Drop Dead Gorgeous

10:37 AM - 1/1/47 - home

Light. Dizzy. Blur. I woke up. Another day, another life. I sit up and lift the covers off of me and sit on the side of the bed, leaning over myself. The glare booming through my window lit up my bruised (God knows how that happened), pale olive skin. I run my fingers over a fresh looking bruise, sighing. I closed my eyes. Mother. Fear. Hurt. Loud. I opened my eyes and I reached over to the pill bottle on my night table. I decide I don't want to deal with my PTSD right now and I'd rather kill off my brain cells. I take out two white pills and wash it down with the remainder of what was a bottle of vodka. This has become my daily breakfast: alcohol and opioids.

I stand up and walk over to the large window in my room. I look out to the dull gray city, the bottle still in my right hand. Today is New Year's Day. The year, 2147. Nothing really changes on New Year's Day, except perhaps the snow covered resolutions of the night before. And all those highly intoxicated people in the streets, much more than last year. People celebrate a change in time, but really what changes? The world does not change simply because the clock strikes midnight after 365 days. Itś funny how people feel like they have to wait for a future moment to change themselves for the better, instead of just doing it when they feel change is needed. Even if you do make the effort to change, you don't really change.

And then there's that voice in my head. The voice that actually says something truthful. You're so pathetic that you can't even stop drinking. You drink to forget, but you always remember, idiot. No matter how much you've "tried" to change, you just don't. You're still depressed, you're still an alcoholic, and you're still sick. I'd honestly rather live in my high fantasy than have to listen to myself. I heard somewhere that, at the turn of the 21st century, before the third World War, being born "sick" was accepted and appreciated. They even paraded their "sickness" in the streets to celebrate it. That was a brief change in the world, but changes don't last. It was just a phase. Things never really changed.

A knock on my bedroom door snaps me out of my train of thought. Probably my husband, Mark. The man I married solely to erase suspicion of my "sickness" from society. I am so grateful that Mark was willing to help me, but at the same time, I feel bad because he won't be able to marry someone he actually loved. He came into my room, ¨Hey Lillia, is everything okay?¨. I nodded as he walked over to hug me. He does this every morning and I quite enjoy the thought of someone caring about my wellbeing. My life has definitely gotten better since I met him, he is my emotional crutch. He sees the bottle in my hand, grabs it out of my hand, and set it on my wardrobe. ¨Today at Chandlerś thereś someone singing on the stage this afternoon, would you like to come see that with me?¨.

¨Yeah, that would be fun¨, I replied. I really needed to get out of my house, since the majority of the past month was spent on me rewatching old VHS tapes of past fashion shows I've modeled in. I need to get out.

5:00PM - 1/1/47 - Chandler's Cigar Bar

We took a trolly to Chandlerś Cigar Bar, our typical lounge area. There was a large sign in the front window that said ¨NO WOMEN, NO COLORS, NO ILL (with exception of performers)¨. However, I've known Chandler from grade school back in Czech, so he let me in, despite it being illegal. ¨Aye, itś the Smiths! Welcome back!¨, Chandler said in a booming voice. He was a middle aged man, a bit older than me, and he had a large stature with a nice mustache.

¨Hey Chandler, nice seeing you again¨, Mark responded, with a smile. We took a seat at our usual booth at the front of the stage. There wasn't anyone up on the small stage, but I heard murmurs and rustling behind the tattered red curtain. The voice sounded female and it was a raspy, but pretty voice. I looked to the right of the stage and saw a chalkboard sign that said ¨PERFORMING TODAY: Judy and the Junebugs¨ with the band name being in a pleasant cursive handwriting. Suddenly, I heard the clicking of high heels and a pretty woman walked out from behind the curtain with two other guys: one holding a guitar and the other setting up a keyboard. Judy (which I assume is her name) was a short, red headed girl with a pale, slightly freckled face and a cute upturned nose. She had happy hazel eyes and had bangs covering her forehead. She was wearing a thigh length red dress with white polka dots with matching high heels. She was just pleasant to look at. After the band finished setting up, Judy gave a brief introductory speech: Hello everyone! Thank you so much for going to our show! Weŕe going to start off our jam session with a couple of prewar songs. Hope yáll enjoy yourselves!¨. They started playing music, she started singing a cover of "A Horse With No Name" by America with her raspy, beautiful voice, and all just felt okay for once. My heart was racing, probably from all the alcohol and nicotine I've consumed, but I felt one with the music and just felt... alive.