Glitter Eyes
You're impulsive, Mandy had told him. And, you're reckless.
And, I love it.
You're emotional, Jerry had said once, calmly and coolly, his
eyes like glass beads winking in the sun.
You're naïve, Jack had informed him.
He sits in his dressing room and stares at his reflection, at
his blood lips and glitter eyes and waits for his nail polish to dry. The
woman- he forgets her name- is still putting makeup on his face. He barely
notices her.
The clothes are papery and rough against his skin and every
time he moves they rub against his flesh, leaving it raw, scraped, bleeding.
The woman leaves and he still sits, listening to the door
close, to the hum of the people outside that slips under the door.
He can only think of him. Of the candy eyes and the jet black
nails and the vinyl voice and the heroin lips.
No, it isn't the drugs. It's Curt himself that is the
addiction, and he knows it as his eyes roam the table and settle on a picture
of Mandy as she used to be, Mandy without the platinum hair and the cherry
voice and the fucking honey eyes.
His nails bite into his palm and he can't help the fact that
he hates his wife, hates the dream that has become a nightmare, hates the glamour and the sparkling lights and
hates what he has become.
Maxwell Demon is a name, a fantasy, a lie that he is living,
a lie they made him live- Shannon, who sold her innocence to glitter, and
Jerry, who never had any innocence to begin with, and his groupies- they were
nameless to him, and always had been- who didn't have anything better to do
than tagging after him and stealing his makeup.
He sighs and runs his fingers across the table, tracing the
grainy patterns in the wood, waiting for Shannon to come and tell him that it
was time, that the circus was about to begin.
He is the fucking circus, he is the main act and the
trainer and the trapeze artists and all of it, all of it!
The door opens and he is there, standing in the door frame,
his lips which are pale pink and blend into his skin pressed into a thin line,
his eyes slightly narrowed.
Bri? The word rolls off those pink lips and hangs in the air,
almost visible, almost tangible.
He meets the gaze of those candy eyes in the mirror, smiles
softly.
You know that Mandy—Curt is quiet as Shannon strolls past
him, and snaps, Brian. Time.
Coming. He clears his throat, tilts his head to one side,
continues staring at the mirror Curt.
Curt steps into the room, takes the gold top hat and puts it
on his head at a rakish angle. He shudders as Curt's hand falls, brushes
against his neck.
Good luck, Curt offers.
He shrugs, brushes past him.
He feels stupid as he stands in the circle and spews answers
already written for him.
A man is least himself when he talks in his own person—give
him a mask and he'll tell you the truth!
A lie. He's wearing a mask, a mask of sequins and makeup and
he's lying through his goddamned teeth.
He can see Curt pushing his way down the stairs, waits for
what he knows is coming and suddenly the words are heavy on his tongue and he
spits them from his mouth as if they were poison.
Quite soon we actually plan to take over the world.
He catches Curt smiling at him and remembers what Curt said
when Jerry wrote those words.
We already have. The whole fucking world is ours, Brian.
Ours.
Curt says his line- genius, fucking genius on Jerry's part,
he has to admit that the man is brilliant, knows what to say to have the crowds
salivating.
And they say it isn't natural, he says, and tosses his top
hat onto the ground.
They raise the glasses to each other's lips and he stares
into the glitter eyes, falling, losing himself.
Oh, yes. The whole fucking world is theirs.
