Famed by Erika Sams

Famed

By Erika Sams

Cameras flash white light across my body blinding me. I know they’re screaming my name, but their voices are muffled in my mind, everything around me a blur. My red dress hugs me so tight I can hardly breathe, my blonde hair cascades past my tanned bare shoulders. Behind me my face is plastered on the wall larger than life. My name is on posters and banners all across the world. Everything I ever wanted is happening, but at what cost? What literally blood is on my hands? It’s at this moment that I realize why they call it a red carpet, because you don’t make it here without spilling somebody’s blood. The room begins to spin, I see Tina’s face in the crowd staring at me, the blank dead stare of a ghost. Taking one step to the side, I feel the sudden rush of adrenaline as though I’m about to fall on my face in front of the world.

It was only a year ago that I was a waitress at one of LA’s hottest bar and grills frequented by the biggest celebrities in the country; actors, influencers, producers, models, you name it. I had sandy brown hair, pale skin, and was too chubby for Instagram. I felt close to my dreams, brushing hands with influential patrons as I handed them their diet sodas. I had become comfortable being just outside of the circles I wanted to be a part of.

My best friend Tina still believed in me and pushed me to speak with a famous producer Stephen Ricks. He was at the restaurant with his posse of impossibly beautiful people. The restaurant had a strict “no pitching yourself” policy, but Tina was right, I was too comfortable, and I needed to take the risk.

My whole body shook as I stood in the VIP box surrounded by people you’d only see in magazines, meanwhile I stood there in an apron, holding an empty tray, and wearing work approved sneakers. Their eyes looked critically at every inch of my imperfections and ripped me to shreds. Every critique I’d ever thought of myself, my deepest insecurities, and worst fears were spat at me with disgust. My boobs were too small, my stomach and arms too loose, my hair needed to be bleached and straightened, I was too pale, I needed to wear clothes that accented my assets, the way I stood wasn’t confident, my voice too low, ears were too pointy, and nose too wide. The mere fact that I had the audacity to pitch myself in this state was offensive to them, but to my surprise, they didn’t report me. Instead, one of the men who was sandwiched between the most beautiful women I was sure had ever existed, handed me a wad of hundred-dollar bills and told me not to embarrass them again.

In the restaurant bathroom, the walls were closing in on me as me as my body heaved out uncontrollable cries. Echoes of judgement seeped through the walls and into me as I wept tears of tortured guilt. I felt small, stupid. Everything they had said cut into my skin and exposed all of my insecurities. I never wanted to leave the bathroom stall, never face the world with these bare bones I’d surely never be able to cover up again.

I pulled my compact out of my pocket, the words “You’re A” and then a golden star adorned the outside. Every day I would pull this out, open to the mirror, look at my reflection, and affirm to myself who I am; but in this reflection I only saw a broken vessel unable to hold any amount of drive or esteem. Tears ran down the smeared black makeup on my face like every ounce of my essence seeping through the cracks of a broken vase. I looked myself in the eyes, red and swollen from tears, and I asked myself what I really wanted. After staring at myself for a few minutes, finally everything was still. Resolve washed over me, and I knew I’d do whatever it took to make my dreams come true, to become famous, to be a patron of this restaurant, rather than the waitress. I had been torn to shreds and finally there was nothing left to hide, nothing left to protect. Picking up the pieces of myself, I told Tina I was sick and went home.

Over the next few months I was tucked, plucked, and bleached. Every penny I made went to reimagine myself. Boob job, nose job, Botox, hair extensions, nails. If it was on the plastic surgery menu, I was getting it done. Every day new packages of clothes would arrive at my doorstep. I spent hours each night trying them on and taking photos, practicing poses, checking angles. I had gone back to Stephen Ricks and his posy a couple of times, and each time they’d give me more money and another list of things that were wrong with me. This went on for a couple months, until finally I knew I was ready.

I put on a white bandage dress which hugged my toned and perfected skin, my long blond hair pulled into the perfect high ponytail and falling behind me, gold stilettos clicked the floor as I strutted into the restaurant not as a waitress, but as a star ready to start her new life. I walked with such confidence no one tried to stop me as I went straight into the VIP box where Stephen and his entourage were silenced by my entrance. Those eyes which had judged me so harshly were finally cocked with subtle commendation; but it wasn’t enough.

I looked the part, but now I needed to prove how much I was willing to do for it. Was I willing to do whatever it took? Would I get down on my hands and knees and beg? I would do anything, literally anything. So, he had me get down on my hands and knees and kiss his shoe as those around the sofa laughed and took photos. If I really wanted it though, I’d have to be willing to push past the laughter and judgement. Stephen lifted my chin and made me look him in the eyes, “To be what you are asking, you must sell your soul.”

“I’ll do whatever I have to,” I insisted.

“To gain everything, you must lose everything. I can make all your dreams come true at the snap of my finger. You will be rich, famous, and everyone in the world in every language will know your name.”

I was kneeling before him, my chin in his hand, his eyes staring straight through to the soul he was trying to buy from me, and I had never been so sure, “I have done everything you have asked me to, what more do I have to do to prove it to you?”

Stephen dropped my chin and stood. He offered his hand, and I followed suit.

“Meet us at midnight, Kate will send you the address, don’t be late.”

Two hours later I was walking into a warehouse in a part of LA I’d never been before. Men in black suits stood outside the door and let me in. I had to sign NDAs and confidentiality agreements, and then finally I was led into a small room where Stephen and a couple of the people from his box were waiting.

“This is your red and blue pill moment, your last chance to leave. You walk through this next door, there is no going back. If there is a line you would not cross, now is the time to say it.”

I looked around at everyone in the room and back at Stephen, “If you promise to make me famous, I will do whatever you tell me to do.”

And that is how I ended up killing my best friend. They walked me into the main warehouse where Tina was tied to a chair. They put a gun in my hand and made me look into her scared, tear-filled eyes. She screamed and cried, but I couldn’t hear it, like every ounce of my humanity had been lost. Something broke in me in the bathroom the day this all started, and I didn’t realize how badly until now. I shot my best friend, murdering her in cold blood, and all I cried was a single tear.

Stephen stayed true to his word and within days I was filming my debut movie as the star. Tina’s death was unsolved as Stephen kept all the evidence as blackmail. All my dreams would come true, but I would never be free again.

Now I’m standing in front of the media on a carpet that looks like it was stained with blood; was it worth it? I see Tina’s face in the crowd, haunted by my own disgrace, and taking a step to the side my body jolts with adrenaline as I think I’m going to fall. Catching myself, I turn into a pose I’ve practiced a thousand times in front of the mirror, look down at the cameras with smize, and know that by tomorrow everyone in the world will know my name.