Interface

Chapter 1

"Tell me, is it so hard to follow your dreams?

All it takes is a goal and the will to follow through-

But I've fallen into a hole that I can't get out of,

And all my will has fallen too."

"I'm sorry if I've let you down,

If your hopes are dashed as mine were tattered,

But I can't keep down this road anymore,

My dreams today were shattered."

"This is the last you'll hear my voice,

The last you'll hear my songs.

My voice is no longer mine to give;

Tomorrow it will be gone."

From the moment I wake up, I'm irritated. I didn't want to wake up. If it were up to me, I would sleep forever. But no-someone decided it was a good idea to turn the TV on, and now the 7 o'clock news is blaring through my tiny little room. I screw my eyes shut and try to bury my face back into my pillow, but my body is unwilling to respond. It shudders a little bit at the command, but my failure at rolling over lands me stranded on my side. Facing the TV, I assume-it's louder now.

"Today marks the four-year anniversary of the death of singer and actress K-Kass, along with her last hit single 'Shattered Dreams.'"

Oh, that's why the song was familiar, I think to myself, frowning. I think I listened to that... what. sophomore year? It was a good song.

Now somewhat invested in the news story, I crack one eye open, staring up at the TV fixed up on the wall. The story cut away from the reporter long enough to show footage that's nearly two years old now. The images of crying teenagers setting up shrines to K-Kass strikes some kind of chord in me. Maybe I was among those teenagers somewhere? She really was a great singer. There's a small video clip of a group of teenagers at Meloria High-my old high school-chanting one of the celebrity's signature phrases with shining cheeks.

"'K-Kass, full of sass-bold and bright and so bad-ass!'"

I'm fairly sure that I was somewhere around the edge of the frame there-that looked like my trademark purple turtle-neck. Yep. Sure enough, as the video pans right, you can just barely see my pale, freckled face. My wide leaf-green eyes show as much distress as the other weeping teenagers, tears oozing out from under rectangular glasses. Looking back on it, I haven't really changed much since then. I suppose my dark brown hair is about shoulder length now, but apart from that, I'm just a slightly older version of me.

...

Or I would say that, if not for the obvious.

I try to keep those thoughts at bay by remembering my cringe-worthy adoration for the frilly pink idol. The video fades out, and a picture of her at one of her last concerts is put up on the screen. The twenty-something singer-celebrity is singing her heart out, microphone held close with her other arm outstretched with emotion. Her strawberry blond hair is pulled into a ponytail, with part of it remaining down, concealing one ear. The tips are died a pastel pink-that seems to be her thing, being pink. Her eyes are closed, tears messing up the pastel pink flower makeup situated over one eye. She wears a sparkling pink cheerleader-type dress (complete with the flared skirt), and pink ballerina shoes. The look is completed with a pink rose pinned into her hair.