Selena
"Demi! Demi! Over here!" I tilt my camera at a better angle to get a better photo.
The popstar didn't even glance my way. She was probably used to this kind of thing.
"Can you tell me why you named your album after yourself? Isn't that kind of vain?" A reporter nearby shoved their mic into Demi's face.
She kept a straight face and continued to her car.
"Torres! Hey, is it true that you have are going out with Joe again?"
"Demi, look this way!"
"Demi! Can I get a photo?"
We were like dogs, all fighting for the bone. But the bone would not even let itself be had by any of us. With a slight smirk, Demi opened the door and hopped in, not answering a single question.
I take a few more snapshots, then sigh tiredly. It was the same everyday; we would stalk some poor celebrity and take some pictures, bug them about stupid questions, humiliate them, then stalk another celebrity.
To us paparrazi, it was more than just a game. It was a game of fame, and whoever had the biggest news on the biggest star was the best... until the next day when we would start the process all over again.
I sigh and let my camera drop from my eyes. This was the closest I had got to any news. When I return empty handed, my boss is not going to be happy.
After a quick time check, I figure I could try to follow Demi a ways before I turn in. I might get lucky; maybe I'll get a shot of her in the car with a guy. My corporation could turn that so many ways it's scary.
Lucky for me, none of the other paps are following her. I sprint to my car, start it, and follow the sleek, black limo.
My camera is now snuggled in the passenger side, ready for a quick use. My camera is my lifeline in this job, and if anything were to happen to it, I would be dead. Not exactly literally, but almost.
The traffic here is awful. I pull into the turning lane right behind Demi, but I barely make it. Sometimes I wonder how this place even manages to cope.
My phone starts going off as I wait for the light to turn green, and I answer it with a quick, "hello?"
"Selena, where are you? Your shift ended an hour ago!" My best friend, Jennifer, is obviously worried.
"I'm trailing Torres. I haven't gotten a good shot today, so I figured maybe I could make up for it..."
"You need a break. They work you too hard." I can hear her whining on my end. "Please come home."
"I'll be back in a jiff, just let me try this." I hang up on her when the the limo starts moving. We're finally heading to wherever she wants to go.
After nearly an hour of traffic, we arrive at Demi's house. Dang, I was hoping we would get somewhere interesting. This was all for nothing.
She gets out and I figure I might as well get some shots. My camera is halfway to my face when she looks around and sees me.
Her face scrunches up, and then she's calling someone. I don't want to get in trouble, so I take a quick picture and head out of there.
Demi
I am so sick of the paparrazi. They never seem to know when to stop; where to draw the line. It's so... frustrating.
Joe taught me an easy way to get rid of some of them. You just pretend to get on the phone, and they leave. Usually. Some of the more stubborn ones stayed.
Maybe if people would just start acting like I'm a normal human being, which I am, I would be left alone.
Anyways, today is not the day for a long rant. In fact, I have a week to write a new song. A week. Usually I got a little bit more time, but we were in a hurry to release my new album.
I sigh. There's only one thing that can relieve this stress.
After unlocking my door, I walk in and hear my footsteps echo in the empty house. I really need a roomate. Then I make my way to my bathroom, where my razor is waiting.
The first slice isn't deep, it barely grazes my skin. The second draws blood, and the numbing pain that erupts give me a stinging peace. The more I cut, the more I feel in control.
I know this isn't healthy, mentally or physically. But eventually, I know that I'll fill the aching gap in my chest. Until then, this is all I have. My razor and my songs.
After the fifth cut, I put the razor down and make my way to my room. Not to boast or anything, but I like to keep things clean and organized, so my room was pretty much perfect.
My songbook and my pencil in hand, I plop onto my bed and realize I have no real inspiration right now for the song. To write passionately and with meaning, I need to have some sort of story to put into the words, a ringing truth that I understand. But it's so difficult now, with everything going on. I feel like I've written everything I have to write; and everything else has been sung at least a thousand times, just in different ways.
I have a week, and then I'm in big trouble.
Selena
Exhausted and far from satisfied, I let myself into the apartment Jennifer and I share. She's sitting on the couch, dark bags under her eyes and a robe wrapped around her body.
"Selena!" She stands up when I come in.
"I'm here, Jen. You can go to bed, now." I smile at her relief.
"You need to stop doing so much overtime without pay."
"It's better than doing not enough without a job. I need to get a decent picture or an interview of some sort or else I'm going to be fired. And once my job is gone, who's going to pay for the apartment?"
Jen bows her head. "I'm sorry I don't have a job. I'm too busy in school, and you know that."
"You're right." I run a hand through my hair and glance at the clock. "And we both need sleep. I'll see you in the morning."
My best friend nods, and we head to our seperate bedrooms.
No matter how hard I try, I can't make my bedroom feel like it belongs to me. The walls are painted black, white, and blue, with my name on the ceiling where my mother decided to paint it. I had scattered photographs lining the walls; all my own. Most of them were of celebrities, but others were just me messing around; like a picture of Jennifer posing like a statue, or a pretty flower.
My bed was average size, I guess, and my bedding was black and white to match the walls. The dresser was covered in clothes, because I honestly just throw something on every morning and I don't have time to reorganize.
And most importantly, my secret lay hidden in the closet, where no one would find it.
Demi
It's late, and I still haven't thought of anything; not even one verse. My sleep is very important, so I probably shouldn't stay up any longer.
With a yawn, I pull on a baggy shirt and some sweats, then brush my teeth. There's really no purpose of brushing my hair seens how I'm just about to go back to bed, so I crawl under the covers and close my eyes.
Well, try to close my eyes. I can feel the stress bubbling up again; the pressure, the pain. I get out of bed. Maybe just one more time.
The lights are flipped back on and I make it to my bathroom, taking my phone with me. You never know when someone's going to call you with major news.
The razor is right where I left it. I rinse it off, realizing that had slipped my mind the last time I used it, and put it against my skin for the second time today.
Usually I only cut myself once a day, but apparently this was a 'special day.'
The blade glides across my skin like nothing, leaving a line of red that only gives me a rush. The feeling of actually knowing what's going on; control. That's what this is all about. I need control.
My phone rings unexpectedly, and the gash goes a little deeper than I intended. The pain makes me hiss involuntarily, and I look down to see I'm losing blood a little faster than wanted.
"Shiz." I dab at the wound with my pajama shirt, while reaching across to grab my phone. "Hello?"
"Demi, you're pop rates are going down!" My manager, Fay, whines, referring to popular as 'pop' is a normal thing for her.
"What, why?" I knock over a bottle of vitamins in an effort to get to the bandages, and the sound makes an echoing rattle in the silence.
"I don't know, but we need to schedule an interview of sorts with a local magazine or who knows what will happen."
"Alright." I sigh, wrapping a cloth bandage around my arm. "When do you want to schedule it?"
"I was kind of hoping for... tomorrow?"
"What? No magazine is going to let you schedule something so soon."
She laughs. "Are you kidding? They need stuff like this. Trust me, if I asked, the paparrazi would head down right now."
"The paparrazi! I thought you wanted an interview!" I can't believe this! She wants me to help my enemy?
"The 'Now' uses the paparrazi for both. I'll get someone to schedule an interview right now so you can be in their magazine."
Before I can reply, she hangs up. Now I have even less time for my song, and an interview to worry about.
I glance at the razor, than grin to myself at my next thought.
Any worse, and the celebrity life might have me doing drugs.
Selena
I can't fall asleep. I don't know why, but I can't. It's difficult when you don't know if you're going to have a job the next morning.
I'm sure that my boss wouldn't mind if it was like, the first time I hadn't gotten anything, but this was only one of many. The past few weeks have been so dull in the celeb world that I'm not sure I'm going to get anything at all anytime soon. It's hard to imagine me getting anything.
Will, my supervisor, said if I have to I could just make something up about the picture so the writers have a good idea what to put about the image, but I don't like lying. That's their job, not mine. I supply the pictures, they supply the lies. That's kind of how my job works.
Don't assume that I don't feel bad about this. I feel terrible. I don't like the feeling of taking someone's life and twisting it for the public. That's like pantsing someone, except for in writing, which is worse because they can't just pick their pants up of the ground and blush. They have to sit through all the people getting the wrong idea about them. It sickens me.
When I was younger, I had the biggest dream of anyone I knew. But everyone told me it was impossible, so in high school I decided I would become a professional photographer. My older brother, David, decided to tell me that the biggest photographers went to LA to become big.
Apparently being a part of the paparrazi and being a professional photographer are the same thing to him or something, because I moved here, got a job, found my best friend, and then realized I was working for the wrong people.
Thanks a lot, David.
Personally, I don't blame him for too much, but sometimes it's a little hard not wondering what my life would be like if I had actually found a job as a professional photographer. I just needed someone to manage the selling of the images, and then I would've been able to start out. But no, David just had to decide that LA was 'full of people like me' and I would 'fit in perfectly.'
I was the outcast. I got out of the plane in a baggy sweatshirt in jeans, my dream supposedly coming true. As soon as I looked around I had realized I wasn't like everyone else. I wasn't wearing makeup, I was dressed like a normal person (apparently people in LA don't do that) and I actually had a personality and feelings. Everyone here walks around with the same expression and attitude as everyone else. It's like a race to be in or whatever.
I hate it.
Luckily, I ran into Jennifer at the airport and we became super fast friends. She needed a place to stay so she could go to school, and I found myself offering a room in my apartment.
I am so glad I did that. I don't know what life here would be without her; she's the only highlight in this heartless city.
My old dream was to become a photographer.
My new dream is to be able to put the camera down and focus on the impossible.
Because I'm sick of everyone telling me I can't.
