Note: Keep reading, even if you think you've read it before. It changes. We'll review it all afterward.
Okay. Onward.
EMERAY
When I was younger, and unaware of the world's cruel capabilities, I never thought I'd get used to being hated. Hate is never something you anticipate having to consistently face in your everyday life. It's not something vitally present in your thoughts when you're learning how to walk, to talk, to eat without someone there holding the spoon to your lips. Hate isn't something you hope for when you're walking into class on your first ever day of school.
When you're young, really young, all you know is the color of your parents' eyes when they look at you, and the wallpaper in your room, and the glint of your spit on chewed-up train sets. You only see hate in unpleasant little glimpses. Slight arguments. Tiny disagreements. A scolding or two.
But sooner or later it hits. Hate is a most unwelcome gift on the birthday you never really wanted nor asked for. The thing is, you don't always remember the first day you really knew somebody hated you. We as humans tend to block it out of our minds or let time take it away for us. Regardless, every year that fatal day passes you by, as casual as the notions that slip from your memory when you fall asleep at night. It is a birthday nobody celebrates, the day you first were hated.
It exists nonetheless.
Somewhere in my first or second year of attending school, I started believing that my real birthday and this awful one had likely both come on the same day, within the same establishing moment. The doctors and nurses must've hated me the moment I came into existence––the moment they saw my eyes and realized they were supposed to be brown, not that unnatural, icy blue. My family, despite their best efforts to hide it, must've hated me too as I grew from an infant and my completely incorrect dark hair began to grow in with me. There I was––something I shouldn't have been. Something to be hated.
They should've told me right then, before I went to school, instead of patching up some kindness to me when they changed my diapers. Some emotions are better being first displayed in a safer setting than out in the big bad world, and hatred is definitely one of them. Maybe if I'd been better prepared, I would've had a better response to the hatred I received almost immediately when I stepped out into the world.
A younger Carstan van Horne waited no time to show me his own hatred. In fact, I'm almost positive his first words to me were, "Freak, I hate you," without a second's hesitation. And the moment we were dismissed to recess he took his gang of littler boys and he had them each take a turn pushing me into the wood chips on the playground. All the while he stood by, watching and repeating again and again that I was an abomination. I was crying and bleeding and asking him over and over, "What is an abomination?" But he wouldn't tell me. He just shook his head at my whimpering and told me it was better I didn't know what I was, just like everyone else didn't.
I would've liked to have known hate before Carstan van Horne hated me. Maybe I would've been stronger. Maybe I would've handled it better.
But nobody told me, flat-out, until he did. And every single day since then he put it in his schedule––blocked off a couple minutes in even the busiest of afternoons to showcase this immense hatred he had for me in any convenient way he could find.
It happened so frequently that I became used to it. I had to get used to it. Soon enough I expected hatred from everyone I met, because they all showed that same shocked face, and those same curt responses, and that same pressing thing they needed to get to that made them have to walk away from me so quickly. I grew to presume a person hated me by default, and that this presumption would never waver for a moment, no matter what I did or how kind I was to them. There was no need for me to try to make someone like me, because they'd never want to be seen with the different girl. My own siblings didn't even want to be seen with me––how could I expect that from somebody who wasn't so unfortunate as to share my last name?
When I joined the Famoux, a part of me thought my struggles with hatred were over. Must've just been silly, naive Emilee, thinking and hoping for solace in a group of which everybody she'd lived around loathed with unwavering passion. And that's the thing that DEFED made me realize––that even when we're trying our best, and people adore us for it, there are still going to be thousands of angry people who don't want to follow the status quo. As long as there's something a lot of people are getting excited about, there are always going to be people who reject it. I think of it this way: If Carstan had been beating me up while raving to his friends about how amazing the Famoux are, I'd hate the Famoux at once. It all really depends on what spokesperson you're hearing from when you're learning about the cause.
As much as I know all this, I have to admit, it's quite easy for Emeray Essence to start believing the whole world loves her. I mean, after living with so much hate, love is addictive. Crowds look to me delightfully in unison, like a grand waltz between me and the world. They smile, shout my name, hold their hands out to touch me if I'd be so willing to reach out and make contact. Nobody is ever trying to throw a punch at me. Nobody is ever trying to ruin my day with a glare––and if they are, there are far too many adoring faces to even notice.
For as much as things go bad, things go exceptionally well for Emeray Essence. When Emilee was born, she was born to be hated in her very nature of being.
But Emeray was born to be loved.
And loved, she is.
Three months have passed since we lost Foster, and the world is undeniably on edge. He was an irreplaceable part of the Famoux––the part that kept everything cheerier, and brighter, and sunnier in any sort of raincloud we faced. There was no man who could make you smile like he could––no member who could match the personality he embodied to the very end.
The people haven't stopped mourning about to this day.
It's been the worst for the members and I. Three months, and the scabs haven't healed yet; the scars haven't surfaced. We keep picking at our wounds day by day until they start bleeding again and become scabs once more. It's never ending.
The others are much better at bandaging themselves. Over these months I've watched them as they go, one by one, wrapping the gauze around their arms and legs and brains like everything is fine. But me . . . all I know is exist, and be wounded. Find newer ways to be wounded. And as the others put on a brave face like Norax suggested, I stumble and trip and scrape myself up every time I step out in public, Cartney on my arm.
In my life, I have always lost people I never expected to. It makes me sick to admit it, but when we went into the Fishbowl I'd already briefed myself with ways to deal with Kaytee or Race. It seemed so evident that it'd be either of them––after everything that happened with Cartney, and how the people reacted to it. I am a hundred percent positive that DEFED wasn't looking at the Volx's results when they killed Foster Farrand. For reasons that escape me, they did it on purpose, and I ended up losing someone I thought was secure.
Just like when I lost my mom.
The shock of it all has been hard on me. I've even reverted to a past state––one I used to wear before I donned this new face and name. Like Emilee, I can't fall asleep anymore like I used to. At first, there was simply too much to think of, too many things to consider, too many nightmares of the Fishbowl to keep me up for centuries.
When I realized how I was being, I tried to shake myself out of it. I told myself again and again how there was nothing I could do to reverse that night. There came a moment when I had to look into the mirror and tell myself that nothing was going to change, that he was as gone as my mom was, and I had to know better now––better than Emilee Parvenu ever believed she knew about loss.
I thought accepting that would give me less to think about; would give me enough solace to sleep through the night. And yet, to this day I still can't find peace in sleeping. Whenever I close my eyes, everything falls on me at once. The visions return. I see him slumped over the table all over again, blood everywhere.
The blood, the bullets, the pieces of glass in his ruffled blonde hair.
It's unbearable.
"You have to get better," Till told me once in the hallway. I'd just come back from another breakdown during my walk with Cartney. They were apparently getting too frequent. "You at least have to stop wearing black. We're all mourning, Emeray, believe me. But the public won't move on until all of us do."
In comparison to the pathetic mess I became, I expected the public to greet the other members, bandaged-up and kicking on as they are, with as much warmth and sympathy as visitors at a hospital. I expected them to be greeted with the flowers, the sad smiles, the cards filled with kindness. But it seems to me like their gauze was tinted too well to their skin, and it seems to me like everyone began to assume they were being too okay far too soon for their tastes. And as it turns out, Till had it wrong. The Famoux actually don't decide when it's time to move on.
The public does.
When the other members' schedules started to pick up, people started to get mad, and they started banding together in their anger. Kaytee sang just the slightest hint off-key at a small event for a group of music critics, and the tabloids absolutely ripped her apart for it. It circulated across the world as her Worst Performance Ever, paired with deprecating articles calling her the monster who cheated on Cartney Kirk. Absolutely harsh, but in some eyes, absolutely necessary. In fact, Cartney tells me that this moniker isn't much of a surprise. He's found out from the last couple years that people need a monster to spar when they're sad or bored, and that the best monsters are the ones they make themselves. Paintings are pretty and all, he tells me, but you're only proud if you painted it.
And so, if the four Famoux members who moved on too soon were dubbed as monsters, they were slowly but surely meeting their makers.
When Race didn't want to greet a few fans clustered outside the building he was entering, because he was too busy, people everywhere panicked and called him heartless. There those fans were, offering their sympathy, and he stomped all over it as he went by.
It doesn't stop there, either. At a vigil for Foster a month or two after the Darkening, someone managed to get a video of Race and Till laughing together, and it's no surprise that the world went ballistic. Perish the thought that they might be remembering something nice about Foster––no, in the public's eyes this as a disgusting display of disrespect. A disgraceful lack of reverence for their late friend.
Norax panicked at all the bad press that was circulating. The Famoux moving on was supposed to be the next logical step in the mourning process. First sadness, then acceptance. After things moved on so quickly with Bree, it felt like a no brainer. She called a meeting to discuss what went wrong.
"Maybe it would've actually worked if the whole Famoux moved on from it in unison. You know, like we planned to," said Race. His gaze settled in the direction of Chapter and I, hardening into a glare.
"Hey," said Chapter, putting up his hands. "We've all been through this with Bree, but this is Sticks' first time grieving in public. Give her a break."
"I'm not just talking about her, you jerk."
"You think I didn't go out there and do exactly what you did?" he asks. "C'mon, Race. I moved on just as much as you did. More, probably."
Kaytee slammed her fist on the dinner table, her voice loud and breaking. "Well, why didn't they attack you about it too then? Huh? WHY?"
He didn't say a word at that. She got him.
The only person who is, for the most part, immune to all the hatred is Chapter. He might've stopped breaking down about Foster, and he might've started smiling again like the others did, but his hold on the public is undeniable. If he were to ignore fans while walking into a building, the fans would likely apologize for being too pushy. If he were to act below his average performance, the critics would blame the director or the cameraman for not working with him well enough. If he was caught laughing at a vigil, maybe everyone would've understood he was remembering something wonderful about Foster. They most likely would've hounded him with their microphones and compelled him to tell the story.
When they look at Chapter as he walks down the street, they don't just see someone who's carrying on like everything's fine and dandy. They see the details, and they consider them with more scrutiny than they lend to Kaytee, or Till, or Race. They notice how Chapter's face is strained, or how there are bags under his eyes they've never seen before. They acknowledge how tired he must be, and they commend him for putting on a brave face.
The public gives him a free pass.
"This is bullshit." Race paced down the room, his fists clenching together. "How can things go so well for you all the time?"
"Don't be this way, man," Chapter warned. "It's not a competition between all of us anymore. DEFED isn't here to make us––"
"Are you kidding me? This has always been a competition, Chapter!"
Chapter's face changed as the words rang through the air. He looked at Kaytee and Till, but they were both looking down at their hands, avoiding him.
"That's not true," he insisted.
"Oh, but it has," Race continued. "Even when Bree was here and alive it was always a competition. You've just never noticed it before because you're always winning it."
The meeting ended shortly thereafter.
As far as we're concerned, DEFED is gone, but the stagnant animosity they brought to the surface is still bubbling low and steady, right below our feet. I feel it rumbling whenever we're all gathered in one place, the five of us. Chapter, Till, Kaytee, Race, and I.
I know Foster would've wanted us to stick together for his sake. But we don't.
We fall apart.
Lucky for me, the public hasn't cast any judgement on my actions as of late. I've done my grieving good and well for their standards, and nowadays I'm still wearing black on my walks with Cartney. These walks, too, occur daily. Cartney comes to the Metropolix with a bouquet of flowers, I go outside to accept them, and we stroll along the block with paparazzi and fans at our heels.
The people live for it. Our walks are being called the only thing that makes Delicatum smile in a world without Foster Farrand. Ever since Kaytee and Race were painted to be the villains in that nasty cheating scandal before the Darkening, all of the magazines have hailed Cartney and I to be a beacon of hope––an indication that some good can come from even the most disgusting of situations.
And as the months have gone by, the public has begun to love us together more than they ever loved their once unstoppable couple, Cartney and Kaytee.
Cartney and Emeray are just so honest, they say. There's something about them that's so much realer than other relationships.
If only they knew.
With the rest of the Famoux in mostly poor shape, the only company I'm advised to be keeping is Cartney's. Buchan and Norax agreed I can no longer contact Marlon York anymore after he so suddenly left the Buchan record label, and other than him I don't have too many friends outside the Famoux.
And so, with the exception of Cartney, I'm all alone.
Every single day I can't seem to ignore the crippling thought of how if Foster were here, he would've been with me. He was always so good to be with.
Months ago I'm sure all of the positivity I'm getting with the public would have been music to my ears. Nowadays, it fills me with lead. I never see the other Famoux members anymore, and when I do, they look at me like I'm leading them to a guillotine. I want to shout at them how DEFED isn't here anymore—how the Volx doesn't show up when we sit in the Analytix like it used to. But Race said it himself: The competition is always there. It's not so much to be loved by thousands, it's being loved by all, (or at least loved more than everyone else) that drives you to keep taking up roles and getting up in the morning. The competition persists with or without a life on the line.
It drives me crazy, and yet, I still go out there on those walks, and I still wear black, even though I know it's time to move on from it.
It drives me crazy, and yet, I never find myself wishing that I was hated so that the other members would love me.
Underneath everything still lies that part of me that's been hated all my life, and that part of me feels a deep sense of satisfaction when I get back and listen to my raving reviews on the Analytix. Emilee Parvenu never won in the competition of life back then.
But Emeray Essence is always a contender.
I'm sure the other members went through this phase once or twice when they were starting out. I'm sure they all felt at one time or another that they were invincible. Knowing how fleeting this public adoration truly is is the driving force that keeps me going.
If I have learned anything from the hatred I felt from Carstan and the sporadic hatred of the fans, it is that hate is like a trainwreck. Once the car has started teetering off course, it becomes near impossible to stop it without some destruction along the way. When we make even the slightest diversion, there are no pliable means of extinguishing the hatred that thousands, no, millions of Famoux fans may have in store for each one of us. There is no amount of words that can stop a moving train on its way to crashing and burning. Words, I've found, don't always have that kind of healing power.
But throw a couple sticks, place a couple stones on those once fresh, glistening tracks and you've only got enough leverage to create turbulence. Slow things down. Maybe even fool people into thinking things might be stopping. But turbulence doesn't help you hit the breaks any. The train keeps moving on, break-less, until it become an unstoppable force.
And an unstoppable force's screeching crash of halt is never all too pleasing.
The best any of us can do, with all the rumors and lies and tension between the Famoux and the world, is to live on through the stoning. We can only lift up our chins and remind ourselves how we must be elevated to some degree if there are people out there who are trying to knock us down.
Nowadays I reckon that the longer I can postpone the evident crash ending of my celebrity life, the better for me. It shouldn't be too hard. Pretending to be in love with Cartney all day might be insufferable at times, but even before all this I was used to suffering through life. And this time around there are things that are worth the work. This time, I have people who I care about. I have people to be concerned over. I have people concerned about me.
For the past three months, Cartney's is the hand I've had to hold, and patience is the action I've had to practice. Every day is a new opportunity to crash completely, yet every day I manage escape the inescapable fate. I wouldn't exactly call it a win, but it's the best prize I've been given.
For a while, we dissolve this way. Slip right into the routine. Get up, take a deep breath, brace the turbulence.
And then, abrupt like a train crash––
Everything changes.
xxx
Welcome back.
To review: Kaytee, Race, and Till moved on from Foster too fast and people responded negatively to it. Chapter moved on, but people love him enough that they've made excuses for him. Emeray is having a hard little time and the people adore her for it.
What was changed from the first preface: People love Emeray. I don't know why I even started the book with people hating her in the first place. I mean, that's just ridiculous. She was at the top of the Volx before the Darkening! People like her relationship with Cartney! That's all part of the pain of her circumstances! GOD, PAST ME. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?!?!
Okay. Onward. Let's get a radically new chapter one, shall we?
Sticks and Stones may break your bones, but haters make you famoux. Stay classy, stay classix.