𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

33

IT HADN'T BEEN HIM, OR MAYBE it had. But why would he offer a mere glimpse and just go away? Colson wasn't one for hiding. He would never hide. So why would he start now? With me? Or had he done it to get at me in his sick way, for me to realize that he was still there, fresh in my mind and heart—not yet refusing to leave.

The thought was painful, and I quickly understood that refusing to think about him, like I had done since quitting last night, did not mean that I will get over him. Being shot meant you had to dig deep and procure the bullet before tending to the wound and allowing it to heal. It will never heal with a bullet still stuck inside. Colson's bullet was edged deep in me, and I couldn't even pin point all the pain I felt to a specific point in my body—I couldn't even locate it, so how will I get it out?

The cab whizzed by my second last night in London. After the runway show today, tomorrow will be my last night in the city and then, maybe I'll never visit again. As the bright lights of the restaurants and buildings that lined the streets danced in front my eyes like sparkling fireflies, I clutched the dress that I designed tightly to myself—before loosening my grip. It was neatly wrapped safely and zipped up in a protective suit of it's own.

London had been.. beautiful but strange, and that wasn't her fault. It was never the city's fault, only the lives of the people in it that stirred trouble and unrest among themselves. Still, I don't know if I'll ever come back. With mom and my brother Mickey, my life was in Seattle. Amidst all this tour travel, I didn't realize leaving a city I had never known would affect me like London was already doing.

The cab raced past the London views, a casual Friday night in the city. My stomach knotted in anxiety as I kept my eyes pinned outside to spot the Balmain event venue. The formal dress I wore hugged my curves, the material soft and relaxing. I was going to be modelling someone else's design, while someone else modelled my own. What if my design wasn't good enough? What if no one looked at it at all?

I shut my eyes tight, ridding myself forcefully of these thoughts. It'll be fine, I scolded myself, even if it doesn't work out for me, I'm going home and I'll find something.

Soon, the cab had halted in front of the venue. I paid my fare and got out, making my way to the entrance. The building sparkled against the night, the pristine lobby inside glistened with its marble floors. I approached the receptionist and told her my name, but as I began to tell her why I was here, she only half listened and quickly checked a list. Then she cut me short and gave me over to a uniformed girl standing by the side, the Balmain logo on her chest.

I was led to a back floor. The first person I saw there was her, the lady from the video, as she called out instructions to male employees—each carrying something or the other. Racks and racks of clothing adorned the back floor, all colors so different and unique. Assistants swept past, some digging amongst the racks for a certain costume.

"Ah, Miss Davina Martinez," The lady announced, calling my attention as she reached out her hand.

"I am Claire Randolph, executive producer of this event, and I am glad you could make it."

Her hair was still precisely just so, and her gold hoop earrings bright as they dangled.

"Thank you for inviting me," I found my voice, anxiety still pushing inside me. "I'm happy to be here."

Claire Randolph's lips twisted in a smile, as her eyes did a silent survey of my form. It was so brash and unexpected that it made me suddenly conscious. Her eyes took in my stature, all the way from my head to my feet and back up again. Then, having completed the inspection, her eyes met mine, the same smile still etched on her face.