Colours (What Only I Can Offer)

There was screaming. Waves of unbridled adoration from a crowd of youthful faces. 

Ivana. Ivana. Ivana.

The name rose like a symphony amongst the people, while she and I basked in the glow of spotlights. Vibrant pinks and purples blended, dazzled the stage and the pop icon herself as she sang to her heart’s content. Overshadowed the heavy cheers flooding the stadium. Cheers meant and made for her. Hours upon hours passed of jaw-dropping melodies, pop songs transitioning to ballads, silence to applause. Then she would rile the crowd once more. Are you ready for this? She cried out. Her fans hollered back, and she glimmered in the limelight as she began her next number.

I was there with her the whole time. The one who amplified that voice of hers. Who lit it up and perfected it.

Ivana Vera was a glory. News stations confirmed it on the screen of the television in her dressing room. She was beautiful, and that beauty shined in her pink-painted smile, in the kisses she blew to her fans as she held me at her side. It shined in the pink star logo imprinted on my body, the same logo she scribbled on the posters, notepads, and special edition CDs her fans would give her to autograph. The way she glowed when around those who cheered for her, supported her, was a sight to behold. The crowd brightened her life, and she returned that light in her gleaming pink presence. 

Ivana Vera served as a beacon of hope to young girls everywhere. Her voice a flare she offered me in singing so I would set it off for the world. 

I helped her, and I loved her. 

But the air shifted when we found ourselves alone. When the crowd dispersed and the lights faded. When Ivana was left with me and her thoughts. The atmosphere grew stiffer upon entering her dressing room. 

“God fucking damn it.” The curse from her lips wasn’t new, but still jarring compared to the purity and elegance she displayed on stage. That smile of hers died, butchered into a scowl as she slammed the door shut. The only light from the room came from the bulbs on her mirror and the faint glow of my star, which warm light revealed had a chip. A scratch off my body accompanied by other rough marks. “When will they shut up?”

She held me tight as if release would be her death sentence. A weighing, but I was more than okay with it. With being by her side when she needed me most. During times such as this.

Ivana muttered to herself as she stormed across the room. “My throat’s sore. My head fucking hurts.” I fell onto the plush cushions of her couch when she finally let go of me. 

Other equipment was nestled in the corner of the dressing room. Spare speakers, twisted cables, and extra microphones if I ever stopped working. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. That was assured in the way Ivana carried me wherever she went. Decided that I, above everything else, had the luxury of hanging at her hip and perfecting her voice. 

She grabbed a water bottle from the end table, popped the cap off and took a swig. Sighed. “This has been such a shit day.”

These moments were difficult. Ivana carried misery when she didn’t deserve it. The weight made her slump in her chair as she peeled off her peach leather jacket, tossing it aside so it landed beside me. Underneath was a black tank top, which very well complimented her outfit, but it didn’t fit Ivana. The darkness. 

Her muttering continued, words unidentifiable. A few conceivable phrases, most common sayings of hers such as let me die and kill me. Harrowing thoughts leaving her mouth in careless murmurs. So nonchalant while she straightened herself to apply makeup. 

The click of a cap. Ivana swiped pink liner along the base of her eyes, puffed on powder and rosied her cheeks. Ivana Vera was beautiful even when she chose not to smile. even when exhaustion radiated off of her, tugged at now dull eyes with dark bags coated in foundation.  

A knock at the door tensed her shoulders. “What?” She spoke flatly, saving her voice’s melody for her time on stage. 

“It’s Eric. Can I come in?”

“Knock yourself out.”

The door flew open, a man with a clipboard waltzing in as if he owned the place. His grin was immediately recognizable, that and the brown hair curling over his forehead; The tan skin it fell on. Eric. Ivana despised him.

“That show was spectacular, Ivy. One of your best so far.” His voice was as smooth as his smile, radiating confidence.

“Mmhm.” Was the only response Ivana granted him. She kept her attention on the mirror, putting on an extra thick layer of watermelon lipstick. Her hand moved stiffly, hardened in irritation by the man’s presence.

“Just wanted to check in. We’ll see you downstairs for the fan meet-and-greet in ten?”

The meet-and-greets. Ivana’s bright smiles. The shining pink logo she markered onto her fans’ priceless relics. She radiated most when amongst the crowd, glittering and gleaming as she made their lives absolutely perfect. Even for a single moment. Those events were the highlights next to the actual performances. I got to see Ivana at her fullest beaty. My help unneeded.

Ivana, however, lacked the expected excitement. She paused, a mascara stick hovering over her eye. Her head turned to the side slightly, as if to look back at Eric, but her eyes remained forward. “What?”

“You know. Giving autographs to the fans? Taking selfies? I spoke to you about it a week ago and you said to book it.”

“I don’t remember doing that.” She spoke plainly. Ivana did do it, however. The moment was clear, the shrug in her shoulders, the laxness in her posture as she gave a quick sure thing one week ago.

“Well, I have it here in print. And it’s booked.”

“What makes you think I want to do that?” Ivana spun around in her chair, a glower in the blue of her eyes, gaze pointed at Eric. She crossed lean arms over her chest, reclined into the back of her chair. 

“It’ll take twenty minutes or so.”

“Pass.”

Eric’s grin fell into a thin line. Sincere confusion. “Well, you can’t miss this, Ivy.”

His words made Ivana stand from her chair. Her glare deepened and her frown furthered. A scoff. “Get off my back, Eric. The show was tiring enough, and it’s just some dumb meet-up.” While she spoke, Ivana reached down for me, lifted me and clasped me tightly. She needed support. The support only I could offer. 

But it was strange. In Ivana’s hand, Eric’s grasp on his clipboard became more apparent. The looseness of it. The lack of need. “It’s very well important to the fans,” he said, maintaining the smoothness in his tone. “And they’re the ones paying.”

“The fans aren’t singing their asses off. I don’t want to deal with it.” Ivana’s hold on me tightened more. Easily irritated. That returning death grip. 

“Look– do you think I want to deal with your attitude?”

“Can you shut up?” In her heat of rage, Ivana’s hand would’ve been enough to burn. She lifted her arm, held me firm, then loosened it all too soon. I was in the air.

. . . 

Then I made impact.

I hit sturdy plastic with a bang, another scratch to add to the ones covering my body. I tumbled in thumps – one - two -  three - like the sound of a hollow drum – before landing in a dense pile of junk indistinguishable in the pitch black. 

The garbage can was dark. Nothing aside from the faint glow of my logo. I was still, as that was all I could be. All I could be as the muffled voices rose outside. 

Screaming.

“Hey! Those mics are expensive! You know we’re gonna have to pay good money to replace that if–”

“I said shut it, Eric! My head’s a fucking bitch to deal with any of this!”

“The fans are waiting on this thing, Ivy. You promised–”

“You think I want to be harassed right now? From you or from some dumbass brats?”

“They love you.” The sound faded at Eric’s words. Silence.

Ivana’s truth was that, despite her radiance around them, she didn’t like her fans. I knew that. The workers like Eric knew that. But the whole thing was depressing. There’d never been as much sparkle in anything as there was in the eyes of little girls watching such a perfect singer. Idolization at its fullest, admiration at its finest. I knew that feeling well, even though their love for her couldn’t quite match mine. But I didn’t think anything could match mine. It was still beautiful nonetheless; Their tiny love for her.

It didn’t match mine because none of the fans or her workers were me. Another part of Ivana’s whole. An extension of her. Wherever she went, I went, and wherever I was, she would be. What everyone didn’t know about Ivana – what I understood – was that she was scared of her flaws. Shattering and splintering, being scratched and ruined. Perfection was what she needed, what kept her going, kept her singing and kept her shining even when it seemed so dark behind closed curtains. Perfection from her coats of makeup and glimmering smiles.

But Ivana, as much as she couldn’t admit it to herself, was flawed. Imperfect. Her smile faltered, her makeup ran, and her voice cracked. Her light wasn’t as illuminating as most assumed.

She made up for it by surrounding herself in pink. Pink eyeshadow, nails, the very star I wore – the one colour that gave her that sense of perfection. Of brightness she otherwise lacked. It was my duty to provide for her that luster as well. To be her loyal companion. To light her up when she sang from her heart. And the very thing that most of her fans and workers didn’t understand like I did, was that when she sang, she was allowed that one moment of rawness. That moment of imperfection and being flawed. Her words shattered like glass, voice a distorted harmony that my waves perfected.

That was Ivana’s truth. Our truth. Her truth was that she didn’t like herself. 

“You have ten minutes, but then we need you to come out and give the fans what they paid for.”

“Suck a dick, Eric.”

The door slammed shut, leaving behind a consuming silence. I waited. I waited, and I waited before a deep sigh came from outside the garbage can. Footsteps, then the lid lifted. Light poured into my bed of crumpled paper, plastic cups and candy wrappers, darkened by the shadow of a hand reaching in.

Ivana’s nails were coloured a glittering pink as she picked me out of that lonely, familiar place. Pink was her colour, the colour I wore for her. A symbol of love, most commonly.

I’ve often wondered: How did one describe love? Ivana watched romance movies in her free time, mocked the fake displays of affection between actors. They were all performances. She knew that, and I did too. I would sit next to her on the table, and Ivana’s laugh would fill the air in its usual mesmerizing fashion. 

I loved Ivana’s laugh. I loved her voice. I loved when I could perfect it. 

Was that love? Perfecting someone?

She picked me up. Dusted off the dirt and crumbs gathered on my body, a glint in her eyes like regret. Regret. Love was regret?

She laid me on her dresser, sifting a hand through blonde hair as a sigh crept past her lips. “God damn it. . .” She muttered to herself. Spoke to me, unaware. “What am I gonna do?”

If I could give her an answer, I would’ve. All I wanted was to continue helping Ivana. I was the only one who could, who understood the way she thought, acted, and functioned. Eric didn’t understand, didn’t try to despite all his sincerity. Her fans who idolized her couldn’t. She kept me around, even when it meant I sat in garbage. I stayed by her. So I understood her.

I understood being flawed like her. Needing to be perfect but ultimately failing. My scratches prevented me from perfection. The chipped star on my body. Ivana prevented herself from being perfect. She needed me for that. To be with her in moments of damage and help her overcome them.

Ivana looked around the room, helplessness in her eyes. A scoff passing her pink lips, she crouched. A sliding drawer made the desk rumble as she grabbed the only thing she could’ve. The only thing she kept there.

A shot glass tapped against the surface next to me. Then a bottle of tequila. That wasn’t allowed.

She popped the cap off and spilled liquid, lifted the glass with her sparkly nail-polished hands. I noticed a chip on one of her fingernails, similar to my own. Ivana must’ve picked at her nails. It was an imperfect scratch like the ones I carried, and it was comforting. When she brought the glass rim to her lips, tilted her head back and took a drink in one swift motion, her body melted from its formerly stiff state.

“Give me a fuckin’ break. . .” She spoke in an exhale as she set the cup down, wiped her mouth and looked to the door. “Who thinks I want to deal with some snot-nosed kids right now? With that pompous ass Eric? This whole thing’s fucked.”

How did one define love? That was what shined in the eyes of Ivana’s fans as well as their admiration for her, but they didn’t know what she did in the dressing room. The curses she snapped out and the liquor she ingested from forbidden bottles and glasses. They were ignorant of Ivana Vera’s imperfections, unlike me. I knew, and I still loved her for it. That was love, right? Love was knowing all the flaws of someone close to you, and still deciding to be by their side. Still remaining loyal and loving them, scratches and all.

Ivana kept me around despite how damaged I was. Always picked me up from the trash can and wiped me off. Always sat me at her desk while she did what she had to do to fog up her imperfections. Love was staying by someone’s side. Supporting them. Was that the definition?

The room filled with a deafening silence, Ivana left with nothing but me and her thoughts.

“. . . I hate this. Fucking end me.” She finally said, an echo of the muttering she did before Eric’s arrival. Misery. It was a whisper past trembling pink lips. Tears threatened her eyes caked in makeup as she stared down at me. Ivana reached a hand forward, wrapped her hand around my damaged body and held me tight. She seemed to be wracking her brain for answers, clues to solve the questions she carried. Those questions, admittedly, were the only things I couldn’t quite decipher.

Did she think about love the way I did? About whether she knew what it was or not? 

 Her eyes, as glittery pink as they were, lacked their shine. They were blue and dull upon watching me. Nothing but hatred. And the worst was that it was only more familiar to me. Raw hatred. 

“. . . I need a new mic.”

Ivana didn’t throw me not curse me. She set me on the wooden desk and stood straight. Ivana turned and left the room. I waited for her return.

What was love? Regret for hurting someone. Being with someone despite how damaged they were. Yes, all those things. Love was also forgiveness. Forgiving someone for the things they did to hurt you. The imperfections they had. And not only did I forgive Ivana, but I could tell she forgave me as well. Because I could not support her any more than amplifying her voice. I couldn’t do more than take all her rawness and vulnerability and turn it into something beautiful for her. Together, Ivana Vera’s flaws – my flaws, worked together, tied themselves into a perfect knot of grandiose melodies and miracles.

I would stay by her side. She would stay by mine. She had her scratches. I had mine. 

No matter how often she threw me, Ivana picked me back up. Dusted me off. Felt regret. No matter how imperfect she was, with her moments of anger and drinking, her fear of being broken, she still kept me around. I was the only one to see her flaws for what they were. They were hidden, they were a part of her. No one but me could understand there was beauty in them.

And that is why I had to stay by Ivana Vera. Because of that. Because of love. I figured it out.

***

A week later, when Ivana Vera had another performance, she held her microphone tightly at her side – polished and adorned with a freshly printed pink star. She stood on stage, basked in the roaring cheers of the crowd below her, the spotlights above. Her smile shined, a glitter in her very presence. Perfection at its core. Are you ready for this? She yelled into the mic, voice an echo across the stadium.

Ivana. Ivana. Ivana.

There was nothing else to worry about, not for her. Shining across the world as the one and only Ivana Vera, she raised a glittering hand, forgetting all worries. About the tears she’d shed when no one was looking, the wishes for death when she stood alone in the dark. Equipment destroyed that she had to replace.

That was gone now. Thrown away along with the pestering thoughts. 

Pink consumed the stage, screaming from below.

Ivana sang, the new microphone making her sound perfect.