Nova Eclipse

CW: This story contains verbal abuse and sexual coercion.

The moon shone bright under a canopy of shrouded darkness, the translucent clouds shifting aimlessly to and fro. A comforting beacon of hope, like the warm embrace of a close friend, or a light pat against the back. Oh, how Nova longed for such simple treasures, which, like the moon, seemed unreachable, far away, distant. Her mother’s screeching yells burst the bubble of entrapment she shut herself in, pummeling her back to reality. ‘Someday,’ she’d tell herself, gazing absentmindedly at the sizzling pan, the once pure, white - colored mushrooms now losing their innocence to a murky, hollow brown color. ‘Someday, I will become a great pop star. Just you all wait. You’ll see.’ She could feel it. So close that she could taste it. That dream of hers, a sowed seed waiting to sprout and germinate. She breathes over her steaming broth of mushroom soup only for the sole existence of this dream. If it weren’t for it, she’d have been long gone by now. After all, what’s there to live for? It’s bad enough that her mum constantly agitates her, with her venomous sneers about how she was a mistake, a curse upon this family, and ‘How I wish you’d just drop dead!’ It’s hard trying to keep her chin up, lest she be choked by the water that looms above her, her flailing arms and legs rendering her useless against the onslaught of water, every gasp of air juxtaposed by the forceful compression that gnaws away at her lungs. Yet, even though nature, the world, even God himself is against her, it's this dream, this last sliver of hope, tethering at the edge, that keeps her going, keeps her rooted in the ground albeit her feeling as though she’s floating up in the sky, like a hot air balloon, never to be seen again. Indeed, those that were in close relation to her, those that were supposed to be there for her, particularly her mother, never saw eye to eye with her. Rather, they left her to fend for herself, applying for whatever low paying job comes to grace her with prospects of income, to pay off her singing and dancing lessons. Becoming a famous pop star is no easy task, much like any promising future career any daring soul decides to follow. However frequent the clouds shelter the ever beaming sun, its radiating golden specks of light still find a way to shine through. For although there are bad times, with it comes the good. That incessant incoming call alarming her, too fatigued by her work shift to bat an eye, yet being shaken awake, as though doused with cold water, as her vocal teacher’s voice blared through the phone. A popular music label was coming into town, holding auditions, scouring for the next up and coming popstar of the century. Her heart galloped in elation, accompanied by her feet which, as though acquiring a mind of their own, scampered across the street to make it home on time. ‘This is it,’ she thought, smiling from ear to ear, gazing wondrously at the beaming moon. She couldn’t help but feel grateful, for the moon, her sole companion, smiled down upon her, soothing her aching heart. For deep down, she always knew. That there was something greater, something intangible, that was always conspiring in her favor, no matter how odious things seemed. Even if she thought life had turned on her, it was only for her highest good. And from that day forward she tirelessly trained until her knees buckled from underneath her, until her voice grew hoarse, until her whole body succumbed to overexertion. Yet, it wasn’t enough. She had to be the best. To not only prove to those who belittled her, those who snatched what little dreams or hope she had left and crushed it to little undistinguishable smithereens, but to herself, that she was finally getting the attention and fame she so rightfully deserves. This illusion of hers was what compelled her to walk through those wide, ominous doors, what made her stand upright and feign confidence and sobriety in that room full of high status, prolific men, despite her heart almost jumping out from her chest as she did what she knew like the back of her hand; sing to the top of her lungs, and danced and galloped all across that stage until her feet ached and struggled to take even another step. The performance couldn’t have gone any better. She ran over that single thought over and over, taking in big gulps of air as she sternly, yet impatiently waited for the long anticipated answer. But, why? What’s with the long faces? The odd furrow of the brow? The deep frown seated so morosely on their wrinkled faces? She felt a pang in her chest, from fear that her dream, the one thing that kept her going all this time, was being crushed before her. She couldn’t handle it. This cannot be it. It mustn't be. All that hard work, all those long nights, tirelessly working shifts at the diner day and night, constantly bending her back to get her job finished. Maybe that’s all she’ll ever be doing; all she’ll ever be reduced to. Bending over for the elite, as they poked and prodded at her insides, inserting god knows what inside of her. Tears welled up in her eyes, yet she had no choice. She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to; this was her one way ticket to freedom. But why does she have to go through all this? If only she had practiced a bit more, maybe she wouldn’t have ended up in this horrendous situation. But if it’s what it takes to be a star, then so be it. She will just have to endure this, only for this one time. Besides, the man grunting and groaning above her was soon to reach the precipice, judging by the beads of sweat collecting on his contoured face, as he let pure ecstasy and bliss wash over him. See? That didn’t take long. It was easier than she would have expected it to be. Stardom was just around the corner. Contrary to how this might sound, they didn’t take advantage of her; rather, she took advantage of them. For after the contract was signed, her fame skyrocketed through the roof. The overwhelming fear that grabbed hold of her was an understatement compared to the perpetual cycle of attention and intrigue she garnered from millions of people all across the globe in such a short amount of time. Yet, as always, she persevered to the best of her ability. It’s all thanks to her sheer resilience that she was able to get herself in that recording booth, release her first album, and tour all across the globe for all those that screamed and cheered as she hopped across the stage, her voice reaching thousands upon thousands who would do anything for her. This is what she’s always wanted. When she's up on that stage, she feels at peace, and allows herself to be happy and free. Her fans love and accept her for who she is, who she always has been. She doesn’t need to beg for their love; rather, they’re the ones who are on their knees, begging and worshiping the ground she walks on. But she’s not so completely foreign to the aching pain of resting on your knees; especially in the company of some high end producer, who entices her with sweet taunting of infinite fortune, or of how much they love giving it to her, no one can do it like she can. Every night, after a so - called romantic getaway with one of these powerful men, she’d curl up under the sheets, her satin pillowcase blotted with a wet stain of salty tears. She’s such a coward. She could have put an end to this months ago. And yet, fear rears its ugly head, and cripples her, paralyzes her. If she abandons all her fans, her music, her passion, what would she have left? If only she knew, back then, all sweet and innocent, now tainted by the greed and gluttony that feeds the elite. They control her, like a little marionette. And she, powerless as she is, has no means to stop them. She must do their bidding, like an obedient little servant girl, submitting herself, her body, her soul, to their every whim and command, despite all her moral objections. It’s funny, isn’t it. How all these powerful people, the top of the top, can bend any to their own will, just by a flick of their hand. All because of the trepidation of refusal, that haunts each and every being. It’s better like this. She won’t submit anymore. She will never give in. She wants to take back what’s rightfully hers. Her identity, her autonomy, her body, her soul. It’s better like this. They will never use her again. For Nova, lay there, on top of the lavender satin sheets, exposed, unravished, pure, untainted, under the glistening hue of the moon’s illuminating light, drifting away to a far off place. A place where she, too, can be admired from afar, and never see the light of day ever again. A sharp knock abruptly halted her train of thoughts, leaving a mind - numbing headache in its wake. Who could it be, so late at night? Perhaps room service? But she didn’t order any room service. Did she? No, she didn’t, she’d soon find out. For it was him, her producer, one of the most prolific and high end elite in all of the music industry. 

‘Hello,’ he swooned, bending down so that his hot breath blew against her ear, making her shiver with something akin to disgust and anxiety, ‘How’s my darling little princess?’ His moist breath smelled like wine. So he’s had a few drinks. Even at his age, an age where men tend to forego all types of drinking and mingling and would much rather settle in the suburbs, he disdains all stereotypes with a snarky grin. Maybe that’s what made him rise to the top. As he hungrily ogled her, it occurred to her just how exposed she truly was, with only a silk nightgown separating her from his feeble hands, and she hurriedly tried to cover herself up, to no avail. He yanked her by the wrist, turned her around and shoved her on the mattress, with no chance to flee, or beg for mercy. She tried to jerk him off, wriggling and twisting away from him, yet the more she tried to flee, the stronger his hold on her became. She couldn’t fight him, couldn’t resist him. Even in a place like this, a place where all people resign themselves to fate, to peaceful slumber, of temptations to live in an utopia, she still gives in, and lives out her rendition of the complete opposite. For this, right here, her cries of sheer agony and misery muffled in the bedsheets, is her dystopia. 

‘Now,’ he cooed in her ear, thrusting himself against her in a teasing, ominous manner ‘You want to release that new song right? Oh, I know you do. You wouldn't want to disappoint your fans, right?’ 

A slow, steady opening of a zipper. A clink of a belt. A ruffle of pants. 

‘Then, I’d suggest you be a good girl and take it.’ 

And she did take it. She took all her sanity, her will to live, her soul, and floated high up, towards the forgiving, hopeful moon. She’d like to imagine the moon as her best friend, the one who’s always been there for her, from the beginning of time, till the end. What has led her to this? Was it the lack of money? The lack of love? The lack of companionship? The lack of attention? The lack of care? Lack. Lack. Lack. What a funny sounding word. Lack. Lack means to lose. Lack means to not have. Lack means unreachable, unattainable, far - off, distant. Like the moon. How ironic, for the man behind her, doing god knows what to her, was not lacking in any way. Yet, in some twisted game of fate, we all come to this world, lacking something. We only seek and long for the things we do, for we lack that very thing we so desire. Maybe Nova lacked herself. Her self - worth. That is why she longed for fame, to finally feel what it’s like to be wanted. To be desired by someone. To be cared for, with no consequences. To be loved as you are, with all your flaws, and impediments. Everything. Everyone. Nothing. No one. She was nowhere. Only the moon shone brightly, against the canopy of darkness. She gazed mesmerizingly at it, hoping one day, this torture she put herself in, would finally end. And someday, she'll abandon everything, and become one with the moon.