Jude lay on her couch. Or, at least, she thought this was her couch. Come to think of it, when was the last time she was home? 'Oh, great,' she thought, 'Hung over, again.' She looked up. How had she gotten back home?
"Jude, good, you're up." She looked up to see her manager walking toward her. How did he get a key? "Now, listen, I know when you first came, I said you needed to liven up your image a bit, but I think you've taken it a bit too far."
"Why are you here, Henry?" Henry Short, the most annoying man on earth. Or, that's what everyone called him when he wasn't around. He had no sympathy for anyone, except himself.
"I've come to inform you that you were seen streaking drunkenly around Piccadilly Circus last night. God only knows what you're in for, now." But, he might as well have kept this information to himself, as Jude had already fallen back asleep.
When Jude woke up three hours later, she found that Henry had left the front door of her apartment wide open, and paparazzi cameras were flashing all around her. "Jude, could you give us a reason why you were streaking last night?" one of the cameramen asked her.
"Question for you, does anyone ever plan these things?" she snapped at him, annoyed at his stupidity in asking such a question. "I'm calling security!" How did they get past security in the first place? She picked up the phone and began dialing the number. The answering machine on the other end picked up.
"Security Department. We're sorry, today is Sunday, so we are not available. Please call back during the week," it recited.
Jude groaned loudly to herself. Why did they get days off? Why? She did the only thing she could think of to do — push them out herself. "Okay, come on, everyone out!" This did nothing. "I mean it, move!" Again, nothing. "I called the police!" She was bluffing, but it worked. They all began scrambling out of her apartment and onto the streets. She sighed. When would her life ever be normal?
She went to the kitchen and pulled down a bottle of aspirin. This had become her main source of comfort, since she moved to London three months ago. She had no long-term friends, but anybody who wanted to hang around her could. She was out at clubs every single night and doing anything that was offered. Everybody she knew hated her here. So she found the only way to get away from it all; drugs, alcohol, and whatever happened afterthat; she could never remember. She had forgotten what it felt like to be completely sober, to be loved by the people around you, to express anything through music. She no longer wrote her own songs and her voice was now synthesized during the production of her songs. As far as she was concerned, her music was no longer her music. She was no longer a person, but the shell of what used to be.
(A/N:) I'm not sure if I should continue with this or not. And trust me, it's not all as depressing as this was (at least for me). Please let me know. What I'm writing is a stretch and a risk for me, but I think it'll really broaden my abilities as a writer.