Sweet Dreams

I can hear the fans outside. They're screaming my name; screaming, screaming, screaming. Screaming. I can't do it. Not today. Dill comes up to me, "Come on!" he says. I push him away. Stumble to my room as quickly as I can, sweating and gasping for air. I can't do it. Push the door open, and throw myself onto the sofa. My hands are shaking. I set it all up, hurriedly, not even paying attention. Put my head close to the table and take a long, aggressive sniff. I cough a bit, I don't know why. I go to the mirror and look at myself.

My eyeliner is smudged and my hair is a mess. I wipe the white powder off my nose and slap my cheeks. I'm a mess. I can't do it.

I pick up the table and throw it across the room, flinging alcohol bottles to my left and to my right. I hear knocks on the door. I'm feeling better already. I take out my cigarette and light it. I take in a long drag, and run out the door.

"Hello Wembley! Who's ready?" The audience yells. "I can't hear you!" They shout as loud as they can. "Come on, you can do fucking better than that!" They roar. I put my arms up. And then I sing.

The flame licks the spoon, making the liquid inside of it dance. My hands shake but I know what I'm doing. I take my time, remembering the first time I did it. I had just done a concert, and I was in the van, driving back home. My body was screaming with pain; it never had a minute's rest. Dill came up to me, "Here," he said, "This'll help you." And now I'm feeling the same rush I felt that day, and I gasp in pleasure. Bottles of alcohol are lying all around me. The room smells of cigarettes and there's a man in the bathroom. He’s not my husband. I'm trying to write, trying to come up with a new song, but my hand is trembling.

"FUCK!" I yell. The man doesn't even say anything. I don't know his name. Billy will be home soon. Shit wait. Billy will be home soon. I get up, but I'm not steady. I half crawl, half roll to the door of the bathroom. "GET OUT!" No reply. I shove the door, but I hardly even move it. Once again, I push and it opens.

"Babe, what's going on?" He looks disgusted.

"Get the fuck out of my house." He doesn't need to be told twice. He walks past me, shoving me and grimacing, heading for the door, trying to pull his pants back on at the same time.

I've got to tidy up. I start making my way back to the mess, but before I can, I fall to the floor and black out.

When I wake up, he’s gone. And so are all the memories we ever had. And on the dresser: his wedding ring. Goddamn it. It’s finally happened. I sit up, my head throbbing. Boom. Boom. Boom. And then I feel it. It crawls up my stomach, slides up my throat, the acidity of it searing every corner it touches. It doesn’t even try to be discreet. And then it forces open my mouth, gushing onto my bed, my chest, my legs. 

I hate it. Everything. The vomit. The drugs. The alcohol. The pain. The loneliness. The fame. The tears that are running down my face, running and running, as if to escape me. Yet they can’t. And neither can I. And I fucking hate myself for it all. I feel empty, yet the tears still come. I don’t know where from. 

The door opens and I hear Dill come in, “Hey, Liv, what the fuck’s going on? Why didn’t you pick up any of my calls?” When he sees me, his face changes. From more anxious than mad, he turns into a raging beast, “You piece of shit. We’ve got a concert in less than three hours and you’re sitting here, drowning yourself in drugs.” He comes to me, and yanks me off the bed. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. He was the one who started me on them, and now he wants to take them away from me. I try to escape his hands, but I’m too weak. I need it. I need it now. I spit in his face, and kick his crotch. 

“Leave me alone.” I growl. I run to my dresser, and take out the bag from my pocket. It’s got to be perfect: straight and tidy. I clench my fists and inhale. Fire runs through my veins, to my brain. I grate my teeth together, but the pain is soon forgotten. My blood turns to liquid gold, and I feel fine again. No, not fine. Incredible. I run over to Dill, who’s lying on the floor, “Come on, Dill-Dill! Get up! We’ve got a concert to attend!” I drag him out the door and into my car. 

Everybody loves me. Everybody. The whole world chants my name in unison, wanting me to choose them, only them, them only. Only them, them only. Only. Lonely. Record labels run after me, on their knees for just a smile. Boys wait outside my house, hoping to be let in. Girls dress like me, eat like me, try and sing like me. Everybody loves me, and everybody wants me. So then why am I alone?

I can’t do it anymore. I’m standing in my bathroom. The radio is playing me, only me, and when I try to skip a song, another of mine comes along to haunt me. I throw the radio on the floor and jump on it. It’s raining outside. I close my eyes, and imagine that I’m back home, in my small little house, with my small little family, in my small little town. I try to imagine the smell of pasta rising up the stairs, Elvis Presley's voice coming from the radio downstairs, with my mum singing along. It was nice. Really nice. I open my eyes and look at myself in the mirror. I see myself and I hate myself. I punch the glass. Shards of glass float to the floor, hundreds of small little me’s. I pick the sharpest one up. I sit on the floor. I take a deep breath. 

When I was young, all I wanted was fame, money, fans. I never imagined it could happen. Yet now it has, and I can’t escape, I can’t fucking escape. I’m trapped inside a nightmare, and I’d do anything to go back. Back to when it was all just a dream.