basset hound nightgown t.s

Coral

The weak feeling didn't leave my bones, as I dragged myself from the rough floor and carried myself out the door. My feet dragged begrudgingly; my knees faltered. Weighed down with a new sudden load of bricks on my shoulders. Everything was so heavy. My heart was the heaviest of all weighed down six feet underground, where I'm sure the worms will cower around it and poke holes in it and demolish the broken organ. 

To top of my pretty little situation the paparazzi where happy to get thousands of dollars on photos of me walking out the studio and hour after Taylor with tear-stained cheeks and frowning lips. I'm sure Taylor would have looked the same. The media will already be talking about how tortured she looked. And how lost I looked. 

But I wasn't lost, I was almost perfectly content as I stepped out the red brick building and into afternoon sun, the sky a light shade of blue the traffic not to tedious. I walked slowly, partly because I felt so heavy, partly because I knew Taylor had walked here just an hour prior. Maybe she even stopped still for a moment to catch her breath. I knew if you took a violet light to the floor there would be some remaining evidence that she'd walked here. I knew I was breathing the same cloudy air with remnants of smoke from the surrounding alleyways.  

Eventually I slipped into a car with a private driver, I hated that I couldn't just be alone and that a stranger could so easily look in the rearview mirror at my puffy face and red eyes. But I wouldn't be strong enough to drive on my own now anyway. You're famous now Lucile, this is your life. Stop being a bitch about it. 

When I got to the hotel in LA, where I would wake up in the morning and be crowded with makeup artists, and hairdressers just to slip into a gown I could only ever have dreamed about wearing before walking down a red carpet to see the captor of my heart in her own beautiful gown. It was dark outside. 

I tumbled into the lobby, and someone else spoke to the desk for me. Because being famous doesn't just turn you into a loved or hated media star, it turned you into a toddler. Who apparently couldn't do anything for themselves. It's the thought of toddlers that makes me move straight for the hotel bathroom to throw up the contents of my breakfast up in a white porcelain toilet. The toilet itself probably cost more than my apartment. 

It was the middle of the night, and I was still on the floor of the cubicle. My phone loosely in my hand. My mind far away. My head lolled backwards into the navy blue and white tiled wall; the back of the toilet door had a sign with a blonde girl smiling. She was holding a baby and standing Infront of a white wood two story suburban home. With a range rover in the drive and a toy poodle in the front yard. The sign read Tim Warker Real Estate, LA The Most Famous City In The World. 

Well fuck that bitch for having such a perfect life, where she gets up every morning and puts cartoons on for her nine-year-old, while her husband feeds the dog and goes to work. Kissing her on the mouth before he goes and she's completely in love with him. She probably does yoga, and her child most likely eats broccoli without complaining. I bet she has several wine mum friends and hosts the best thanksgivings every year. I bet she has a stable job and spends hours in the gym. I bet she doesn't fall in love with her best friend and get pregnant to a guy who lives overseas and isn't her boyfriend because she broke his heart because she loves her best friend.  

By the end of my thought process, it's three in the morning and I'm tempted to rip the stupid straight teeth smile of the womans face. But instead, I pick myself of the floor, moving to my room where I doze of above the quilt for a few hours before I'm up and hours away from the most important night of my life. 

I don't expect an email from my publicist saying that Freddie is going to be there, I don't expect messages from him about meeting with me for breakfast, and most of all I don't expect the radio silence from Taylor. It's so unlike her. It's harsh and painful. Before I can fall into another hour of sobs knocks sound at my door with people holding matcha and hairbrushes. 

I'm too pregnant to turn down my favorite drink. But a nagging voice does remain in the back of my brain. Because a certain crimson lipped blonde is announcing her new album tonight. And a certain blue-eyed cat-lady would usually be on the phone to me with excitement. I checked my phone several times to make sure it wasn't on mute, all I had was an Instagram profile picture she'd turned to black and white. 

Worst of all, a special day trip had been booked for Travis, Taylor and I tomorrow, since he couldn't be at the Grammys. And now Taylor and I's publicists had decided I should take Freddie with us to break rumors of me and Taylor's relationship.

The love of my life, the love of my life's boyfriend, and my ex-boyfriend/father of the child growing in my stomach/the loml's boyfriend's best-friend. 

Nothing is going to wrong. Nothing is going to go right.