[Week 16, Day 1 | Dream ] Gonna Make You a Star
It’s like a series of little vignettes, one after another. Some short, some long, some choppy and abrupt and others fading into one another with space to relax in thoughts between like limbo. You float through each of them, finding your place effortlessly even if the scene only lasts a split second. The pictures that are clear don’t last that way for long, but while you know that some stay longer than others there is no real sense of time to them. There is only flow, and meaning, and importance. Even if not all of it makes sense, you know that it matters. You experience the flash of a red eye with fake lashes, kissing a hunched boy with black, spiky hair on the cheek. Gradually bigger, more quantifiable things begin to come into focus.
The room is terrifying and unfamiliar. It was your room just a moment ago, the same room that you have inhabited for what feels like forever and made your own, that you have woken up to every morning for all that time. But now it isn’t, and you might not know a lot right now but you know that it never will be your room again.
You pant, watching him, though there’s no real reason to. It doesn’t fix anything. Breathing in, breathing out, breathing in again too fast and there is an edge of hysteria to it, but the puffs come too swiftly for you to let out a sound. It’s not like it matters. He knows that you are here, and you saw the glint of metal, heard the bang that you swear must have ruptured your eardrums. Saw her crumple. Saw him crumple. And you couldn’t do anything, and if he shot them just like that then there is no reason that he won’t shoot you just like that too.
You can’t bring yourself to look at them, so you stare at him instead. And even if you aren’t making a sound, he knows that you’re here.
Your eyes connect. Every instinct you have tells you to look away, to break the contact, but you can’t. And he is going to kill you. You know it, just like even though there is a raspy noise coming from one of them (you’re too scared to see which), you know that your parents are dead. Maybe their bodies don’t quite notice it yet, but they are dead. And it isn’t romantic like you pictured it would be, it’s terrifying. But you look at him, right in the eyes. It’s funny how he doesn’t look like a monster at all, just a man with a gun who wanted some shiny things and caught you all at the wrong time. But that’s enough, isn’t it?
He turns on his heel and runs out the door, taking who cares what with him. And you don’t know why he didn’t kill you; you never will. You don’t know what he saw in you that he didn’t see in your parents, or if there was no reason or justice to it at all and he just decided to run for no reason that anyone can ever explain. Eventually you will stop wondering, but it keeps you up for weeks. After you stop crying over the bodies and lost warmth, you will still lie awake with the uncertainty of why. That’s the part that always haunts you.
They catch him. You point him out to the police. Your hand shakes, but your eyes are sure, and you point him out.
Life goes on. You are alone, and you aren’t quite ready for life to go on yet, but it does. And you either have to stand up to shuffle along with it or let it break over you.
You will not be left behind.
So scenes change… …
It’s amazing how things seem to happen all at once.
First there is nothing. The trial is put off, things drag on and on, you try to speed them up but you don’t really understand all that is going on and no one is willing to tell you. Why can’t justice be simple? You try to focus on your work, diving into everything your agent sets up and smiling for picture after picture, camera after camera, and you are breaking. You can feel it. Months upon months pass like sand clinging to your skin and still nothing; you start to believe that he is going to get away with it. And what are you supposed to do? You can’t kill him yourself (why not?), you can’t force them to bring him to justice (why not?). It’s driving you mad. He’s right there, in custody; they caught the bad guy and they saw what he did and he is still going to get away with it.
Then everything happens at once.
Your modeling career is finally starting to take off, you land a big feature in a popular magazine, and it can finally mean something because just like that, it happens. The man is gone- dead. You see it in the news, scour the internet for every single article so much as mentioning it in passing and read them all, smiling just as brightly each time.
Kira has brought him to justice.
And just like that, you have something to believe in again.
But...
It seems like there is some sort of order to the universe, where if something good happens then something terrible must follow it. You’ll change that, someday. You don’t know it yet, but you will make it so that all of the bad things only happen to bad people and the good ones won’t have to be punished.
You are walking home, alone, and maybe in the back of your mind you know that that’s stupid. Maybe you know that a little girl like you shouldn’t be walking down this dark, empty street all by yourself, but you don’t think about it. You don’t have anyone to walk home with you anyway, even if you did. There are plenty of people that you could ask, but none that you would. And maybe ever since you started following Kira, you’ve felt a little invincible. Protected. Like there is someone watching out for you, and he won’t ever let you come to any harm again.
It’s funny how right you are.
But you forget those thoughts when a man emerges below a street light, instinctively clutching your purse tighter. He’s just standing there, and you could swear that he is watching you. You move to cross to the other side of the street, and he moves too. You freeze. Because you caught the glint of metal in his hand, reflecting dimly into the abandoned path you have walked through so many times before and it was always safe then.
He is holding a knife.
Run.
“Misa, I love you.”
You’re not sure what keeps you from following the simple advice your entire body is giving. Maybe it’s the use of your name, though really, that should just make you run faster, shouldn’t it? But it is unexpected. You peer closer at him, but it’s too dark to make out much of his face. You still know that you don’t know him.
“I’m your biggest fan, I-”
He cuts off, and you smile at him, feel it plastered to your face as easily as it slips on in front of the camera because what else are you supposed to do?
Run!
“That’s so sweet-”
“I’ve watched you so long, not just since the issue of Eighteen like everyone else. I was with you from the start.”
You wonder if he even heard you. He’s stepping closer now, and you can see that he’s shaking. You take a step back, but do not run. You can’t seem to look away from him.
“You have to love me.”
The smile is still in place, as if this is all some sort of joke. As if a slow step back and a winning smile with a terrible edge to it is going to be enough to save you.
“Misa doesn’t even know you…”
You still smile, even though the words came out without enough planning and you know that there are a thousand better things that you could have said, but in the end words probably wouldn’t be enough to save you anyway.
“You have to love me, Misa, have to love me…”
He’s coming closer now, faster than you can shuffle backward. And it’s him. The burglar from that night. That’s stupid, you know it is, he’s dead- how many times did you read that fact? He is dead. But that doesn’t matter, because now he’s here with a knife and he’s going to finish what he started that day because time and time again you can’t just run.
He stops. No, doesn’t quite stop- he stops coming closer, but he is still moving. The jittering is more pronounced now; the hand holding the knife carelessly flies to his chest and his lips seem to be moving, forming soundless words. Abruptly he falls, still twitching horribly.
And finally you run.
You tear down the road in your three-inch-heels, skidding and busting your knee open on the asphalt after one fall, twisting your ankle after the second, but you are back on your feet just as quickly and run and run and run until you reach the apartment door looking like hell ran you over.
It’s not until you are sitting on the bathroom floor, phone cradled to your ear behind a locked door and another locked door beyond that that you start to cry.
Again you want to hide, or rest, but life refuses to slow down to accommodate you. Because there is a shoot tomorrow, and you are just shaken up from the incident, barely hurt, and you know that you can’t reschedule this. And it’s not as if staying at home, jumping at every little creak and bump would be any better anyway.
So you rise up again, and don’t bother to wonder if you’re leaving a little something behind in your haste each time.
“Look this way.”
You obey. Of course you do; that’s all that you are ever really good for, isn’t it?
“Tilt your head to the left just a little- yes, like that, perfect. Now smile.”
The spotlights are smothering, the heavy dress far too warm for the season. Your makeup feels caked on in the heat, even if you know it looks flawless because there are people standing in the sidelines whose jobs it is to make sure that you look flawless. The long dress covers your knees, and they’ve arranged you so that even in the full body shots it shouldn’t be apparent that your ankle is about three times as big as it should be. There’s plenty of things to cover up the bags under your eyes.
And it’s smothering you.
“Come on, Misa-Misa!” The photographer peeks out from behind the tripod to humor you with a grin, “give us that smile.”
The lights are too bright and the white backdrop with all the little things meant to amplify them and get the lighting just right are all too much-
“Misa!”
You snap to attention at the sharp call. Blink, disoriented. Then grin.
“Sorry, Misa’s head is in the clouds today!”
You tilt your head to the side and smile.
And life goes on with you hanging onto it.
But it’s okay. Because someone is looking out for you. And once you find him, you will never be alone again.
The room is terrifying and unfamiliar. It was your room just a moment ago, the same room that you have inhabited for what feels like forever and made your own, that you have woken up to every morning for all that time. But now it isn’t, and you might not know a lot right now but you know that it never will be your room again.
You pant, watching him, though there’s no real reason to. It doesn’t fix anything. Breathing in, breathing out, breathing in again too fast and there is an edge of hysteria to it, but the puffs come too swiftly for you to let out a sound. It’s not like it matters. He knows that you are here, and you saw the glint of metal, heard the bang that you swear must have ruptured your eardrums. Saw her crumple. Saw him crumple. And you couldn’t do anything, and if he shot them just like that then there is no reason that he won’t shoot you just like that too.
You can’t bring yourself to look at them, so you stare at him instead. And even if you aren’t making a sound, he knows that you’re here.
Your eyes connect. Every instinct you have tells you to look away, to break the contact, but you can’t. And he is going to kill you. You know it, just like even though there is a raspy noise coming from one of them (you’re too scared to see which), you know that your parents are dead. Maybe their bodies don’t quite notice it yet, but they are dead. And it isn’t romantic like you pictured it would be, it’s terrifying. But you look at him, right in the eyes. It’s funny how he doesn’t look like a monster at all, just a man with a gun who wanted some shiny things and caught you all at the wrong time. But that’s enough, isn’t it?
He turns on his heel and runs out the door, taking who cares what with him. And you don’t know why he didn’t kill you; you never will. You don’t know what he saw in you that he didn’t see in your parents, or if there was no reason or justice to it at all and he just decided to run for no reason that anyone can ever explain. Eventually you will stop wondering, but it keeps you up for weeks. After you stop crying over the bodies and lost warmth, you will still lie awake with the uncertainty of why. That’s the part that always haunts you.
They catch him. You point him out to the police. Your hand shakes, but your eyes are sure, and you point him out.
Life goes on. You are alone, and you aren’t quite ready for life to go on yet, but it does. And you either have to stand up to shuffle along with it or let it break over you.
You will not be left behind.
So scenes change… …
It’s amazing how things seem to happen all at once.
First there is nothing. The trial is put off, things drag on and on, you try to speed them up but you don’t really understand all that is going on and no one is willing to tell you. Why can’t justice be simple? You try to focus on your work, diving into everything your agent sets up and smiling for picture after picture, camera after camera, and you are breaking. You can feel it. Months upon months pass like sand clinging to your skin and still nothing; you start to believe that he is going to get away with it. And what are you supposed to do? You can’t kill him yourself (why not?), you can’t force them to bring him to justice (why not?). It’s driving you mad. He’s right there, in custody; they caught the bad guy and they saw what he did and he is still going to get away with it.
Then everything happens at once.
Your modeling career is finally starting to take off, you land a big feature in a popular magazine, and it can finally mean something because just like that, it happens. The man is gone- dead. You see it in the news, scour the internet for every single article so much as mentioning it in passing and read them all, smiling just as brightly each time.
Kira has brought him to justice.
And just like that, you have something to believe in again.
But...
It seems like there is some sort of order to the universe, where if something good happens then something terrible must follow it. You’ll change that, someday. You don’t know it yet, but you will make it so that all of the bad things only happen to bad people and the good ones won’t have to be punished.
You are walking home, alone, and maybe in the back of your mind you know that that’s stupid. Maybe you know that a little girl like you shouldn’t be walking down this dark, empty street all by yourself, but you don’t think about it. You don’t have anyone to walk home with you anyway, even if you did. There are plenty of people that you could ask, but none that you would. And maybe ever since you started following Kira, you’ve felt a little invincible. Protected. Like there is someone watching out for you, and he won’t ever let you come to any harm again.
It’s funny how right you are.
But you forget those thoughts when a man emerges below a street light, instinctively clutching your purse tighter. He’s just standing there, and you could swear that he is watching you. You move to cross to the other side of the street, and he moves too. You freeze. Because you caught the glint of metal in his hand, reflecting dimly into the abandoned path you have walked through so many times before and it was always safe then.
He is holding a knife.
Run.
“Misa, I love you.”
You’re not sure what keeps you from following the simple advice your entire body is giving. Maybe it’s the use of your name, though really, that should just make you run faster, shouldn’t it? But it is unexpected. You peer closer at him, but it’s too dark to make out much of his face. You still know that you don’t know him.
“I’m your biggest fan, I-”
He cuts off, and you smile at him, feel it plastered to your face as easily as it slips on in front of the camera because what else are you supposed to do?
Run!
“That’s so sweet-”
“I’ve watched you so long, not just since the issue of Eighteen like everyone else. I was with you from the start.”
You wonder if he even heard you. He’s stepping closer now, and you can see that he’s shaking. You take a step back, but do not run. You can’t seem to look away from him.
“You have to love me.”
The smile is still in place, as if this is all some sort of joke. As if a slow step back and a winning smile with a terrible edge to it is going to be enough to save you.
“Misa doesn’t even know you…”
You still smile, even though the words came out without enough planning and you know that there are a thousand better things that you could have said, but in the end words probably wouldn’t be enough to save you anyway.
“You have to love me, Misa, have to love me…”
He’s coming closer now, faster than you can shuffle backward. And it’s him. The burglar from that night. That’s stupid, you know it is, he’s dead- how many times did you read that fact? He is dead. But that doesn’t matter, because now he’s here with a knife and he’s going to finish what he started that day because time and time again you can’t just run.
He stops. No, doesn’t quite stop- he stops coming closer, but he is still moving. The jittering is more pronounced now; the hand holding the knife carelessly flies to his chest and his lips seem to be moving, forming soundless words. Abruptly he falls, still twitching horribly.
And finally you run.
You tear down the road in your three-inch-heels, skidding and busting your knee open on the asphalt after one fall, twisting your ankle after the second, but you are back on your feet just as quickly and run and run and run until you reach the apartment door looking like hell ran you over.
It’s not until you are sitting on the bathroom floor, phone cradled to your ear behind a locked door and another locked door beyond that that you start to cry.
Again you want to hide, or rest, but life refuses to slow down to accommodate you. Because there is a shoot tomorrow, and you are just shaken up from the incident, barely hurt, and you know that you can’t reschedule this. And it’s not as if staying at home, jumping at every little creak and bump would be any better anyway.
So you rise up again, and don’t bother to wonder if you’re leaving a little something behind in your haste each time.
“Look this way.”
You obey. Of course you do; that’s all that you are ever really good for, isn’t it?
“Tilt your head to the left just a little- yes, like that, perfect. Now smile.”
The spotlights are smothering, the heavy dress far too warm for the season. Your makeup feels caked on in the heat, even if you know it looks flawless because there are people standing in the sidelines whose jobs it is to make sure that you look flawless. The long dress covers your knees, and they’ve arranged you so that even in the full body shots it shouldn’t be apparent that your ankle is about three times as big as it should be. There’s plenty of things to cover up the bags under your eyes.
And it’s smothering you.
“Come on, Misa-Misa!” The photographer peeks out from behind the tripod to humor you with a grin, “give us that smile.”
The lights are too bright and the white backdrop with all the little things meant to amplify them and get the lighting just right are all too much-
“Misa!”
You snap to attention at the sharp call. Blink, disoriented. Then grin.
“Sorry, Misa’s head is in the clouds today!”
You tilt your head to the side and smile.
And life goes on with you hanging onto it.
But it’s okay. Because someone is looking out for you. And once you find him, you will never be alone again.