Hey guys... Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new one-shot, and I call it the Ghost of the Stars. It is another byproduct of my creativity waking me up from the depths of who knows where at around 11:30 (so hey, forty-five minute time to write this), but I promise I've been hacking away at Syrenet and Brinstar Depths too! Just like how Teal's Edge was a metamorphosis for Kuro into becoming an angel, I took things a bit more AU than that, and decided to use a character I should definitely include more... Rosalina! So, enjoy, once again, my sleep-deprived musings.

Very carefully, a woman lifts a crystal cylinder of perfume off her bureau. She is approaching sixty, and has begun to fade; each year her face is carved with new wrinkles, her sensual lips shrivel, and her smoldering eyes grow dim. Her mouth moves as she mutters to herself, ceaselessly. She delicately unscrews the top, tipping the small bottle and pressing it against one wrist. A new scent fills the room, overpowering and sickly. Roses. She smiles, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back. She can still see the lights - more lights than you can imagine - and the emotionless eye of a video camera. She remembers co-stars, sets, costumes.

She lives in a small, windowless apartment. The room is smoky, badly lit, and photographs cover every available surface. She stares at herself from within a thousand picture frames, her face frozen. Pictures from back when she was loved. And they had loved her. She had driven them crazy. Now she stares at the pictures, peering slightly, her eyes dull. She continues to mutter, without words, as she turns back to her work. She is staring into a large mirror, but in front of it, completely covering the reflective surface, a picture has been taped. It is slightly askew, messy as though the one putting it up had been very upset. It is a close-up of her, from thirty years ago. Murmuring silently, she places the bottle of perfume gently back in its place; where it stands a small piece of bureau, the exact shape of the bottle's base, is clear of dust.

Following some long-established ritual, she then leans towards the covered mirror, lightly touching her wiry, graying hair. In her mind, she sees the young lady in the picture move in time, slender hand reaching up to touch gleaming ringlets. She'd had a stage name, just like all the really big actresses, of course. Rosalina Wilde, they had called her. The older woman stares into the picture intently, letting the illusion sweep her into the past. Satisfied, she shuffles through the apartment to another room.

There are more pictures here. She smiles softly, almost shyly, as her eyes devour the frozen youth. Thinking back to beauty, to admiration, to the lustful, hungry eyes of the men. She'd been a star, and now she was stuck in this damn apartment. But she couldn't, would let herself have regrets; It was all worth it, for that moment in the spotlight.

Moving just as the ritual dictated, she hobbles stiffly towards the door. Fumbling with her key for a moment, she pulls it open, and drifts aimlessly out into the dirty, off-white hallway, and towards the stairwell. A small group of men are standing at the bottom, smoking in silence. She eyes them warily for a moment, then remembers the girl in the mirror. Growing, filled with an intoxicating confidence, she slinks towards them, putting on her sexiest expression. She doesn't meet their eyes, but can almost feel the heat of their gazes on her body. She struts past them, smirking, as if they had faded into the rundown ice machine they are leaning against. They are almost ten feet behind her now. But just as she is turning to look over her shoulder, to give them a smile that will keep them warm for nights to come, her ankle gives out. She spins to the ground gracelessly, face twisting up in pain. She looks towards them, the heat of their gazes still enveloping her, and a sickening realization sweeps over her. They aren't watching her. They're still smoking, and surreptitiously checking out the cleaning lady in the room across the hall.

The old woman feels the warmth drain from her, splashing into the ground. She can see the picture in her mirror shattering, the girl screaming out her pain. The old woman is suddenly cold, colder than she's ever been. One of the men has noticed her, and comes to kneel down next to her in concern.

"Hey, are you ok, lady?" he asks. "Do you need me to help you to your room?"

She doesn't answer, but shakily grabs his shoulder and gets to her feet. The other men are watching now, amused by the accident. They smirk at their friend, eyes cold, as he helps her towards the stairs. She is angry. She pushes him away, limping the rest of the way to her apartment. When she gets there her vision has blurred, and she cannot find the right key. She fumbles with it for a moment, then angrily throws the keys at the door. She begins to claw at it, shrieking incoherently, her smudged makeup running in long streaks down her face. Somehow she manages to get the door open, and she immediately collapses onto the bed. She feels safer, again surrounded by her pictures.

"Of course I was a real actress," she repeats to herself fiercely. "No matter what they say. And, God, was I beautiful! As long as I just stay here, where it's safe, where there are no eyes to judge me, I can always be that beautiful."

There was always more behind the scenes... where that gloved beast, that gloved hand demanded she beat other people up for money. When she's fired from that job, that's when she throws the vinyl records on the ground, stomping on them, screaming... screaming! How dare they throw her away like trash. She's not a piece of trash... she's an Oscar-winning, Emmy-winning, Golden-Globe winning performer. All of her stars, her little Luma statues that decorate the rose potted windowsill, they are remnants, memories of things she couldn't build herself. All those strange people who helped her along the way, she cannot remember their names anymore; most of them are dead as it is. Drugs, binge drinking, prostitution... they've done things most men and women wouldn't ever admit to.

What were their names?

She doesn't truly care, Rosalina doesn't have the time for it. Being someone's puppet, for that gigantic hand, on a reality show where she beat people up in these wooden rings for people's entertainment... that sunk her career. For a time, she had been the Interstellar Goddess, oh how that just rolls off the tongue! And now look where she is... sitting on a broken vanity, lipstick cracking in the corners, from the primetime show Smash... her memories stay stuck in a halcyon gilded haze, smoke flittering between each file...

She walks towards the mirror, staring deeply into the picture taped there. She thinks back to her last productions. She slips into her memories, where she will always be queen, a goddess. Tear stains gleam on her sallow cheeks, but she forces herself to smile. Of course she wouldn't change a thing. She thinks back on her life, on her shining days. Rosalina Wilde, appearing in '$50,000,000 Cherry.' Appearing in 'XXX SINFUL.' Appearing in 'Peekshow.' And slowly, rigidly, she brings a piece of toilet paper to her lips. She begins to wipe off her makeup, the lipstick leaving a long, brick red smear on the soft white of the tissue.

It is the last time she'll ever lipstick.

It is the last time she'll ever don the crystalline blue dress.

It is the last time she'll ever be known as Rosalina, the Interstellar Goddess.

Sometimes I write things and digest what I wrote. This is one of those pieces. I don't have anything elaborate to say, truth be told, except that I hope you enjoyed, and I hope you do review; it always helps! Have an amazing night you guys. Love you all!

~ Paradigm