I saw the stars. It's like watching television on a cloudy, rainy day and the fuzzy, CRT television screen pops up, flickering and hypnotizing. Black eye and swollen lip, I didn't mean to anger him. His words, sweet and unforgettable, his fist clashing up against my pale skin. I had forgotten to stock up on booze ever since I broke down last week and drank the pain away. He was out of his favorite whiskey, still hazed by the prescriptions. And then, after bitching out at him for bruising me up when I had a show the next night, I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can never be fixed. This is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older, as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it's already happened. I needed Salvatore in my life. I had realized this early into this odd relationship of ours, hesitating at first. The pain he implemented to my life was just what I desired when I was out and about, challenging all I taught. Without me, where would his poor self be anyways? Who else but a dumb girl like me would fall for the bad guy, the villain? Who would care as much?
I carelessly readied for my big night at Lucky Lolita's. Trying to cover up my black eye, I heard constant whispering and from the corner of my eyes saw the others signaling to me, talking about letting another girl fill in for my part tonight. Replacing me on the night of my show, these girls are only after the money and the limelight. They never did cease the talking behind my back about the life I had built up for myself. In the midst of the chaos backstage, someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around to face a massive bouquet of roses blooming crimson. It was an intense color, a scarlet hue as bright and vivid as my bloody, swollen lips from the prior night. I didn't have to take a guess as to how many roses there were in my arms, for there were twenty-three red roses. Always. The girls getting ready whispered and gazed over to my solitary mirror where I stood admiring the lively, breath-taking color of the flowers. A slip of paper was stuck in between the silky petals. No name was signed as to address who had sent the flowers, but I could recognize the distinct handwriting anywhere. It read:
"Frankie, wouldn't we be quite the pair? You with your bad heart, me with my bad head. Together, though, we might have something worthwhile."
With that, I was fucking ready for the limelight, to star in the silver screens.
