Page 71 of Total Exposure

That was me.

Dressed up pretty.

Rolling waves of ribbon lace

and lights above me on the stage.

And then the nothing.

The great big nothing

as you walk away and try your best

to burn the joy you’ll never know

like a brand on your mind

echoing like a cheer to the fear

of being everything you will ever be

at the age of eight.

I am just a number.

That’s why I’m here.

A number. Boo-hoo, right? I mean, it’s a little fucking entitled in my opinion. I was born a child genius and my life was a fairytale. But I am a tortured princess. And I peaked at the age of eight. Watch me cry.

Bullshit.

It’s like she never grew up. Like she’s still that small, privileged girl being carted around to play for kings and queens. Not some washed-up has-been who’s too afraid to step outside without covering herself up from head to toe.

Hold on there, Ixion, the reasonable inner me says.

She did go to a very public place today. There were tons of people there, even though it’s the fucking dead of winter. Or maybe that’s why. Parents desperate to take their kids somewhere so they can have some semblance of a life outside their mundane suburban dream house.

And what better place to go in the winter than a greenhouse?

Yeah. That’s my fault, I guess. Didn’t think that through.

So one point for Evangeline for braving an invasion of nuclear families at a public park. And one point for allowing her intrigue to overpower her fear. But minus ten points for the tantrum.

She’s eight behind, as far as I’m concerned.

When the place is as picked up as it can be—I mean, I’m not gonna fix the dings in the wall and shit. The rich assholes who normally live here can do that themselves. Or Jordan—I start for the basement stairs but end up at the bottom of the grand foyer stairs instead.

I should check on her.

You can check on her downstairs, rational me says.

Fuck rational me. I want to see her.

I climb the stairs, then climb again, until I’m standing in front of the double doors that lead to her bedroom. I lean in, listening, then cautiously open them, eyes fixed on her still body in the bed.

She must’ve gotten chilled, because she’s under the covers now, that one defiant cold-seeking foot peeking out.

I smile. Partly because I do that too when I’m sleeping and get too hot. Partly because it makes her somehow… familiar. Like I know her now. I have this habit down. We’re sharing a past experience. Sort of.