Page 6 of Her Sloth

I left home over a decade ago, when I was sixteen, as I made my way to Hollywood. I didn’t know about anything that was going on. My sister and I, we had a fallout and I—I didn’t know—Not what he did—not what⁠—

Stop thinking about it! I tell myself, but the more I try, the worse it gets.

Guilt consumes my insides and constricts my breathing.

Because I left.

I left and never looked back.

My stomach is close to turning just thinking about it. My fists clench.

Not now, I tell myself as I lose my fight with the tears, and they roll down my cheeks. Not in front of all these people who already think I am a stupid Barbie.

Many people have called me fragile or impossible to deal with because I always cry the moment pressure is put on me. Or I have to deal with a superior. Or get angry. Every time I feel anything. Responsibility. Anger. Happiness. I always cry, and I hate everything about it.

All these men in their suits stare at me; I can feel their judgment with every cell of my body and it makes things even worse. They think I am not fit to run a multinational corporation. And I am not.

I am an actress. Someone who steps into roles because that’s what she’s good at.

One of the suits walks over to me and hands me his pocket square, wordlessly.

I take it.

Wipe away the tears.

Take a deep breath in.

I can’t be the reason so many people lose their existence. Some might call me arrogant, but those who know me well know I am not built that way. My father was entitled beyond, and I always hated him for it. My mother, ohhh, I’d really like to punch her in the face one day. But the family I found L.A., they know. They know the real me.

A stitch in my chest, because I’m here all alone and they’re there. It brings back so many memories of the past. I mean L.A isn’t all sunshine and roses; the industry is a different hell, but at least it was a chosen one.

A chosen hell that taught me many things. First and foremost, that I am not going to let a bunch of slick men dictate what I can and can’t do.

What was the line I said when Phoenix, the role I played in a dystopian movie?

“You might have taken everything from me, but there is one thing you can never take, and that’s the knowledge of what it took me to get here. You can crush me all you want, but I’m Phoenix. I burn, and I rise again. You’re just a small man.

I close my eyes for one brief moment.

Small men.

I rise.

I survive.

I open my eyes again.

“Where do I sign?”

Contracts are put in front of me; I have to sign endless documents.

After signing the last one, my hand hurts. The mere paperwork gives me an idea of what I am about to step into.

I survive, I tell myself.

I rub my eyes because I am exhausted.

“Is there anything you need?” someone asks me. What I need is to leave this building and get into my car, far away from all of this. But that is something I can’t tell anyone.