The show was a masterpiece. The lights went on and the audience cheered. When it was over, she came home, took off her mask with the brightly painted smile, and began to weep. Everything hurt. Her body. Her heart. Her soul.
She was a convincing actress. One that inspired others to smile, open their hearts, and experience joy. Yet she remained a prisoner in the confines of her twisted mind. She convinced herself that she was a self-sabotaging tornado that destroyed any and every good opportunity that came her way. She felt trapped in thought loops of killing herself.
No one noticed her leave the table when she went to the bathroom to do a line. Her hands trembled as she took a shard of glass and pressed it to her porcelin skin. The crimson blood dripped down her arm and she smiled.
She was a masochist who pushed her body to the limit. She had a constant emotional numbness about her but when she cut herself she could finally feel something. She took this exhilarating feeling with her on stage. She was a compulsive perfectionist. She performed every show like it was her last and she was always the people’s choice.
A man waited after the show to thank her for another incredible performance. She smiled the way she does, beaming with exuberance. He was captivated in every way. He wanted to know more about the actress. He wanted her. To hold her, to touch her, to kiss her.
But she didn’t belong to anyone. She didn’t even belong to herself. She was an enigma. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was a star and that the show must always go on.