I try to imagine the man behind these creations. The lost soul who wanders and listens to my music. He tells me to go back to my roots. He asks if my fingers miss the piano, or do I really prefer being a pop princess instead?
I know what he prefers.
His letters all surround my early works. Before Luke got his claws into me and decided it was better for me to appeal to a younger demographic with an ‘edgier’ sound.
The ink had barely dried on my contract when he started changing the rules of the game.
I was caught. Hook, line, and sinker. The only choice I had left was to adapt. It’s on constant replay inside my head.
I’m a fraud.
A phony.
Everything about me is fake, right down to my smile and the new lyrics I sing.
They aren’t my own. Those are private now. For my eyes only.
And this man doesn’t need to remind me of the things I already know.
I fold up the letters and put them out of sight.
My phone won’t stop ringing.
When I draw a bath and climb inside, I imagine a current sweeping me away. One that could pull me backward- when life was still real and possible.
Luke texts me incessantly. Threatening to drop me in one message while apologizing in the next. When that doesn’t work, he reminds me that I’m under contract. He reminds me of the fines he knows I can’t pay if I decide to stop being his puppet.
Inside of my chest, there is a gaping cavity where my heart used to be. And in the place of my lungs is lead.
I have to go back.
I know I have to go back.
And I will.
On Monday.
Chapter Four
She has come home.
Crying.
I replay the tape over and over. Observing carefully the way the droplets splash against her cheeks.
I like her tears.
My mouth waters when they spill down her throat and onto her naked breasts. She feels so sorry for herself, this little beauty.
She doesn’t know the meaning of sorry yet.
My cock is uncomfortably hard and swollen when I retrieve the knife from my pocket. The flat edge presses into my thigh, and I imagine her cheek beneath my blade. I will see her tears again.
The tip of the blade digs into my flesh, and I twist until I am consumed by the pain. Crimson oozes from the wound, and I smear it over my bloody knuckles, shoving my hand into my briefs.
On the live feed, Bella steps from the bath, naked and wet with blotchy red skin from water that is too hot.
She does not reach for a towel. She does not move at all. Her eyes are on her reflection in the mirror.