Track 1 – Suburbia

Muddy swamp water stares me in the face, my reflection suffocated by petroleum-thick sludge. Funny how it used to seem prettier than this, teeming with life in the shivering reeds and grasses, birds singing sweet-nothings in the trees. 

Is that your head resting on my shoulder, your nose and eyes crinkled with a laughing smile, your hand mussing my hair? I search the water but it yields nothing, only my black shadow, my drowned face. Nothing left of you. Flies mill about the stagnant surface, relentlessly hunting for carrion, collapsing flesh to lay their ill-brood within.

Nothing left to bury, she’d sobbed to me over the phone on a sweet summer’s day. How can fate be so cruel? This last bit reached me from afar, as I had already fallen on my knees, screaming murder into the happy blue sky. 

This was your favourite place. No one would have suspected that the heart of a girl so well-travelled belonged to a secluded pond off the beaten path behind our childhood homes, not some far-off tropical destination. This pond could have been anywhere in suburbia, but it just so happened to be where we met so many years ago. 

I dig my fingers into the wet soil, closing my eyes to the backtrack of mournful frogs. A breeze grazes my cheek, and for a moment I think it is you.  But then I open my eyes and find that I am still alone. Me, the pond, the flies, and the frogs, and my heart shrivels and dies all over again.

Everyone tells me I need to keep moving forward, that I can’t let myself sink into an abyss I can never climb out of. They say it is what you would have wanted for me. And so, I repeat my mantra, my only comfort in the dreadful months that you’ve been gone.

Think of me as I did of you. Think of the sun and the moon and the bowl of the Earth as a blessing, and think that you will be just fine…

Track 2 – Blessed by the Muse

Here we are.

Flooded with stage lights over a sea of pretty people, the most brilliant star in the amphitheatre cradles the precious golden gramophone. She flutters back and forth on her skyscraper, rhinestone heels, overcome with emotion. Her smile is a radiant thing, a solar system all on its own, and her wide blue eyes glisten. 

She keeps turning the statue over in her hands, thinking she must never let it go, afraid of discovering it was never real. She can’t blink or those words, “Best New Artist,” might disappear. So instead, she babbles, “Thank you, my god, thank you,” until a stagehand comes up beside her to squeeze her shoulder, and she remembers the words she has prepared to say. 

The star-studded audience and the cameras catch every word of her nervous rambling as she reads from the piece of lined paper she’d hastily scribbled on the night before. Later the internet will shower her with love and adoration, and the clip of her speech will be reposted a hundred million times. Her sheepishness rapidly transforms into the confident cadence of the artist, the one that debuted at the top of every chart and held consecutive weeks in the top ten, the one that signed a record deal with Warner Music Group and is the new face of Vogue with The Rolling Stone on her horizon. All the late-night talk show hosts grovel at her agents’ knees, willing to sell their souls to book her for a thirty-minute time slot. And now, with the eyes of the world and the very artists who are her inspiration looking up at her–their impressive, unblemished faces nodding their approval–she is recognized. Concluding to thunderous applause and wolf-whistles, she laughs in a perfect G major, waving politely as she backs up off the stage, the stagehand having to escort her down the stairs to prevent her from tripping on her magnificent skirts.  

Her name is Kristen Frost, but professionally she is Krinoline, named for her signature lace-up bodice and Victorian cage-contraption – the crinoline – creating her iconic, voluminous silhouette. Born and raised in Chicago, Krinoline was classically trained on piano and violin from the age of six and began musical theatre in public school. She later worked in her community theatre, where she was discovered by a talent agent who hired her for the supporting role of a popular children’s television program until the age of seventeen. Her university studies were devoted to the pursuit of music, where she worked tirelessly to develop the sound that would eventually smash the billboards, spending her weekends busking on the downtown streets. 

It was one such occasion when a charmed passerby recorded Krinoline playing an original song on a cheap keyboard and uploaded it to YouTube. It was a grainy video with sirens screaming in the background and a pair of crows chasing a stray takeout container, yet it captured the beginnings of something genius. Her raw vocals, still so young and untested, was enough to draw the attention of hundreds, then thousands, then millions as more sightings and recordings of the unknown, ‘heaven sent’ busker flooded the internet. And so, Krinoline was born. Krinoline, with her quirky, antiquated wardrobe and dramatic makeup. Krinoline, with her Farrah Fawcett-esque shaggily layered, blonde-pink hair that so many girls try and fail to achieve. Krinoline, the renaissance of the Victorian woman, no longer meek and repressed but born anew as a feminist visionary of the twenty-first century. 

The album that launched Krinoline to global stardom, Prismatic, was a twelve-track homage to the disco and synthesizer of the 1970s and 80s, infused with her classical upbringing and the new age of the female artist tired of the world and its patriarchal trappings. The result? A profound journey that engaged all five senses, disguised as high energy pop and mellow power ballads, with soulful and witty undertones only detected by the careful listener, messages to the true fans that made them nod vigorously and say, “I see you, I see what you’re doing.” 

And the Prismatic tour? Earth-shattering. To see the one blessed by the muses of old bleed her heart out on a stage… was something close to religion for those fortunate enough to witness it. 

Think of me… 

Track 3 – Chernobyl

I wake up on a sagging mattress under scratchy sheets, a band of light seeping through the cracks of the blinds directly over my eyes. Groaning, I pull myself into a half-seated position and pain immediately lances through my back. 

My surroundings slowly start to emerge as I blink the spots from my eyes. I am in a tiny room cluttered with IKEA furniture and drooping potted plants. An old radiator beneath the window doubles as a bedside table; a dog-eared copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray, a single picture frame fallen flat on its face, and empty pill bottles litter its surface. The radiator thrums erratically, like a chemical plant about to explode, emitting what are likely toxic heat waves. Disgusted, I throw myself from the sad excuse of a bed and involuntarily shiver when my feet touch cold vinyl flooring. Where the hell am I?

I wander the rest of the space – which is about five steps, apart from the bathroom, if it can even be called that – with my hands tucked under my armpits. There is no proper kitchen, just a couple of sticky wooden cabinets with rusted handles and an off-white fridge peppered with stains. A single magnet with an image of a dusk sky and the words “Dream Big” in bubble letters holds a fat stack of papers. I sift through the papers without removing them from the fridge, craning my neck to read the words “Important! Rent Payment” and other such similarly labelled headings, the most recent: “Notice of Eviction.” 

“Shit,” I breathe, letting the letter slip from my hands. Poor sucker, whoever lives here. Once again, I am left wondering why I am here in the first place. Someone must be responsible for holing me up in here. And then his name comes to me.

“Torvald.” I dash back to the bed, sifting through the sheets to find my phone. My agent, he will know why I am here. I find that I have no notifications, which strikes me as odd. There is always something: a text from my team or half a dozen people tagging me on social media. I furrow my brow, opening my contacts and scrolling through to look for Torvald’s number, my hands suddenly shaking. 

Nothing. None of these names strike me as familiar. 

I throw my phone and grumble, burrowing my head in my hands. I start to tremble, my mind a confused jumble. I try to remember anything from before this morning, but I can’t, I can’t think of anything but a white swirl, gradually rippling outwards like a skipped stone on a stream.

…as I did of you.

Track 4 – Dior, Darling

In the time I spent sitting on the bed deep in existential crisis, it has grown dark outside. Torvald made no effort to contact me all day – no one has. I neglected to eat or drink or relieve myself, and now my bladder presses uncomfortably on my grouchy stomach, forcing me to investigate the so-called washroom. 

Just as I feared, the windowless room with cracked fixtures and the most depressing shade of grey tile floor with paint bubbling off the walls from years of accumulated moisture, is a place where dreams – and spiders – go to die. I do my business quickly, just barely grazing the toilet seat. I don’t dare peek behind the ratty curtains concealing the shower and tub. Someone probably slit their wrists in there for all I know. I would too if I had to live in this slum. I still might if I don’t hear from anyone about why I’m here and who the fuck I need to fire for booking these accommodations.

Practically fleeing the washroom, I set about feeding myself. The fridge proves to be a lost cause, containing a wilted head of lettuce, a blue jug of bagged milk (bagged milk?) that I have no intention of touching, processed cheese (eww), half a kolbassa sausage, a couple slices of stale looking bread and a bottle of mustard. No, this would not do at all. Which means I must leave this forsaken place and wander around cluelessly looking for a grocery store. Glancing over my shoulder at the dark sky and the apartment complex across the way, I see a brooding middle-aged man smoking on his balcony, with beady eyes and a pervy little smile.

Oh god, oh god, I think as I pull on the shoes at the front door, an unfamiliar pair of dirty sneakers that somehow fit my feet perfectly. I’m going to be murdered. I’ll be the subject of a new true crime podcast, and make some granola mom millions. I’m going to be trafficked. How much will my organs sell for on the black market?

I don’t make it out the front door, nearly tripping over a brown box and faceplanting on the filthy chevron-patterned carpet in the hallway. I freeze mid-step, squinting at the label on the box. A package. It is not addressed to me, but I bring it inside anyway, scrabbling at the packing tape and wrenching the flaps open. 

Inside I find a bundle of gold leaf wrapping paper and a note penned in fine calligraphy. It says: “To K, enjoy the show! ☺” K, I presume, for Krinoline, so perhaps the package is meant for me after all. 

Tossing aside the note and the wrapping paper, a pink satin bow peeks out at me, and when I give it a tug, I find it is attached to a series of matching crisscrossing ribbons, ties for the back of a bodice. I don’t need to pull the rest of the garment out to know what it is. 

I rock back on my heels, pulling at my hair with a huff. What am I meant to do with this? Who leaves a custom Dior gown in a shitty apartment hallway? Moaning inwardly, I collapse onto my knees. My poor, poor gown, left to suffer at the hands of plebeian postal workers, suffocated and wrinkled. Who would belittle artwork in such a way? It must be in pristine condition for my performance.

Oh my god, the show. 

I bolt upright, immediately snatching my phone to check the date; I relax when I see that I still have a few days. Where am I playing again? If only Torvald would contact me. 

I sit cross-legged on the floor amidst the discarded, crinkled wrapping paper, like a rather large bird perched in a golden nest. Rubbing the spot between my brow and the bridge of my nose, I challenge myself to think. Remember, remember, remember. 

Think of the sun and the moon… 

Track 5 – Take Me Out for Dinner 

A loud buzzer jolts me from my aimless scrolling, and I nearly drop my phone. In the dredges of sleep last night, I sprang up in bed with a full body exclamation, akin to euphoria. I remembered where the show was. Practically vibrating with excitement and pride for having finally recalled something, I planned to scour the web at the first light of dawn for the most efficient mode of transport to get me to the next stop on the tour.

Since Torvald and apparently my entire management team seemed to have forgotten me, I resigned to take matters into my own hands. Fuck them, those good for nothing, incompetent fools. I don’t need them – I didn’t need them at the start of my career, and I don’t need them now. Am I not a capable, independent woman? I am Krinoline, for God’s sake. I am the most beloved pop star in the world. So, I cruised around online and discovered that from my present location, a train will get me to the city within five hours or so, without even having to cross any borders. Odd, but convenient, as I suspect I don’t have my passport with me. 

The buzzer comes from a small panel next to the front door with a speaker and button. I press it with scarcely a moment’s hesitation. Finally, someone has come to see me! Perhaps it is Torvald. I hope so, then I can stick it to him. I immediately clear my throat, tossing my hair over my shoulder, channelling a tone that is sickly sweet, all honey with stinging nettles. “Yes?”

“Hey, uh, it’s me.” A male voice. The intercom fuzzes his speech, but he sounds young. Interesting. An admirer? “Look, I know you said you didn’t want to see me, but it’s important. It’s about… you know. Um… can I come up?”

Definitely not Torvald. No agent stammered like a high school senior asking a girl to the prom. I smile, leaning further into the speaker and whisper seductively, knowing it will make him blush. “Sure thing.” 

Static. And then– “Wait, really? Oh, okay. I’ll be there in a sec.”

I take a few minutes to tussle my hair and flatten out the creases in my fake cashmere sweater dress (it was the nicest article of clothing I could find!). I am nowhere near looking my best, but surely this man will be awestruck just by being in my presence. 

Footsteps in the hall and a tentative knock on the door announces the admirer’s arrival. I answer with a flourish, tilting my head so that my curls spill over my shoulder. 

At the threshold, I find a pale, gangly man, all legs and noodle arms. He is wearing a white cable-knit pullover with green, red, yellow, and blue stripes, that immediately prompts my brain at the sight of it, a sharp needle-like beginning to a migraine, or perhaps a half-submerged memory. Everything else about him is entirely unremarkable: non-descript blue jeans faded at the kneecaps, weathered, salt-stained black combat boots, and an ear-flapped cap sending his dark, mushroom-cut hair spilling onto his brow. 

He smiles boyishly, the corners of his lips lifting the light splattering of freckles on his sharply defined cheekbones. He toys with a pair of car keys, rubbing the fob back and forth with his thumb and forefinger. His entire body thrums with nervous energy, so either it is freezing outside or he has no confidence around women. I peg him as the latter, given his appearance. Probably a virgin too, if I had to guess. 

I cross my arms over my chest, shifting my body language so I am less intimidating, pouting my lips. 

“Wow, uh, you look great,” he stammers, his eyes skittishly surveying my figure. I chuckle at his attempt at flattery. How cute. 

“Can I….?” He suddenly moves forward as if to embrace me, and I instantly recoil. Woah, woah, woah, take me out to dinner first, buddy. My face seems to say it all, as he grimaces. “S-sorry, I just…I’ve missed you, is all.” His eyes linger a little too long on my face, and I notice the tremble in his free hand, the urge to stroke my arm. 

I don’t respond, but scrutinize him, his goose neck and silly little outfit, his constant fidgeting, searching for a flicker of recognition but…nope. I don’t have a clue who he is. There’s no way I’ve ever gone out with this guy, no way I’ve fucked this guy…right? Probably some obsessed parasocial fanboy. Or maybe he fled psychiatric care. Should I call someone? 

So sad. Of course, I say none of this, merely nodding along. Best thing to do in these scenarios. We stand in tense silence – he probably finds it arousing – until he clears his throat and begins again. He has such a whiny voice that I regret playing this out.

“I won’t stay for long. I just thought you’d want to know they announced a date for the memorial, and I didn’t know if you knew or not since no one’s heard from you. Maybe she already called you – of course she already called you, didn’t she? God, I’m an idiot. Anyway, I just really thought you should know, and I hope I’m not wasting your time, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Look, why don’t I just leave–” 

“Okay. Bye.” I take the opportunity to shut-him-the-fuck-up and slam the door in his rambling, wimpy little face. 

Unable to parse through the word vomit he’s just left on my doorstep, I can only think: what the hell was that?–but the minute I hear his receding footsteps, I fall to the floor and am overcome with uncontrollable anguish. I am a delta, and my tears are a thousand rivers on the vinyl floorboards.

…and the bowl of the Earth…

Track 6 – Enigma

I am sitting next to a woman doing crossword puzzles like there’s no tomorrow. She is bent over a roughly hewn stack of hundreds of newspapers, drumming the end of her ballpoint pen on the plastic pullout tray built into the seat in front of her. Intensely focused, like she’s been tasked with solving the goddamn Enigma code, she ignores me and hardly takes note of the porters when they pass down the aisle with refreshments. If her tapping goes on for much longer, I am bound to throttle her or throw myself out the window and get sucked under the wheels of the locomotive barrelling south. 

I try to curl myself into a ball on the seat, once again cursing my stupid credit card for declining my purchase of a business class ticket. ‘Insufficient funds’ it had read, enough to make me howl “WHAT?” at the top of my lungs back in that shitty apartment, scaring away a pigeon perched on the windowsill. 

How can I, with a net worth of millions, have a depleted bank account? Unless someone infiltrated my account and stole all my money. Oh God, is that what happened? I watch the wooded landscape roll by as a distraction, trying not to lose my shit, the occasional whistle from the train interrupting the manic tapping of the wannabe-Turing next to me. 

I tell myself that everything will be okay once I get to the city. Torvald and my team will be waiting for me at the train station where they’ll apologize profusely for abandoning me. And because I’m the bigger person, I’ll wave it off, grace them with my winning smile, and say, “Mistakes happen.” (Of course, once the show is over, I will send them a kindly worded email stating that I would never like to see any of them ever again and they can fuck right off ☺). 

Just a few more hours on this train, I repeat to myself. Only a few more hours living this nightmare of normalcy. My stardom will be reinstated once I am onstage, fans roaring my name. 

I lean close enough to the window that my breath fogs the glass. I draw a heart with my fingernail, and it floats, superimposed over the reflection of my face. 

…as a blessing…

Track 7 – Hive Mind Tango

I am sorely mistaken. No one waits for me when I arrive at the train station–many delays later, I might add–with aching legs and my will to live dangerously on the verge of collapse. Turing-lady did not stop. Not once. 

I ride through the disorientation of a new setting, hardly able to trace my path from where I disembarked the train, and then entered the heart of the station: a funhouse maze of neon shops, flashing advertisements, signage pointing here, there, and everywhere, escalators and random corridors leading off into about a hundred different directions. People mill about all over the place, dragging suitcases, sipping coffee and chatting on the phone, or drifting in the trance of a lost and helpless tourist. 

I want to be appalled by the fact that no one has recognized me, that no one has come running over and started gushing, willing to drop everything to help me find my way. But when it sinks in that Torvald and my team are not waiting for me, disappointment, rather than fury, hits me like an anesthetic. I walk numbly, controlled by the hive mind of bodies fleeing the station. Up a set of escalators, past a turnstile, and down some more stairs, until I am on a grimy platform edge howling with hot, gusting wind. 

A yellow light emerges from the gaping maw of the tunnel, and a rickety old thing on wheels screeches to a halt in front of me. The doors ping open to admit those of us loitering on the platform and I enter, dropping into the first free, red cushioned seat. The cushion does nothing to protect me from the cold, metal frame beneath. It is pretend comfort – a lie, just like everything else. 

Still, I am thankful I opted to sit. There is no way I am hanging onto the pole that disgusting cretins sneeze and wipe their jizz all over, and I can’t trust myself to balance while the train whips down the tracks at lightning speed. I have my backpack containing my precious cargo – my costume for the show tonight – settled on my lap, and I stare down at my shoes, avoiding eye contact. I’m not asking to get jumped today.

I think I last maybe ten minutes before my discomfort of public transit forces me to get off at a random stop, and I practically sprint up the metal-grated steps to the surface. I pause for a moment, adjusting to the blinding brightness aboveground, and am left pleasantly stunned at my surroundings. 

I am greeted by wide-reaching trees bisected by walking paths lined with benches. The space seemed to be organized in a rectangle, like a miniature version of Central Park. Light clumps of snow dapple the ground and trees, clinging to the remaining maple and oak leaves, their autumnal colours vibrant beneath all the white. A few flakes swirl lazily down from the smudgy grey sky to tango in my hair. I catch one on my outstretched palm and marvel at its intricate details, trying to memorize them as they melt away in the heat of my hand. I live in this illusion of peace and tranquility until I start shivering, and I make my way past a statue of some guy standing on a pillar. 

The city screams into being, disrupting the pocket of nature with stinking cement, traffic lights, telltale orange construction signs, and sewer drains frothing at the mouths with a disgusting mix of melted snow, decaying leaves, garbage, and God-knows-what else. My feet operate on autopilot, apparently knowing the order of gridlocked streets to cross. I equate this to my having performed in this city before, yet I cannot help but hold an inexplicable resentment for this place in the back of my mind. 

…and think…

Track 8 – Bloody

My hands shake so badly that I slash liquid eyeliner across my cheek instead of the intended target. I curse, frantically scrubbing at my face with one of the many white facecloths, courtesy of the Holiday Inn staff. I have already used about five of them, and they lie dejected, soggy and stained every colour of the rainbow on the floor. 

Whatever, I don’t care. Serves them right for refusing me a suite at the front desk. I thought that surely someone would have the sense in this city to finally recognize me, but instead they looked at me like I had maggots crawling out of my eyes and ears, and wordlessly handed me the key for this dumpy single bedroom.

I stare at myself in the mirror, at the hair I have piled haphazardly on top of my head, the matte burgundy lipstick that emphasizes the corpse-like pallor of my skin, the rosy blush ill blended. My eyes are the worst of all. They dart all over the place and contain none of the bright soul of an artist. I attempt a smile and my lips crack, blood staining my teeth, the whites of my eyes taking on a red tinge. I look like a psychopath. 

I cry out, violently scrolling through images of myself in my show makeup, hoping I’ll magically be able to replicate it. I have so little time. I haven’t eaten yet, can’t even remember if I’ve eaten at all today, and I feel so sick, like my innards are all going to spill out the minute I open my mouth onstage. I feel like I’m dying.

They announced a date for the memorial. That’s what the wimpy boy had said. Was he a premonition, a figure I manifested of my impending doom? 

I press a hand to my chest, forcing myself to take large gulps of air. I need my hair and makeup team. I need someone to get me out of here right now: take me to the venue, clean me up, dress me, and tell me 

…that you will be just fine.

Track 9 – Medea

I fight my way into the stadium. Despite my protests that I’m the one performing – I mean, hello? – that this is literally my show and if I don’t get backstage for wardrobe, the whole production is doomed, the dipshits in charge of security tell me my ticket is only good for the pit level and “Lady, you need to calm down.” 

Easy for them to say. Now I have to start the show from the pit and climb up onstage when the lights go down. It’s never going to work, not with my hoop skirt. Oh God, oh God, oh God. 

I press myself as close to the foot of the stage as possible, hissing at the silly teenage girls that reek of nauseating floral perfume, waving their phones around and shrieking like toddlers while taking selfies with their friends. Don’t they know who I am? That I’m the one who’s face is plastered on all their t-shirts? But no, just like everyone else, they wrinkle their noses at me and bat their kitten hands at me, snarling, “What’s your problem, bitch?” One of them is texting furiously, probably cancelling me online or something.

Fools, all of them. I crane my neck to peer into the shadows at the back of the stage, watching the tech crew scramble frantically like ants. The show is bound to start soon. Why has no one come to get me? I haven’t done a soundcheck, I don’t even have my mic pack! I feel my face break out in sweat, and I resist the urge to wipe it, lest I ruin my makeup. This is a disaster. 

Behind me I hear the seats filling up, anticipation and excited murmurs brewing. Any minute now. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I prepare to launch myself up over the barricade, bundling the thick fabric of my skirts in my clammy hands. 

The lights go out, plunging the entire stadium in darkness. Someone starts fangirl screaming, and it is picked up by the upper rows, working its way down to those of us on the floor, a cacophony of feminine revelry. I am shoved from behind, and nearly smash my face into the barricade, pain reverberating throughout my entire body. I am too late. Oh God, oh shit, oh fu-

And then a voice cuts through it all, a window shattering voice so clear, so powerful, that no being of this earth could possess. A spotlight gradually illuminates the familiar silhouette of the hoop skirt, the bodice, the hair piled high. Every bit of her shines gold, from the sparkles on her skin to the tulle, chiffon, and lace of her gown, and high heeled boots covered in tear-drop golden rhinestones, dripping like the blood of the gods. 

Her eyes are closed as she wails into the heavens, her body a mere vessel for the celestial channel coursing through her. When she finishes the verse, it is as if she has absorbed all the voices in the room. No one dares break the spell until she opens her eyes and begins to sashay down the catwalk, dancers dressed in Victorian suits and frilly dresses sliding into position alongside her, and the crowd erupts into a frenzy. 

I am unmoored, floating outside of myself. That is Krinoline up on that stage. She is me. But then how am I still here, unmoving in the pit? Images explode in front of my eyes, Krinoline in the here and now, but another, the face of a girl as familiar to me as breathing. I see her next to me, hooting and hollering with all the other fans. She looks so real I want to reach out and touch her, but I’m so scared that if I do, she’ll go away again.

Above me, Krinoline saws away at an electric violin while riding in a chariot suspended from the ceiling, animatronic dragons hitched to its wrought-iron front (now when the heck did that happen?). She is now in a silver gown with a metal plated bodice and wears a mesh, sparkling undershirt like chainmail, complete with spiked pauldrons on her shoulders. 

The chariot descends to stage-level, and Krinoline makes her dramatic exit, brandishing the bow of her violin like a sword above her head as a male dancer dressed as a prince kneels before her. Videos of this song and scene are the most widely circulated of the Prismatic tour not only because of the impressive theatrics, but because the ‘prince’ who expects to be knighted by Krinoline is ‘beheaded’ instead, an unexpected turn of events which always thrills fans. 

I know exactly what comes next. This is my show, remember? 

Think of me as I did of you. The girl, she’s looking at me now, mouthing a silent question: “Why are you crying?” 

I don’t know, but I feel it now, wet tracks down my cheeks. As the song draws to a close, I realize what I must do. I act quickly, before I, or anyone else, can stop me.

Track 10 – Bury Me

The funeral procession is waiting for me after I stumble my way through the psychedelic rave lights onstage. An open casket for the ‘deceased’ prince lies before me, a snowy white, plush interior. Looks comfy, at least. I think this as a wave of sorrow knocks me to my knees, just like the prince. The prince and the girl, interchangeable in my mind. 

Nothing left to bury. I keep seeing her smiling, and I don’t understand how she can be so happy.

They announced a date for the memorial. 

I only glimpse the commotion in my periphery, hear sounds of confusion and booing. Booing? Why are they booing me, the greatest pop star in the world? Someone throws an empty plastic bottle at me, but I don’t feel it, my shoulders are too busy heaving with sobs. 

Think of the sun and the moon and the bowl of the Earth as a blessing…

A rough pair of hands grip me from behind, trying to force me to my feet. I burrow my fingers into the edge of the casket, my nails digging in so hard I’m surprised they don’t snap. Don’t they know I can’t leave her? I can’t leave her. I don’t know if these words are in my head anymore or if I am screaming them at the top of my lungs to thousands of people and the world’s greatest pop star as I am dragged away. Ruining my pretty dress, the invaders pull me, the glimmer of her face growing dimmer and dimmer. 

…and think that you will be…

Track 11- Gossip Gossip

Krinoline is speechless for the first time as she watches the drama unfold. Her beautiful mouth is agape, her microphone lying by her feet. The crowd replaces her as the soundtrack, a cesspool of venomous tongues.

“What the fuck just happened?”

“Who let that crack addict onstage? They should be fired.”

“What an unhinged bitch. Has to ruin the show for everyone!”

“Did anyone get that on video? I want it for my TikTok.”

“Karen forgot to take her meds! What a freak-show.”

Track 12 – Hurts to be Me

The security guards threw me out in the gathering snow, issuing a stern reprimand to ‘steer clear of the building.’ I crouch on all fours, my wet and torn skirts billowing out around me, my face streaked black from running makeup like thick, oily tar. It is their pitying tone that strips me of the last of my dignity.

“Get help, lady. You clearly need it.” 

And then the door slams behind their chuckling figures, leaving me broken, a marionette with its strings cut. The chuckling reverberates in my skull, pinging back and forth. I am nothing but a joke to them, to everyone. 

I slowly crawl to the pier. Stopping at the edge, I force myself to sit upright. I am rocked by a ferocious, frigid wind that nearly sends me pitching forward into the water. Although night has fallen and a winter storm lashes the surface, the water is clear. A clear image of myself ripples back at me. Not Krinoline – me.  

And there I remain, at the lakefront, its waters stretching into far-off lands, and I allow myself to remember. I remember, even though it is agony, and I might just split in two, melt and become one with the lake. 

As the memories crash over me, I feel the weight of your head resting in the crook of my shoulder. 

…just fine…