October 25, 2012

2012. Los Angeles.

The hospital room was white, white as snow. White tile, white walls, white sheets, white gloves, white. Lottie looked around frantically for someone to tell her that what she had just been told wasn’t true, but that she was just on Punk’d again or something of that nature. Desperately she looked for a camera man or a director or something...or anything. Anything to tell her that it was all a lie. But no one was there to say that. Just her, her assistant, and the doctor that entered the room.

“Lottie. There isn’t much you can do. There are no experimental procedures or treatments, there isn’t much we can do but give you some pain medication for now.”

Crap, Lottie thought to herself. I’m dying.

“How long do I have?” she asked, her voice loud and hard.

The doctor stared at her.

“Three months most likely, and that’s without heavy exercise. I’m sorry Lottie.”

“No no, that’s not a problem,” she remarked, to the shock of her doctor. She was forty-eight. Her career was glowing. Thirty years and still getting better each day. “How much time if I am exercising intensely? Eight hours a day?”

“Half of that,” he remarked, looking confused.

Lottie burst out of the chair and bolted for the exit. She had not a minute to spare. “Ashley, we are moving!” she shouted as she ran. Her assistant followed her out the door. The doctor followed.

“Don’t you want pain medication?” he yelled down the hallway.

“Pain medication?” Lottie laughed, “Ha. Yeah right. I can’t afford to be groggy.”

Lottie couldn’t afford to be groggy.

The most famous performer of all time had six weeks to plan the biggest show in history.

She reached her car, and sat down quickly. She was being overtaken by a massive headache. The flashbacks began.
1970. Rural West Virginia.

The note slipped from her mouth as she sat in front of the mirror. Lottie liked the sound of it. And so she continued to sing, and she sang her heart out, singing nothing in particular except the alphabet song. Suddenly though, she heard a bottle as it was placed on the coffee table down the hall. Her father had heard.

“Lottie! Shut up with that crap!”

Lottie was scared. But that didn’t make her desire to sing any less.

She sang, this time with a little less volume than before. The letters slipped off her tongue. She loved the feeling in her throat as the notes moved and became sound. But then, she heard it again. This time the bottle was slammed down onto the coffee table. She heard her father’s chair fly back as he ran down the hall.
Lottie trembled with fear. Desperately, she screamed. Her father, inebriated, ran towards her at full force. She curled into a ball, quaking with fear. What had she done?

The door to her room flew open as he stormed in.

“I said SHUT UP with that CRAP.”

Lottie listened, as a small tear fell from the corner of her eye.

I will make it out, she thought to herself. And I will be the biggest star.

She stared across the room to see her empty piggy bank. An idea came to her mind.
1982. West Virginia.

The day had arrived, twelve years in the making. Lottie stepped off of the platform, diploma in hand. She had graduated high school. Graduated dependent life. She looked into the audience and found him. There he was, wearing his best polo shirt with the glassy stare of intoxication in his eyes. He looked at her with angry eyes. She had been singing the night before.

Lottie found her father and strode up to him with a great confidence.

“So what are you doing now? Because you sure aren’t staying in my house, you lazy, talentless airhead.” Her father stared right at her.

“Well I have no intention of staying with an alcoholic abusive man anyways,” she spit, the words feeling wonderful as they left her mouth.

“Have a nice life,” he remarked. “And you can take your piece of junk car with you.”

“You won’t be seeing me again,” Lottie said with a smile.

He simply swore under his breath as he turned on his heel.

Lottie walked to her beat up pick up truck with a massive grin on her face. It was all packed, with her clothes and her makeup and everything she would need to become a great star. She opened the glovebox and pulled out her piggy bank. She placed it and its contents- two hundred dollars- on the passenger seat. She started the truck and pulled out her map. She was off to New York City.

New York City.

The club was small, and had relatively few patrons. Nevertheless, Lottie walked up to the microphone as the DJ introduced her, her sparkly silver dress from senior prom reflecting the lights. She started and ended the set as always, and the claps at the end were faint like they always were. Lottie stepped off of the stage, determined to get back to her studio apartment by 1 AM. However, a man blocked her way as she stepped off of the stage. He wore a suit. He extended his hand. He wanted her to shake it. She did.

“Hello Lottie. The name is Nick. I’m a record producer. I liked you.”

“Yes yes yes yes yes!” Lottie screamed immediately.

Nick slipped her a piece of paper. “Well you’re an ambitious one. I’m interested. Be there, tomorrow morning.” And he turned and left. Lottie jumped into the air. Her career had begun.

Los Angeles.

Lottie was the best-selling musician of all time. Two billion records. Twenty-six Grammy’s. And six weeks to plan the most amazing concert in world history.
Central Park.

There, in the middle of Central park, over the lake, was a massive stage. And on it, a massive star. She was saying goodbye. Lottie looked out into the audience, which extended throughout the entire park. She looked directly into a television camera. And she smiled that trademark smile. The seven hundred and fifty million people watching at home from around the world all trembled.

“Well guys, this is it. Thank you all for making this-making me- happen.”
It was the last song.

Lottie smiled as she was risen up, moving up quickly in the crane. Suddenly, there she was, nestled thirty stories in the air. She looked out at the million or so people that stood frozen in the park, glued on her or on the massive video screens. Her silver prom dress shone in the lights and flashing cameras. New York City froze as she let one final note leave her lungs. And then it was over. The crane lowered her back to Earth, and she stepped into the car that was waiting for her.

The car was ready for her. It drove straight through the audience, who parted like an ocean for their Queen. They screamed louder than ever before. They knew she was going to die. They just didn’t understand how soon.

Lottie turned to the bottle of vodka and the bottle of sleeping pills. She downed the pills, and then the vodka. Her eyes got heavy. And there, in the car, to the sounds of a million pairs of clapping hands, Lottie fell asleep. Forever.

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Skookie97 said...
Oct. 29, 2012 at 10:41 pm
Very good work.
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