To Die For

Skin. From the epidermis, all the way to the glands, oils, and nerves. Elasticity was a must, which can only be achieved by splurging on $400 caviar-based creams, formulated with collagen and vitamin C for a fuller look. Being a New York socialite meant massaging and rolling and icing and doing everything humanly possible to escape an inevitable death—aging. The passing of a woman could either be marked by having her firstborn, the first silver strand in a once luscious mane, or when her ruddy complexion starts to mutilate and droop into a melted puddle of youth.

Legs. Women should be as smooth as a seal, but her shoddy shaving skills left her rough and calloused like the hands of a construction worker. Her legs were littered with nips, but anytime they would even begin to transform into scabs, she made good use of her long fingernails to pick and scratch them off. That was the norm with any wound, regardless of its shape or size. For some reason that only God himself can fathom, excoriating her skin was her favorite pastime. 

Hair. Somehow, her short black bob was always well-maintained with different treatments, pomades, and mousses. She preferred her hair when it was choppy, to elude everyone under the impression that she was a “cool girl”. 

In this day and age, the most gratifying compliment one could receive is that of the “cool girl”. “Cool girl” is a persona, someone only few could successfully embody. It meant being able to eat tonnes of food while sustaining a slim figure. Additionally, part of the role was being exceptionally understanding; meaning that you let everyone spit and step and chastise you. Being breathtakingly beautiful, humorous (but never funnier than any men in the room), and willing to bend over backward to fill everyone’s utmost desires yet leaving no time for yourself was the sacrifice of the “cool girl”. It was a sacrifice she chose to make every day, and everyone believed her. Why wouldn’t they? Her seemingly laid-back demeanor was New York City’s performance of the ages.

Stippling with a brush, then smoothing with a damp sponge, and at last, setting with heaps of powder. A transformative flick of mascara, just while the fake eyelash glue becomes tacky, then it's time for the cheeks. A flush of color, to appear as more youthful, although all that coverage aged her by at least 5 years, and a light bronze to seem as if the sun only shone on her. A pencil colors outside the lines to elude the audience, topped with a tinted holographic gloss to set her apart from the crowd. She was done constructing her perfect, Barbie-like self. 

On the analog clock, it read 7:45. The gathering, located on the Upper East Side, commenced at 8:00. After giving her friend Heidi a call to confirm their appearance at the party, she carefully went down the marble steps of her penthouse, and waited in the lobby.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock in the entryway was driving her mad paired with the deafening silence in the room. What were seconds felt like minutes, while minutes were more like hours. Maybe she was too familiar with the fast-paced, go-go atmosphere of the city, but this was unbearable.

Pick. Pick. Pick. A rhythmic pattern of picking and scraping her flesh and flicking it off was endless. To her, it felt relaxing, therapeutic almost. Just until the time passed, she was zoned out into the paced ticking of the clock and the soft sensation of her freshly torn hands. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. The alarm she had set when it was time to leave went off, and with that, she made her way down the elevator and onto the main floor of the building.

Walking down the hallway, she gave her doorman a quick nod and smile of appreciation. However, he abruptly stopped her. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m going to be leaving early due to my son’s pneumonia. Is it alright if you arrive before 11:00?”, he inquired. As opposed to being attentive and making a mental note of his words, all she could focus on was the decay of his teeth. She grimaced, while she continued to analyze this man’s face. “His pores are colossal, and why is he so saggy and worn down? Ugh, and his untamed, rope-like eyebrows. This guy is in serious need of a facial and a pair of tweezers.”, she thought. “Ma’am? You cannot enter the building otherwise. So, is that a yes?”, the man asked, his words breaking her trance. “Uh, what? Oh, yes…” she mumbled, remembering that there was a conversation ongoing. Clearing her throat, she berated, “Excuse me, I pay well over your salary as rent and I expect the services to be first-rate! If I had known about your absolute unprofessionalism, maybe I could have come earlier. But no, absolutely not! Find someone to cover your shift or don’t even think about coming to work tomorrow.” Her heels clacked away, hopping into the cab, giving the doorman no time for justifications.

Adjusting herself into the seat, she whips out a 20-dollar bill and says, “Marquee, please.”. The cab driver, a man well into his forties with a friendly face and dark curls, responded, “Sure, miss.”. With that, the engine revved and they began their journey to the newest, hottest, and most voguish spot in the city. 

Marquee’s. A sea of admirers followed her under the scintillating lights she was well accustomed to. As the group inside saw her, heads turned and a silent awe came down over everyone present. “Come, come!”, Heidi called out, wrapping her arm around her while teasingly whispering,

“Looks like somebody is the star of the night!”. “Oh, please,”—she shrugged modestly—“I’m nothing compared to you.”. 

However, Heidi’s playful comment lingered deeply inside her head. It started to gnaw at her, and although she struggled to push it aside, it stayed. “Have I become captive of the image I created?”, she brooded. Thoughts like “Am I even a star do people just pay attention to me as an escape from their miserable lives?”, or, “How can I embrace the attention while also navigating the line between receiving what may be a genuine compliment or trying to make me feel like an object, a feast for their eyes only?”, and, “What does it mean to “live the dream”? I’m certainly not living it. And if this is the dream, why does it resemble a sinister nightmare?!”, all raced through her head. This, like many other things, caused her to pick. She started making her way through the folds, lines, and previously irritated areas. Patches of craggy and dry skin were soon peeled off to reveal their beautiful pink interior. Then, she moved on to the cuticles—her favorite. She picked, scratched, and sometimes nibbled at the skin around the nail. Of course, this caused it to tear or rip a little, but who can deny her of the pleasure this compulsive habit provides?

With this, Heidi turned to look at her, due to the disturbing manner of her actions. However, Heidi was stopped before Danica’s almost animated voice broke her rumination.“Ladies!”Danica cheered, “You’ll never believe who I just found!”. Although she was shaken up, both Heidi’s and her interest piqued, and they began to follow Danica through the opulent walls of the club into a dimly lit private room.

“Ta-da! This is my friend, Jo Dean.” Danica introduced slyly. She had already seen Jo during Fashion Week walking the Versace show as the opening model, but never thought too much of it. Jo was a rather lanky, but beautiful woman. Her bleached eyebrows and long dark hair had a very high fashion, haute couture look. She was the type of girl that was hard to come across, with her daring style and bold choices. Jo didn’t play it safe to remain adored in the public eye like she did. Jo is a “cool girl”. There was no role, no acting, nothing. She just naturally possessed the ability to be loved and to be remarkable, all at once.

They took turns introducing themselves to Jo, then sat down at the conversation pit. Around half an hour went by, and the girls were blabbing on and on about the latest hairdos and how the scallops at Clover Hill were revolting. 

Soon enough, a waitress came by and asked, “Anything to drink?”. They all looked around, waiting for someone who would volunteer to pay. Suddenly, all eyes were on her. It seemed as if their eyes were becoming larger, bulgier, and veinier. “No one is blinking. Why is no one blinking?”, she thought frantically, “A good 20 seconds is going by, how can they not BLINK?!”. 

Eventually, all the guilt, pressure, and duress made her cave in, and she responded, “Oh, uhm, yes please.”. Jo wanted champagne, Dom Perignon specifically, while Danica was leaning towards a Cabernet. Ultimately, she ended up paying for 3 shots of Azul, a bottle of Dom, and one of Cabernet, racking up a bill of $745. She was not surprised, it was the same old story. Unfortunately, her status made it so that she was expected to support and finance everyone’s drinking habits while simultaneously showing them a good time around all the groovy clubs of New York.

The room, which was once lit by the comforting warmth of chandeliers, suddenly became overpowered by the harsh, blinding light of paparazzi cameras. The cacophony of shutters, clicks, and loud questions became intolerable. Heidi, Danica, and Jo jolted from their seats, as if they were thunderstruck, and began to hastily gather their purses. “Come on! We are trying to enjoy ourselves.”, Heidi snapped. “Yeah, you guys are animals!”, Danica added furiously. Despite that, the incessant shutters were not coming to an end. No matter the volume they complained at or the amount of crude vocabulary used, for some reason, those mindless fans persevered. 

As the press continued their relentless chase, the room grew more and more tense. She could sense their piercing stares on her, and over her felt a sense of scrutiny like a heavy weight on her body, leaving her vulnerable and defenseless. She couldn’t muster a single word. There was no hope. Just constant shuttering which appeared to bounce off the walls of the room, ringing in their ears like a constant, never-ending drumming. 

Soon enough, the mob of photographers closed in on the group, yet she was shoved onto the floor, rejected. “Jo! Over here, Jo! How does it feel like being the new “cool girl” of the season?”, one paparazzi called out. “Your performance on the catwalk is flawless. Do you have any tips for beginners?”, another questioned. Jo, feeling swamped, awkwardly chuckled and began to answer their questions kindly in the midst of the crisis. 

She could feel herself spiraling, “Why aren’t they chasing me?”—she gasped, barely taking in the air—”Why her?!”. Racking her brain, she was in desperate need of answers. She felt robbed of the one thing she valued dearly: attention. Her forehead was periodically dripping sweat like a faulty faucet, and her battered hands were trembling. Forgotten and alone, she lay there on the cold hard floor, which provided no comfort. Her fragile psyche was unraveling piece by piece and she began to do the one thing she loved most: picking. 

At first, it was peeling long thin strips of dead skin from her face. Then, her grimy nails started going underneath the surface, prying and probing into her flesh. There was no blood, just a light pink layer revealed beneath. With each camera flash and ounce of attention given to Jo, more and more parts of her face were excoriated. Soon enough, she used her fingers to dig small holes, revealing her dermis. The thick coating that constructed her face, one which once beguiled anyone who saw it, was all lying in a pile, flicked off. Her glistening muscle tissue was bare, and what was a nervous tick escalated into grotesque self-mutilation. 

Soon enough, her wish came true; all eyes were on her. Clothed in a classic little black dress, with matching red bottoms, and a 20-motif necklace, she had to be the most stylish half-dead carcass of all time. A profound silence fell over the room, but not for long. Promptly, the waves of shuttering, conversing, and clicking burst again, like they never left. Paparazzi quickly resumed their interview with Jo Dean, the new star. 

She was well aware of New York’s superficial, and shallow lifestyle. What seemed like a dream, with billboards plastered all around Times Square with flashing beams of color, was all just a sham. No one cared until you had boatloads of money, a pretty face, or status. Not just regular civilians cared about that, but also paparazzi. Random people weren’t just interviewed. No, there had to be a certain rank, and when someone fell out they were gone—forgotten. She was now an old, shriveled, and jumbled mess that the paparazzi were oblivious to. But this was supposed to be her moment, and her prime. As the focus shifted toward Jo, it was brutally obvious how fast she had fallen. 

With a swift turn, she stomped over to the crowd, shoving them aggressively one by one. Struggling to stand up on both feet, her body wobbled, but it was not long until she quickly regained her balance. Her fierce, go-getter nature was with her all her life, courtesy of her fervent mother. However, this prediction couldn’t be found on any horoscopes, tarot cards, or other devices. This was overboard. Being intense was one thing, but this was in a whole different universe.

Every passing second made the audience tremble, however, they thirstily anticipated what her fragile body was going to do. With a pounce, Jo’s pristine face was butchered and tugged at the especially tough bits. “Argh! Help! Oh my-” Jo wailed, before quickly going unconscious. 

Even the most dazzling stars vanish into dust. In the merciless spotlight, she left nothing but the remnants of their glory.