i still have the script somewhere, tucked between my diaries and old magazines. the paper edges curl up now, but i remember the way they felt—soft at first, then sharp. it cut my finger once, and milk came out. not milk, silly. but it looked white. it wasn't enough to cry over, though. not like the other things.
the first day on set, i wore diapers under my dress, just in case. "a star needs to be ready for anything," they said. "do you want to be a star, darling?" i nodded, of course. they liked that. liked when i didn't speak unless spoken to.
"you're gonna love this," the director said, patting my head like i was a puppy. "smile wide, sweetheart. smile wider."
"where's mom and dad?" i asked. they never answered, but it didn't matter. they weren't important. they never were.
dead people can't stop the living, do they?
"what's the line again?" i used to ask. sometimes, i forgot. or pretended to. the men didn't like when i forgot.
"you're old now, hon," they say. "don't you feel old?"
i laugh, but it's too high-pitched.
"old? at 25?" i would giggle. but deep down, i knew. i've been old since i was 14. or maybe before.
"how much longer do i have to do this?" i asked once. no one answered.
"do you still want to be a star?" they'd tease. of course i do. i think i do. i must.
when the lights flashed, and the men crowded around, i smiled and kept my mouth shut. i was good. always good.
but now, now i don't know. now i can't stop thinking about the paper cut.
.... . .-.. .--.
