#she'd have spikes of fame followed by barely managing to make it because her fanbase is so small so niche

[lucarus]

                                                  𝟽:𝟸𝟿:𝟶𝟻 𝙿𝙼

When   you   open   your   eyes   you   wonder   if   you’re   going   to   go   blind.   There’s   a   light   that   shines   so   bright   it   hurts   to   pry   apart   your   eyelids.   It   takes   a   second   for   you   to   realize   that   there   is   no   light.   There’s   just   white.   A   white   as   pristine   as   freshly   fallen   snow,   the   type   of   white   you   picture   in   your   head   but   can   never   seem   to   create   with   your   two   hands.   A   white   that   seems   eternal,   like   it’ll   soak   up   anything   that   gets   too   close.   It’s   dangerous   to   feel   so   serene   in   a   place   that   feels   so   hungry   for   your   bones.   

You   don’t   realize   you’re   in   pain   until   you   try   to   stand   up   and   your   body   threatens   to   crumble   underneath   you.   It   feels   like   weights   are   tied   to   every   lower   joint   and   you’ve   never   felt   this   sort   of   ache   that   seeps   into   you.   You’re   fighting   against   quicksand   but   your   feet   are   planted   firm   on   the   ground   below   you.   In   the   battle   against   your   body,   you   find   yourself   wondering   if   death   was   supposed   to   feel   so   painful.   It   takes   you   months   to   remember   that   you   were   aware   of   your   lifelessness   in   that   moment.   A   fleeting   thought,   but   a   conscious   one.   The   dead   are   well   aware   of   when   they’ve   stopped   existing   on   the   plane   of   mortality.   

When   you   look   up,   there’s   nothing   above   you.   The   space   seems   to   blend   into   itself,   and   you   only   come   to   the   conclusion   that   you’re   in   a   hallway   when   your   arm   span   doesn’t   reach   its   full   potential.   Your   fingers   graze   against   the   sides   as   you   slowly   put   one   foot   in   front   of   the   other.   Your   vision   has   begun   to   adjust   so   you   can   make   out   the   slightest   shadow   that   carves   out   the   path   in   front   of   you.

You’re   in   a   maze,   and   it’s   a   daunting   realization.   Like   a   mouse   in   an   experiment,   you   instinctively   look   up   as   if   you’ll   find   your   captor   watching   down   on   you.   There’s   no   profound   disappointment   when   you   don’t.   In   fact,   there’s   a   sense   of   ease.   Like   you   belong   here.   Like   curling   up   in   the   corner   of   this   maze   will   lull   you   into   a   tranquility.   For   a   second,   you   even   humour   the   idea.   Your   knees   knock   against   each   other,   and   you   picture   your   body   sliding   down   the   wall   and   coming   to   a   still.   You’re   not   sure   what   part   of   your   brain   decides   otherwise,   but   you   don’t   give   in   to   the   hypnotizing   urge.   You   continue   forward.

The   first   dead   end.

You   hear   them   say   your   name.   With   the   right   curl   of   their   tongues,   you   hear   Luciana.   The   walls   speak   to   you   and   you   close   your   eyes   because   you   like   hearing   the   way   people   say   it.   Strangers,   people   that   don’t   really   know   you   but   convince   themselves   they   do.   There’s   not   many   of   them,   enough   for   you   to   discern   voices   from   one   another.   You   think   you’d   hold   each   individual   near   and   dear   to   your   heart.

There’s   a   smell   that   wafts   into   your   nose   and   it   makes   your   forehead   crease.   Something’s   burning   and   it   reminds   you   of   the   cheap   salami   you   had   to   live   off   of   during   your   student   years.   It   brings   back   memories   of   barely   making   ends   meet   and   you   wrap   your   arms   around   your   middle   in   discomfort.   A   life   you   had   tried   to   leave   behind   with   the   promise   of   fame   and   fortune   creeps   back   into   your   senses.   The   voices   come   and   go   like   waves   washing   up   on   a   shore.   They’re   loud   all   at   once,   they   applaud,   they   jeer   and   then   they   disappear   and   that   smell   comes   back.   

The   lump   in   the   back   of   your   throat   spills   down   your   cheeks   as   tears.   A   vicious   cycle   of   recognition   and   the   consequences   of   fifteen   minutes   of   fame   dawn   on   you.   You   stumble   backwards   as   the   voices   come   to   a   stop.   They   don’t   return   this   time,   and   that   feeling   of   sudden   fatigue   threatens   to   swallow   you   whole.   

The   second   dead   end.

This   time   there’s   more   of   them.   The   voices   are   so   loud   they   ring   in   your   ear   drums.   This   time   they   call   you   Lucy,   some   call   you   Lulu,   but   none   of   them   say   Luciana.   They   won’t   shut   up   and   you   try   to   place   your   hands   over   your   ears   but   it   only   makes   it   worse.   You   take   a   deep   breath   in,   the   way   you   do   before   stepping   out   of   a   car   and   onto   a   red   carpet.   You   brace   yourself.   You   put   on   a   smile   as   if   you’re   actually   addressing   a   crowd   you   can’t   see,   but   there’s   a   sinking   feeling   in   the   pit   of   your   stomach.   You   want   to   crawl   out   of   your   skin,   and   before   you   can   stop   yourself   you   feel   your   nails   clawing   at   your   own   arms.

What   scares   you   more   is   that   there’s   no   voice   in   the   back   of   your   head   telling   you   to   stop.   They   don’t   stop   crying   out   your   name   with   joy   and   enthusiasm,   and   you   can’t   stop   wanting   to   shed   the   face   you’re   wearing.   It’s   not   yours.   You   don’t   recognize   yourself   in   the   mirror.   And   you   won’t   recognize   yourself   in   your   own   casket.

So   you   run.

The   third   dead   end.

This   one’s   all   too   familiar.   Maybe   because   your   routine   is   always   the   same,   it’s   hard   to   pry   one   event   from   the   other   when   you   follow   the   same   steps.

You   hear   the   roll   of   tires   against   the   road   and   it’s   like   you   can   feel   the   silk      draped   across   your   skin.   You   hear   yourself   shuffle   to   find   the   compact   in   the   purse   you   brought   with   you   and   your   driver   asks   if   you’re   okay.   You   hear   his   voice,   gruff,   he   always   sounds   like   he   has   a   sore   throat.   You   offer   him   a   grin   that   he   catches   in   the   rearview   mirror   and   sends   you   one   back.   You   experience   the   bliss   of   not   having   a   care   in   the   world   as   you   fish   around   your   purse.   Chopin   plays   on   the   speakers,   and   you’re   mildly   embarrassed   that   it’s   the   only   thing   that   keeps   you   calm   before   a   big   party.   You’ve   never   understood   why,   the   piano   wasn’t   even   your   favourite   instrument.   You   much   prefer   a   violin.

Suddenly   your   head   feels   like   it’ll   burst.   Your   heart   is   racing   and   you   reach   up   into   hair   that   you   expect   to   come   out   bloodied   and   matted,   but   your   fingers   come   clean.   Your   hand   shakes   in   front   of   you,   and   you’re   not   sure   what   happened.

Somewhere   in   the   distance   you   hear   the   faint   sound   of   sirens   approaching.   The   world   is   still   spinning   and   you   have   to   keep   your   hand   against   the   wall   to   remind   yourself   that   you’re   still   here.   You   hear   the   static   of   a   police   radio   somewhere   near   your   left   ear.   You   can’t   hear   anything   out   of   your   right.   You   shudder   when   you   feel   a   finger   against   the   side   of   your   neck,   their   pulse   beats   against   your   skin.   Yours   isn’t   there.   The   police   report’s   a   car   crash,   and   you   think   you’ve   heard   enough.   So   you   continue   in   your   search   for   an   exit.

The   fourth   dead   end.

You   stop   and   stare   at   it   from   a   distance.   There’s   nothing   menacing   about   the   way   it   hangs.   

As   you   draw   closer,   you   think   you   can   hear   it   speaking   to   you.   Whispers   that   curve   around   the   shell   of   your   ear   as   your   arm   reaches   out   to   it.   Your   chest   heaves   as   your   heart   pounds,   and   fear   seems   to   take   control.   Your   thoughts   don’t   run   in   a   straight   line   and   you   feel   like   the   only   way   to   stop   the   world   from   spinning   around   you   is   grab   onto   the   rope.   For   stability.   For   closure.   Tied   tight,   you   clutch   onto   its   circular   form   and   you   find   everything   coming   to   a   still   again.   

You   wonder   if   your   head   will   fit.

                                                 𝟽:𝟻𝟼:𝟸𝟹 𝙿𝙼

You   wake   up.