think a man who has completed all his dreams before the age of thirty would be happy. Well one would think. It's hard to be happy when you can not be yourself.