Page 2 of Ruby
I snort again, this time at my stupidity.
She already knows, or she should. Everyone should know the price of fame. I rake her over with a critical eye, noting the work she’s had done.
It won’t help.
“She was beautiful,”they will say, if they aren’t already commenting on it.Was.
Funny how this industry tries to convince you that you’re immortal, and then reminds you, frame by frame, that you’re not. Every close-up becomes a measurement of decay.
When I first shifted to more adult roles, older actors told me not to chase the approval, not to mistake applause for love. I thought they were just bitter. Now I understand.
It’s not bitterness, it’s grief.
The kind that doesn’t wail, doesn’t announce itself. It just settles in your chest, heavy and permanent, like dust the lights can’t quite catch.
“Ready to go again?” a PA asks.
She’s smiling the way people do when they want something from you. Polite, hopeful, already half somewhere else, that small wince in the corner of her mouth directly results from dealing with the Bitch.
I nod, let myself be readjusted, and step back into the light. The makeup artist smooths a wrinkle at the corner of my eye with practiced care, and I pretend not to notice. Everyone pretends. That’s the currency of this place.
We roll again. The same embrace. The same fake tenderness and hunger. Only now I linger a fraction longer in that tiny, fleeting quiet. In that place where I amher, and there is no other mask. The one place without judgment or camera angles.
“Cut,” the director says. Applause, laughter, chatter. Noise again.
I smile. That’s what they expect. But inside, I’m whispering something only for myself.
I’m still here. I’m still me.
As always, I ignore the part of my mind hung up on the obvious. Who the fuck am I?
***
“I’ve seen you play kind roles,” my therapist says in that carefully neutral voice of hers. “Very convincingly, I might add.”
A snort escapes before I can think better of it. “You mean the roles that had tomatoes thrown at me?”
That pulls a small sigh, and it feels like a win, at least until she continues talking. “We aren’t talking about fame right now, Ani, but identity.”
I show her my best scowl, though it has lost some of its impact thanks to my forehead no longer moving. “I’m the Bitch. I know my identity.”
“Truly?” she lobs back, one eyebrow raised. “Or is that a defense mechanism in a predatory system?”
“Predator is always better than prey,” I scoff.
Now her smile is back and I know she led me right where she wanted me. “It isn’t a dichotomy of choices. There is a spectrum of predator—or ‘the Bitch’ as you like to call that side of you—and being prey that you are ignoring. Plus, we have alreadyestablished that ‘the Bitch’ isn’t your true identity. We need to find out what that is if you want to progress.”
“I know,” I concede.
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “But the ship sailed on me knowing who I am the moment I made her goals my goals.”
“I know your mother is a powerful force in your life, but give yourself some grace. You are allowed to forgive yourself for being young, you know. And as an adult you can make different choices.”
I roll my eyes. She’s said all of this before. “Look, I know this is your specialty and yada, yada…”
I trail off because I’m not really sure what my point is.
“Come now, Ani. How many child stars did you start with who are dead now? Or walking the line with drugs? I understand why you became ‘the Bitch,’ but the utility of that role has passed.”
