Chapter 9: Animals
August 2013
Eric slouched down in the back seat of the limo and rubbed his bleary eyes. The ride from the poultry farm back to his hotel would take a little over an hour. He should probably use the time to grab some extra shut-eye, but he had a feeling sleep wouldn't come easy. Not after the hellish day he'd had.
It had started off with so much promise this morning. First Maury had granted him that half-hour reprieve from his workout routine. Then he'd been in such a good mood, setting up the fake Twitter account and taking the selfie.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun. Right up to the moment he hit the Tweet button. That's where things always seemed to go downhill.
Of course, that picture in the bathroom hadn't been the one that really got him in trouble today. His heart had nearly jumped right out of his chest later this afternoon, when Maury came up from behind and thrust a cellphone image into Eric's face.
"You wanna tell me what the hell this is, kid?"
Eric had been sitting in his make-up chair, running through the lines of the chicken nugget jingle as a team of stylists sculpted his messy hair into some semblance of order. He looked down at the picture Maury displayed on the phone, expecting to see his bathroom mirror from that morning, but his eyes fell on a Hollywood Life blog post instead. He'd forgotten about that one. It was from back in LA, a couple weeks ago. The cameraman must have taken his sweet time selling it to the highest bidder.
"That dickwad was asking for it," Eric muttered, looking away.
"What did he do? Did he get up in your face?"
"No, he didn't get in my face, Maury. He tailed me for three hours straight!"
"And?"
One of the hairdressers put a finger on the edge of Eric's jawline to tilt his head to the side. He swatted her hand away in annoyance. "Whatever. I don't want to talk about it."
"So you had a pap following you? That's it?"
"It was my first day off in a month! It's kinda hard to relax when some asshole has a telephoto lens pointed at your face all day long."
"Eric, you can't go around giving reporters the finger."
"Reporters." Eric snorted.
Maury glared. "You will get a reputation for bad behavior. These guys can destroy a career faster than you can say 'cheese' if you get on their bad side."
Eric's ears perked up. "Do you think it'll cause a backlash?"
Maury gave him a playful cuff on the cheek. "Nah, the publicists are spinning it that you were provoked. But you only get one get-out-of-jail free card before--"
"I was provoked!" Eric interrupted. "That guy was stalking me, Maury! I can feel it when they're following me. It makes my fucking skin crawl!"
Maury shook his head. "Paps follow celebrities. How exactly does that come as a surprise to you?"
"I'm just sick of it, that's all. I'm not going to play along anymore--"
"No, Eric. You're not. PR's putting you on a leash until this incident blows over."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you spend your downtime in your hotel room with the curtains drawn. No more gallivanting around town. No more unplanned photo ops."
"What? For how long?"
"Until further notice."
"Maury, that's insane!"
"Maybe think about that next time before you decide to throw a temper tantrum in front of the media, kid. There are consequences."
Consequences. He hadn't thought his daily life could get any bleaker, but it just had. They'd completely stripped him of any freedom he had left. He was kennelled now. Locked away. There wasn't a damned thing he could do about it except jump obediently to their commands and make puppy dog eyes and hope his handlers would someday let him out of the cage.
Not that he took much pleasure these days in leaving his hotel room anyway. Since the story broke last month about the Dorian Cromwell murder, Eric had spent most of his time in public looking over his shoulder. Maury called it paranoia, but how could Eric help it when he was followed everywhere he went? The fans never stopped tapping him on the shoulder, asking for autographs or just trailing him silently with their cellphone videos rolling.
And even when he somehow managed to escape them for a few blissful moments of solitude, then the paps started sniffing around. Ever since his precipitous rise to fame at the age of 17, his entire life had been punctuated by the faint sound of camera shutters clicking in the background.
He felt like a piece of bait on the end of a hook sometimes, dangled by his record label over a pack of ravenous wolves. For now they watched him from below, licking their chops and howling. But it was only a matter of time before one of them ripped his throat out.
Eric buried his head in his hands. He seemed to ricochet back and forth these days between one of two emotional states: gut-churning anxiety over some unseen monster, always lurking half-a-block behind, just outside his line of sight; and then livid anger over his utter powerlessness to break free.
The feeling in the pit of his stomach tonight was something different though. Something even darker. A hopelessness that should have frightened him if he hadn't already exhausted his capacity for fear. Here he sat in his fancy limo, with its tinted windows and heated leather seats - beloved by 14 million followers and counting - and yet to him it felt like prison. Or worse than prison. Like solitary confinement.
Maybe he should call someone, he thought with a heavy sigh. Maybe his parents? He hadn't talked to them all week. Maybe it would help, just to hear familiar voices.
Not that he could tell them how he really felt, deep down. He'd tried to broach the subject in the past, but they never seemed to hear what he was saying. They only saw the glitz and glamour, and the money rolling into the bank. He could almost hear what they would say to him if he tried to call them now: His father's voice, full of laughter. "Champagne problems." That's what he would say. And then his mother would remind him how a good solid 8 hours of sleep always made everything all better in the morning.
Hot tears pricked at Eric's eyes, and he rubbed them away harshly with the backs of his hands. His parents didn't get it. Maury didn't get it. No one got it. Eric could talk until he was blue in the face, but no one ever listened to a single word he said.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at the blackened screen. He should probably call his parents anyway. Call someone. Anyone. It couldn't be healthy just to sit here in silence, licking his wounds.
He flicked the phone on and eyed his list of contacts, but his finger moved to open the twitter app instead. He winced in self-disgust when his eyes landed on the username.
@EricThornSucks
He hadn't bothered to switch it back to his real account when he'd abruptly closed the app this morning. He'd spent all day trying to forget the whole thing, but the memory had remained in the back of his mind through all the interviews and photo-shoots. The surge of anger in his bathroom this morning had overwhelmed all his other senses, and he'd turned it on that girl. Tessa. Just some nobody, some unsuspecting fan who'd taken the brunt of 14-million-followers' worth of pent-up rage. He had no excuse for what he'd said to her. No excuse. Only that he'd reacted like a cornered animal, lashing out at anything that came within its reach.
He should have deactivated the account then and there. What if someone saw it? What if someone ever traced it back to him? Maury didn't like it when he gave some photographer the finger? What would his manager say if the morning's twitter escapade ever came to light?
He should close the account now, he knew. Deactivate. Forget it ever happened.
But his hands kept moving with a will of their own. He couldn't fight the compulsion to see what he had done, one last time. He tapped onto the Messages tab and opened the conversation with @TessaHeartsEric.
Another wave of self-loathing slammed into him as he scrolled to the beginning of the thread and re-read their opening exchange.
There it was.
He'd set the trap. He'd laid the bait. And she'd walked right into it like a lamb to the slaughter.
Taylor: Hey Tessa. Thanks for the follow
Tessa: Hi
Taylor: Hey can I ask you a question?
Tessa: Um OK
Taylor: Do you have a spirit animal?
Tessa: I dunno. A gazelle maybe? Why? Do you?
Taylor: Cuz you know what kind of animal Eric Thorn would see, if he ever noticed you existed?
Tessa: Ummm. I dunno. Not a gazelle? Maybe a chicken? :P
Taylor: A leech.
Tessa: Excuse me?
Taylor: That's right. A nasty, blood-thirsty leech. With no purpose to your miserable, mindless, meaningless existence except to suck.
Taylor: And when he saw you there, sucking, he would shudder with disgust
Taylor: And he would flick you off of himself with the back of his fingernail
Taylor: And then you know what he'd do, Tessa? Then he'd forget you ever existed and go about his day.
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{Banner Image thanks to taellyr}