Young Blood ~•~Timothée Chalamet

Chapter 1

"Welcome to Hollywood, baby. It ain't for everyone. You comin' with?"

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Why had it always fucking hurt? Time had carried on and yet there was never a way for me to fully escape this widening ache of dissatisfaction. An onlooker might otherwise disagree with that statement though, looking through my bedroom window to only see that I had the world practically at my fingertips. My birth would have been considered the lottery for many. Life had blessed me with all the graceful delicacies that it had to offer; moments and possessions that most people only dream of achieving one day. And it was a constant battle in convincing myself to be grateful for that. But those "things" that I felt were missing never seemed to be in arms-reach. I knew they were crucial in feeling whole and a little girl that I knew so well had always been there to remind me that I lacked them. She whispered to me in times of desperation of that unfound key that would surely set both of us free. Yet I chose to ignore her over the years and although my body developed and my mind matured out of childish fears, she was still there, haunting me with betrayal from a childhood that I was never able to give her. But what I would eventually learn over the course of the next year is that those desires that finally surface after being deprived of air for far too long, they are the kind that like to detonate when not handled carefully.

Up on my balcony, I gazed out onto all of Hollywood, alive and beating against the darkness. But everyone knew, the closer you got, the darker it truly became. I took a long drag from the cigarette, watching the tip breathe to life. I exhaled, my eyes following the smoke as it floated away with the nighttime breeze. Like I said, it was always a constant battle for control within us, but I've learned to deal with her unwavering pleas. I didn't want to smoke. But in these moments, a painful hunger took ahold of my body. One that I never wanted to crave. I didn't resist the temptation when it neared anymore because who could push away their only confidant?

Earlier this evening, I thought I could handle myself. But then what do you know, I'm out here once again slowly killing myself under the stars. Tonight was just like any other award night. The Hollywood Filmmaker's Society was holding their annual award show. The O'Heir family was all expected in attendance by Mr. O'Heir himself. It was one thing that kept our family together when at home around our own dinner table we felt disconnected. But except me, it was never a concerning matter.

I was exhausted from these parties, the awards, the flashing cameras. With every mile my father's ego grew, my sanity only declined more. And it didn't just take its toll on me, but my sister and Mom too. Maybe they weren't able admit to it in words, but their eyes told me we were all fucked up one way or another Hollywood was no place to raise a family. I was eighteen and I already had more unfortunate experiences than a newbie in the game. Experiences that I couldn't take back, that I couldn't unsee. I took another hit, my lipstick leaving stains on the filter. The smell of tobacco infusing itself with my Chanel. A radiation that read young, troubled and privileged. What I really wanted people to see though was that I was broken.

My father's voice echoed off the large walls from the foyer, filling itself with rage. He was getting into some tempered argument with my mother. He'd always hurt her with words that cut like glass and gnawed on her bones. He'd cut through all of us if it just mean't getting his way. The fighting ended abruptly at the sound of our driver's engine roaring to life below me. Our driver gave me a little wave of pity from the driver's seat. They would be calling my name shortly.

"Violet," my mother chimed from the foyer, "time to go, sweetheart." Right on time.

I threw the ceasing bud to the ground and dragged my stiletto across the concrete, extinguishing the remaining embers.