GHOSTWRITER HOLLYWOOD CONFIDENTIAL

Prologue

    Well, the shit has finally hit the proverbial fan. I got an email today from Baby. Mel, her dad, well, Daddy was her dad, but Mel –who is my agent— correction, WAS my agent, the one that raised her, dropped dead of a heart attack. Which is why he didn't come Christmas Day. She's finally started going through his papers. Which eventually, if she hasn't already, means she will start going through my papers.

    Jesus.

    Now she wants to see me. What the hell am I going to do? What the hell should I do? I
want to crawl under the blankets and never come out. Wake up, it's raining and go back to sleep.
Listen to the raindrops hitting the metal roof on the veranda outside. With whisperings of cool air rushing through the door, caressing my mouth hole, floating over my head, so I have to pull up the blankets and leave just a little breathing space that muffles all the sounds. No night. No day. Just dreams.  

    But not the nightmares, no. Not where my hair turns into pink cotton candy reeking of B.O. and burnt sugar that Baby starts to pull out and eat; that starts to melt along with everything else in the bright, shiny hot sun while Daddy just closes his eyes, and I wake up screaming.

    All I want is just me alone in a big soft bed in the dark in the rain. To stay here forever in my make-believe cave. Because even the tiniest movement, just what is required to type is just too much right now. Only stillness and that tiny drip, drip, drip deep down inside in my core. That's all. Just that, is what I can stand.