Page 53 of Ruby
Locked in the vicious environment of “show biz”, my life became an elaborate movie. To the press and whatever fans I had, I was an untouchablefemme fatale. To the people that knew me and didn’t pull out the Bitch, I was polite yet distant. My “friends” always chided me for being so closed off but what they really wanted to know was if I was getting cast frequently and if they could snatch my opportunities before I did.
Compared to the aliens whose expressions I can barely read; humans have always pretended to be open books. They could smile to your face and stab you in the back. It was hard to tell who was genuine so I pretended to be friends with them, rather than come face to face with the fact that I was just as rotten as they were. I cannot stand inside the glass house and throw stones.
You are the Bitch, the voice reminds me.
Am I? Rather than operate as just a clown in a giant circus, if I am to continue playing a role, then maybe I should play the Circus King. It’s still going to be a circus, and it would be difficult to change that. The roles that those clowns fought me for were so bad, I find it hard to believe that mother truly thought it was a grand opportunity.
The Circus King or the Bitch, I muse.Which would be better?
All the roles I have ever had were terrible. They were either too naïve, too stupid or too over-sexualized. God, they really were all terrible writers.
I’ll just have to write my own.
I don’t have much experience with writing though. From what I remember, the writers all said they drew inspiration from who they liked. They must’ve liked a lot of questionable people to make a sixteen-year-old play afemme fatale. Fuck them and their methods.
Who would I be?
If it’s someone I truly like and admire, it would have to be…hmm. What a dilemma. Is there truly someone genuine and kind in the industry? Someone older worth looking up to? Does anyone even check that box?
My eyes wander out of the cage, out past the clearing. There’s barely any wildlife here given the set up of the hunters. However, there are some critters moving around and some birds cawing up high in trees. After spending time in this forest, I wouldn’t sayI’m fond of its wildlife, most of which could kill me but there is one person I can think of who would revel in such a situation.
In one of my usual inscrutable leaps of logic, I figure out who I can emulate.
Steve. Crocodile-hunting Steve.
I never got the opportunity to meet the man, but his enthusiasm blew me away. It’s hard to find someone that is so genuinely proud of what he does that he keeps doing it every day. He made it a family affair but not so much that his kids despise what he did. Not like what the Witch did with me… I just know it.
He’s a man worth emulating. Is that my new mask?
I can’t do the Australian accent, though. Should I take my Russian accent back? No, that only works in English and it’s a lazy way to play a role. I should just keep an American accent.
My mind spins out some more on how to make a new mask out of Steve, and it feels more ridiculous the longer I play it out.
You are the Bitch, the ugly voice reminds me.
I shake my head, wincing as my scalp sends shooting pains, followed by a burning itch.
The Bitch doesn’t fit anymore. In the small chance Szhe’ka is still alive, it’s also not what he deserves.
“I want a new normal,” I mutter to myself.
Although is it normal to be this itchy? I’ve itched for hours now and it’s becoming unbearable to even think. It feels like I’m being stabbed by a million needles at the same time.
A loud bang against the cell distracts me, drawing my attention to the small steel tray pushed inside with the same saltless crackers and a bowl of water. Is this their definition of breakfast? I would much rather prefer the fruit I picked with Szhe’ka.
It’s hard to even think of him. Everything tells me he probably bled to death but just a sliver of hope prompts me to believe he somehow survived. He deserves to be rescued more than I do.
I keep scratching my skin, preferring not to eat this “breakfast”. I’m not about to provide content for their sick minds. I know they’re watching me with some kind of camera, even though I haven’t seen much in the way of technology.
My skin has been rubbed raw and I’m sure I look like a crazed person with my hair in shambles from how busy my hands have been. The acid burn that was all along my side is gone, like it never happened, though I don’t think it’s something I will ever forget.
I either healed a life-altering injury while I slept fitfully or it never happened. I feel insane.
My skin feels slightly rougher and almost scaly; the area around my nails is slightly bruised and reddish, as if irritated; and the nails themselves seem to have sharpened somehow. I don’t know what is happening to me. Hopelessness blankets me like a stifling embrace.
Surely it can’t get any worse.
A blob passes the window of my cage and calls to another one, telling him that they would have to move camp soon and my heart starts to beat much faster. I try to take deep breaths and think of anything else but only Szhe’ka’s face and his soothing voice comes to mind.
