She stood silent in the middle of her gigantic living room wearing only a pink robe. Allie Rapids stood with her head facing the floor. This 32-year old pop star on hiatus felt the malignant melancholy all over her bones. She had strawberry blonde hair, fair skin, light blue eyes, and a slender figure. Many men would find her attractive. Her living room was filed with awards, platinum records, movie posters that featured her music or her (questionable) acting abilities, and a giant painting of a butterfly as it soars high on the wall. The frustration amidst the luxury was a pitiful dichotomy that only she knew. Allison got many things that she wanted, but her desire was nothing but a quantized black hole.
“I got this far. Now what?” whispered the lonely singer as she finally raises her head and walks to her kitchen to get a drink of mineral water served from a glass pitcher in the shape of a sparrow. Her feet shuffle on the marble tiles before having a seat at this immense mahogany table for one. Allie takes a few gulps of that overpriced water and rubs her forehead as if she had a migraine. Her past successes flash through her head like a psychedelic clip show. Award shows, cameos in sitcoms aimed at preteens, dozens of world tours, the gala events, and the geysers of money churning into her bank account coalesce into one highlight reel spinning as fast as her last name. Sure, Allie was used to having a sterling silver spoon in her entire life given that she had a CEO dad and a CPA mom, but she always wanted more. That something was the ideal man…or men at this point of her life.
Ms. Rapids didn’t dare visit her basement very often because one of her own mosaics would haunt her; it was none other than the wall of ex’s. Forty photographed faces of rich and famous men take up a whole wall at the bottom of her country club mansion. Pop stars, Hollywood actors, business executives, and athletes are near each other by way of black frames and X’s crossing their faces in Allie Rapids’ Pure Passion red lipstick. A few of them did deserve it since they only wanted Allison for her money and fame, but most of them had at least had a scintilla of chivalry to fall in love with her.
“No. I don’t want you.”
“Look, you’re a nice guy and all, but I’m out of your league. I need someone who understands me.”
“What are you talking about? You mean all those gifts and quality time wasn’t enough? I canceled my interview at [insert magazine or talk show here] just so we could hang out and do fun things. Why?”
“I don’t feel like saying why. We’re through.”
That was how the conversations would go with many a suitor for Allie. Perhaps she read way too many fairy tale stories as a child or she has severe daddy issues. Either claim has a good amount of veracity in it. The pop songstress finishes her water, leaves, and walks up her spiraling tower of a staircase to head back to her massive bedroom. It was all pink: the walls, the sheets, and the furniture were all various shades of this color. The only things that wasn’t pink in her room that are in view were more platinum record awards and some princess dolls that wore baby blue dresses on top of her dresser. Allison grabbed one of the dolls and started to talk to it.
“You’re lucky that you still feel like a princess. If only my prince could come and save me now, I’d finally be able to grasp onto that reality that I desire. It’s a shame that too many 2nd-rate guys wanted to have me. The last thing I want is to have a forty-first man on that wall downstairs.”
The doll listened as if she was her true confidant. There is some truth to that since all of Allie’s secrets are safe with the plastic princesses. After her conversation with the toys, she walked up to her pink closet, opened it and found something that she hadn’t seen in years: an acoustic guitar. The last time she saw it was the day before her manager told Allison to not play it in the studio or at live shows, and that was 7 years ago.
“Nobody wants to see you play guitar anymore. That’s your backing band’s job to handle all those instruments. Just keep on singing. The band and set designers will take care of the rest. Hey, set designers! Where the heck are those butterfly animatronics?!”
Allie was devastated when she heard those words years ago. Her guitar playing was one of the reasons that got her famous. Granted, she wasn’t some shredding mastermind, but at least Allie was able to write some acoustic pop songs with it. The guitar might as well have screamed “Your son hath returneth!” as she grabbed and tuned it. She tried strumming it, but she temporally forgot how to make chords. Allie was quickly able to remember how to play one, two, three, then four chords on her formally abandoned guitar. A short smile came to her face as she strummed around in her pink-clad bedroom. She stopped for a second and wondered about all the drama that happened in her life thus far ever since she achieved stardom during her teenage years. After careful consideration, she got out a pen, paper, and sang out the first words of this new song.
“I’m sorry. It was my fault all along…”