Walking down the sparse hallway, she drags a fingertip along the glass floor-to-ceiling walls. There are flashes of light going off intermittently, following after her click-clacking steps.
She doesn’t need to turn to see the cameras–she knows they’re there, they’ve been there for a while. She’s not performing for them, but she knows her walk will make a good photo. The fallen idol, still in high heels and an asymmetrical dress, on her way to the end.
She doesn’t have makeup–they wouldn’t let her have any after the incident three weeks ago, in which she wrote line after line of numbers and code on the walls of her room in eyeliner and lipstick–but her birthmarks being seen is the least of her concerns now.
It’s not prison, no, they could never do something so horrific to her. It’s rehab. It’s a resort. It’s all the same.
She wonders if they let her keep her heels because of how sharp they are. Perhaps they were hoping she’d do herself in, put and end to their misery. Or maybe they want to give her a minimal fighting chance–it’s the closest to a weapon they can give her without it actually being one. Or maybe… well, maybe those Misters just can’t recognize her without her signature look.
The guards walking behind her don’t even have a hand on their weapons. There really is no point. It’s hard to tell them apart, with their matching uniforms and face masks, but she thinks the one on her left is a fan–Was a fan. Will have been a fan–of hers.
“It’s the end of the line, you can leave me here,” She says to them, when they reach the door at the end of the hallway. There’s no reason for them to have to see it in person. It’ll be all over the news soon enough.
The one on the left, good old faithful Lefty, makes an aborted movement towards her. Arm swaying back from what could have been a comforting gesture.
“One little mistake, and this is it. I didn’t even get a chance to fix it,” She’s not even really speaking to them anymore. More to herself. It’s not quite self-pity, but a wistful what if mixed with regret, "Well, I started it with these Misters. It’s up to me to end it,“
When she walks through the door, the guards do not follow her. There is still a floor to ceiling glass wall, the lights outside steady–video not photo. There’s no other door, nothing on the walls, no furniture. She can’t see anything but the bland boundaries of the room.
That doesn’t mean there’s nothing there, though.
"Alright, you Mister. I’m ready,” She closes her eyes and takes one. last. breath.
~
A/N: Uh… a famous genius accidentally makes first contact with a race of non-physical alien entities that she calls Misters. For some reason they want her and she’s the price for them leaving Earth in peace.
Something like that. I just wanted this strange dichotomy of connections/contact without anyone actually touching her. Not sure if that came through.
JackSGreyson Says 