So I don’t.
—
My eyelids flutter open. I see white metal above me, the dark head of a man beside me. I’m lying on my back. He’s sitting to my right. I don’t know who he is or what he’s doing. I don’t even know where I am. All I know is that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. I know it. I can feel it, like frantic fingers picking at my consciousness, picking away the scab. Tearing away the blindfold. Luring me into awareness.
I turn away. Back into the nothingness.
—
Seconds, minutes, hours pass. Time has no real meaning. It’s only a series of disjointed sights, sounds and feelings. Fear. Dread. Pain.
Excruciating pain.
And aloneness. Even though I know I’m not alone; I’m far from alone.
I hear dozens of different voices now. Beeps. Thumps. Scrambling. And I can smell. Something awful, putrid even, mixed with the chemical scent of a hospital.
But the pain is what overwhelms it all. It’s nearly unbearable, like my left side is trying to secede from the rest of my body. Nerves tearing away from nerves, muscle ripping away from tendon. Flesh falling away from bone.
So I run.
I run into the deepest part of my mind, the part that refuses to participate with the outside world. I hide there until the pain stops.
Only it never stops. It never stops stalking me from the shadows.
ONE
Katie
I haven’t been so aware of my shortcomings, of my fears, in the two years that I’ve been here. Each time I ask myself Why today? I can come up with only one answer, but really it’s no answer at all. It only spurs another question. Why him?
“You’re not the least bit excited to be putting makeup on the Kiefer Rogan?”
We slow our walk as we approach my “office,” which is basically four thin walls that house a makeup chair, a bank of lighted mirrors and a wraparound counter topped with a bunch of shelves. And on those shelves are the supplies of my trade—a wide array of everything from pancake makeup to prosthetic noses. It’s not fancy, but it feels as much like home as any place does.
I turn my eyes to Mona’s cornflower blue ones. She is the only person who might even come close to being called my best friend. Am I oddly nervous? Yes. Am I extremely uneasy? Yes. But am I excited?
“Not even a little bit,” I reply sincerely.
Her full lips fall into a disbelieving O. “Wow! I can’t even imagine not getting excited over a guy like him.”
“He’s just a guy,” I declare with a shrug. I wish I felt as casual as the gesture indicates. Kiefer Rogan is just a guy, but guys like him spell trouble. For that reason alone, I can’t really be as nonchalant as I pretend to be. I try to change the subject, turning the conversation back to Mona and her man. “Besides, why should you care anyway? You’ve got a boyfriend.”
She grins, which makes her look even more innocent than her platinum hair and eyes that are too big for her face. Physically, Mona is the perfect split between a Barbie Doll and a Precious Moments figurine, all with a touch of clueless porn star thrown in for good measure. She can work her assets like nobody’s business, but she does it in such a way that doesn’t make her detestable, which is quite a feat. She’s very genuine, too, which is one of the things I like most about her. That and the fact that we are polar opposites in practically every way.
Mona is tall and fair and beautiful with a sweet, outgoing personality. I am none of those things, but we both seem to be okay with that. It’s probably why we get along so well.
“White’s great, but he doesn’t look like that.” White Bristow is the executive producer of the show. He’s fairly good-looking, but nothing like the guy Mona is talking about, Kiefer Rogan. White’s a total player like Kiefer allegedly is, too, but Mona loves him enough to overlook it. No matter what else he’s doing (or who else he’s doing), he always comes back to Mona. I guess maybe he loves her in his own way. “God, I wish he did, though.”
“Looks aren’t everything,” I remind her softly.
Her expression falls into one of regret and sadness. She reaches out and smoothes the hair that I always keep swept over my left shoulder. It can always be found draped around my neck to hide my scars. She’s one of the few people who know what lies beneath the swath of hair. And how sensitive I am about it. “No, looks aren’t everything, but if they were, you’d still be one of the most wanted.”
I smile. That’s Mona—always seeing the best in me, whether it’s accurate or not. “That’s sweet, but you and I both know that’s not true.”
“Oh, but it is. Look at you, Katie. All this thick, wavy auburn hair, those big, dark blue eyes. And you’re so tiny! I’d give anything to be petite like you.”