4I : Dreams
Adam Stevens shot up in bed, sweat lining his forehead and edges of his slightly feminine face. The princess-queen in his dream was all too real for his liking, and her voice – her childish, deadly voice – still echoed, laughing, in his head. He shuddered. Her immature tones as she ordered the death of a woman and her family, who were much older than her, were not going to be easy to forget for a while. Swinging out of bed, he looked at the worn clock on his bedside table and groaned. It was half past five in the morning. He wasn't due at work until eight, so his plans were intending on a lie-in.
Now that I'm up, I might as well make myself a coffee, he thought grudgingly while throwing on his dark red dressing gown.
Groggily, he dragged his feet across the carpeted floor to shuffle from his bedroom to the kitchen across the hall. He lived in a comfortable, plain flat by himself in central London, which was all he needed to write his articles. He was happy there – anything was better than living in the slums, if he had to go back he'd be alone this time.
Hitting the switch on the kettle violently as he passed it, he retrieved his favourite Star Wars mug from the cupboard, along with the sugar and instant coffee packet from the shelf above. The fridge was opened with the hand which wasn't carrying the mug, sugar pot and coffee, milk taken from the fridge and the door kicked shut. He dropped everything on the kitchen top surface in relief and stretched his arms, yawning.
The kettle was still boiling excruciatingly slowly, so he paced around his flat for a minute before glancing at the previous day's newspaper, discarded on the table. Another rush of pride swept through him when he saw his name on the front page, 'written and edited by Adam Stevens, editor'. It had been a long while before he had made the front page with his own article, accompanied by endless sleepless nights and weeks of gathering information from so many different sources – books, the Internet, people – it was ridiculous.
He walked through the hallway to go and collect the post he had failed to pick up the day before – he had dragged himself in from work and collapsed onto the bed without noticing the envelopes on the floor. He went down the stairs to the front door, picked up the lonely, dusty post and started to shuffle through them as he retreated back upstairs. He hardly bothered to even read what was on the front, knowing what they were just from the handwriting. Bills, more bills, a letter from his mother (who was currently on holiday in Spain despite her old age), adverts and others he couldn't be bothered with.
Ripping the unwanted adverts and other letters – including his mother's one – and throwing the remains into the bin, he heard the squeal of the kettle as it finished boiling. Adam picked up the vibrating kettle and poured the hot water into the mug, watching his coffee begin to take form. Humming to himself, he finished making the coffee with three spoons of sugar and a dash of milk, took the coffee to the sofa, then, putting the mug on the floor first, threw himself onto the sofa.
He would have turned on the TV, but knowing nothing would be on at the ridiculous hour of the morning, he settled for staring at the blank screen and replaying his dream in his head and onto the screen, while sipping his coffee thoughtfully.
The place itself, he decided, didn't look like a place existing on Earth, despite all of the castles and crappy weather in most places. The people looked human enough, the same as me and other guys and girls. But there was just an inhuman quality about it… like it isn't as real as it wants me to think… maybe there's something on it on the Internet…
He jumped up, downed his coffee in one and ran towards his bedroom to get changed. It was half past six now, he hadn't realised how quickly time had gone while he was immersed in his thoughts.
However, he made the fatal mistake of letting his bare foot slip past the top step, making him trip – and fall down the stairs as a result. In a desperate attempt to stop himself from falling, he tried to grab the edge of the stairs, then the banister, but to no avail. Adam shut his eyes, waiting for the end where he knew he would crash into the door and possibly knock himself out, even kill him if the force was strong enough. He crashed down the steps, crying out in pain once when his head hit the wall and he soon guessed he was near the bottom. He clenched his eyes shut even further, making the blackness in his vision flash with a few colours.
His eyes flew open when, instead of hitting a solid wooden doorframe, he landed on a soft patch of grass instead.
He wanted to get up, but settled for lying on this unfamiliar ground and stared at the open sky. His dark brown hair flicked in front of his similar coloured eyes as he shook his head in disbelief and his brown orbs widened in shock as he realised what he was staring at.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" he screamed.
There were a massive crowd of students gathering around the drama notice board, all chattering excitedly. The cast list for the school production had been released only minutes before, but the teenagers who had auditioned had already blocked up the school hallway, clustering to read the board. The shocked and disappointed gasps and mutters were heard in the classrooms and by the other students who took no interest. People were shoved out of the way once they had had their fill, as to let the stronger students through to read the list.
"I can't believe it! I'm in!"
"She was cast as the lead? Damn!"
"Oh… she's not there."
A girl with dark brown hair bouncing on her shoulders and tanned features stood at the back of the crowd, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. Maria Rance was sixteen, yet she could have looked younger or older depending on the angle you looked at her. Unlike most girls milling around her, she hardly wore any makeup except for mascara, making her lashes incredibly long.
Patiently, she waited for the crowd to disperse, so when there were only a few left looking at her half-pityingly – not that she noticed their stares – and as they were pretending to read the board, she approached the list anxiously. She was hoping and praying desperately that all of her weeks – almost two months – of preparing, practicing, learning those foreign lyrics had paid off. Her grey eyes flickered up and down as she scanned the list, her face falling and her heartbeat quickening even faster as she realised the truth: her name wasn't on the list.
Feeling a stinging sensation come into her eyes, she turned away, blinking furiously to prevent the tears she knew were coming. Turning away from the direction she should have taken to go to her next class, she strode off in the opposite direction to search for her drama teacher. Quickly navigating the corridors towards the drama studio, she knocked on the door and walked in, approaching her teacher, who smiled to see her as he looked up from the costume he was fixing.
"Miss Rance! What a pleasant-"
"Mr Wilkinson, how come I got no place in the show? I mean, we both know that my audition should have got me something – you said it yourself! Why did you lie to me, then?" she fired at him, standing her ground in the doorway. He sighed and put down the material, standing up to approach her.
"Look, Maria, you know as well as I do that just having you in the production wouldn't really work. Your vocal range and quality is excellent, perhaps even perfect, but the other students can't keep up with it. You don't harmonize well with them – reasons unknown to me and you."
He started to pace and looked at the poster hanging on the wall, the one that the art department had collectively concocted for the production, emblazoned with the words 'CABARET' in big red letters across the middle and the Nazi swastika at the top of the page, almost blending in with the background, perhaps unseen to those just passing by it. He hit the swastika with such force that Maria actually stepped backwards, surprised by his violence.
"There's also the problem of the location of where this is set. This is set in Berlin, in Germany. The thing is, your appearance…" he hesitated, unwilling to seem racist towards the girl who was patiently awaiting his response. "Having a distinctly Spanish girl playing the lead, an English dancer, will seem odd in the production and we don't want the audience to be distracted from the musical. We want it to be as realistic as possible-"
Maria, not wanting to hear any more, cut in sharply, voice quavering. "Stop. I understand. Thank you – thank you for the chance for letting me audition anyway."
Even though it was fruitless, a snide voice echoed through her head. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the voice for it to come to naught. She managed to choke out a 'see you in class', turned and ran down the school corridors towards the entrance. With a great shove, she threw open the huge double doors of the school entrance, making them crash into the brick wall that surrounded the frame. Running down the steps, jumping two or three in her haste, she fell onto the grass and lay, face up, with her eyes shut, letting her tears fall from the corners of her eyes.
Her body convulsed spasmodically as she let her emotions take over and sobs wrack her body, but refusing to curl up like a pathetic child, as she liked to call people who did such a thing, whether it was real or acted.
Well, hey, there'll be other productions…and like he said, your voice is good, so you can do lots of other things, screw the productions, she thought in a failed attempt to cheer herself up. And at least the grass is soft.
Her eyes opened when she realised the strangeness of her comment. Since she moved from Spain, she grew up in an urban environment, all concrete and tarmac. Grass only grew in the parks twenty minutes away, certainly not in the front expanse of land of her school.
Turning onto her side, she saw another person a few metres away, and judging by what she could see of his expression, he had no idea what was going on with him either.
"Where the hell am I?" she mumbled to herself, gripping the grass that she never really knew.
The cheers blended together into one mass of white noise to the ears of Selena – or Ruby, as she was known on stage – Acacia, but it was almost music to her ears in the same way her fans loved her own music. "Thank you, Birmingham!" she yelled down the microphone, loving the sound of her voice echoing through the arena. "You guys have been amazing, I can't wait to return!"
She was answered by another roar of approval from the audience, so she decided to rouse them even more with another quick burst of song, then skipped off of the stage with a final bow and wink. Her long blonde hair – dyed, along with her name change – tied into pigtails which almost reached her thighs, waved behind her as she moved, the stage lights making them seem lots of different colours.
When Selena returned backstage, she was immediately swarmed by her producer, choreographers, stylists, assistants, everybody she worked with, all chattering with compliments and comments.
"Wow, Ruby, great show tonight!"
"You shone today, babe! Absolutely perfect!"
"I haven't heard the audience scream any louder – best concert on tour, I say, darling!"
"That last note on 'Melancholy'! I don't think anyone else can hit those notes, least of all –" her lead stylist said, but was cut off by Selena's laugh. It was a cruel laugh, but full of happiness.
"Don't say her name, Nic, there is no point, because she's gone now, disappeared off the earth, apparently. But yes, you are right! Thank you everyone!" she gushed, prancing past them like the diva she was known to be. Her bright blue eyes, one of the few things that had been changed, shone under the lights lining the halls towards her dressing room. She threw open her door and flung herself onto the comfortable chair, gazing at her reflection in the mirror, admiring every inch of her face – almost plastered in makeup and glitter.
She noted, with slight disgust, that some of the makeup was running, so she reached for some makeup wipes that always sat on the edge of the shelf. Succeeding in getting two from her position, she started to wipe away the makeup from her face, revealing pale skin underneath that definitely did not sparkle under the lights, unlike when she was wearing the makeup.
Looking at her face in the mirror, she sighed. Without the makeup she felt too much like her old self. The stage was a brilliant escape, an escape from the life Selena had left behind when she walked out on her parents. They hadn't wanted this life for her, but she had wanted it so badly – fame, fortune, connections, fans – that she screamed at them, telling them they were holding her back, that this was her dream and that she'd be better off without them.
So she walked out of the house, suitcase in hand, with her mind set to change her name, appearance, even her personality and make a whole new life for herself. She called the person who recruited her, and they set her up with a car, new, 'worthy of a star' clothes, a place to stay: and so Ruby Acacia came into existence.
Her producers had made sure that she reached the top; so much so that they managed to wipe out so many pop bands and other singers from the charts, that most of those were never heard of again in the rankings. Ruby Acacia was taking over the pop industry and she knew it, so she played to her advantages that were so easily created.
She rose up and up until she was one of the most favoured stars in the world. With it, she erased traces of her old life from peoples' knowledge and from her mind, focussing directly on her career and new life.
Selena realised she had been daydreaming and shook her head violently, to get the stray thoughts from her head. One of the pigtails became loose and the hair band fell to the floor, along with the countless pins that kept it in place. Growling to herself in frustration, she picked up the band and attempted to redo her hair up. She succeeded, but it didn't look as good as it had before. Putting the pins in her hair in another attempt to fix it, she admitted that it looked slightly better than with just the band.
"Nic! Can you come and fix my stupid pigtails!" she screeched, throwing the chair backwards and storming towards the door. "Nic! I said…"
She stopped short when she stepped onto grass. Stupidly, she let go of the door handle and heard the door shut behind her. Turning, she went to go and open the door again and escape the strange place, but the door was no longer there.
"Oh God, where am I?" she shrieked.
The run-down bar in the dirtiest, most dangerous part of London wasn't noticeable at first glance. No one really paid attention to it, mainly because if you walked in there you would be surrounded by drunks, alcoholics and the people that liked to walk around with knives and guns in their pockets. There was also that fact that it blended in too easily with the dark, the lights that used to highlight the name of the bar were broken and the letters were falling off anyway. All in all, it was heading towards a complete shutdown.
Inside, the bar was devoid of occupants save for the barman, a few men on the tables and one woman who was sitting at the bar alone, glasses all around her. She threw another drink down her throat and slammed it onto the bar, glaring at the barman who was wiping a glass at the time.
"Another! And make sure it actually has some kick this time, I don't feel anything yet!" she yelled at the frightened man. He took her glasses into a washing up tray and stared at her pale face with some conviction.
"I think you've had enough, ma'am. Why don't you go home and get some-"
"I said another."
The two had a staring match for at least five minutes before her mean look finally got the better of the man; he squeaked slightly and went to get another drink bottle from the cupboard.
Christie Perriot sighed with satisfaction and slight annoyance. She was twenty-two and her once great life had gone down the drain, leaving her to drown her sorrows away in drink. Her dark brown hair had used to be long, but in a fit of rage with her ex-boyfriend – God knows where he is now – she had sheared most of it off with scissors, leaving only a messy mop of her soft hair left on her head, almost identical to her boyfriend.
That night, she had walked out on him.
The barman returned with her drink, pouring it into a glass. With a mumbled 'thanks' she snatched the glass and downed it in one. The few men in the bar were staring at her out of curiosity now, but she hated people who gave her odd looks, so she spun around in her seat and let her cold green eyes do the work. In her drunken state, it almost made her fall off of the chair, but she kept her balance well.
One man was actually brave enough to avoid her stare and approach her. He was scrutinizing her closely, seeming to recognise her for who she used to be, and his eyes lit up.
"Oh my, you're that Christie girl, aren't you? Ha, I've missed you on the charts, what happened-"
Christie, angered by this sudden revelation to the people in the bar, lunged out at the man, who stepped back with a look of shock and disgust on his face. "I don't want to hear anything about that life, you hear me? I'm down and out here for a reason, you bastard." She glared at the man with one of her cruellest stares, which almost did the trick, but it was enough for him to get fired up too. "Leave me alone before I make you."
The man held his hands up in an act of surrender, but his expression was hard and cold. "Jeez, that's how you're going to treat old fans? No wonder no one can remember you anymore."
With a cry of rage, Christie leapt off the chair and at the man, almost succeeding in landing a punch on his face, but she found herself held back by a pair of strong arms, and she turned her head around to find herself facing the manager. She turned on him instead, needing someone to release her anger on. "Let me go! Let me go! You didn't even let me hit him, at least I have a reason!"
"You've had enough. You should leave. Now." The manager looked at her, unblinking, slightly sorrowful that this state was what the woman had brought herself down to. He, too, was an old fan, but wasn't about to let that become known in this situation.
She wanted to come up with a suitable, almost educated response, but in her furious state she couldn't think of anything other than 'screw you'.
Christie found herself being thrown out of the bar by the manager and the 'old fan' – quite literally. She landed on a soft patch of grass, even in her state she knew at once that grass definitely did not grow anywhere near the bar or the surrounding area around it.
She looked around, then collapsed onto the ground, breathing heavily. "I must be really, really bloody drunk."