A/N: To my readers and lurkers, please don't kill me. This idea has been burning in my heart, and I absolutely had to write it. It is a modern day AU set in L.A. Trigger warning: this chapter contains depictions of heavy drug use and explicit language. Please read at your own discretion. I hope you enjoy this first chapter…

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Euphoria

She stumbled off the stage and into the wings, pushing through her bodyguards, not even daring to make eye contact with her disapproving manager. The crowd still roared in the distance, fans toppling over the metal fence in the front, screaming her name whilst being dragged off by security. She could not take another minute in this suffocating place – she had to get out, and fast. There were many different approaches she could take to get where she wanted to go…it was only a matter of seizing the opportunities spread out before her. And the only thing she really cared about that night was making it through the performance without collapsing, then finding a way up into the Hills, for a party that would bring her back to life.

"Christine!" A masculine, impassioned voice called after her as she made her way down the hallway to her dressing room, where she knew she could lock herself inside for a moment. She knew her manager was coming after her, perhaps trying to be her father and therapist all twisted into one, irritating personality. But the care shown by him was artificial, just like the eyes in the crowd…just like the people that constantly surrounded her.

"Leave me the fuck alone!" She screamed back at him as he hurried to catch up with her. Christine shoved her dressing room door open, slamming it hard behind her and twisting the lock. Let him try and get to her now. Let him try and be the berating, disgusting person that he was, yet pretended not to be.

She hated him more than anyone else. He had formed and created her image, pulling her to stardom faster than she could handle. Yet he had promised all along that he would guide her and care for her, just like a father might do – but as she drowned an abandoned glass of whiskey by her brightly lit mirror, she remembered her own father for a moment; cremated into nothing but ashes last summer. And oh, how she despised summer, now…hated the dry heat that she was forced to perform in, hated the drought that seeped into her throat…hated each and every sunset, for it reminded her of him.

She began rifling through her dark leather backpack, pulling out a small metal cigarette case. Her fingers trembled with need as she opened it, clutching a tiny bag of fine white powder. Her manager began pounding on the door as she laid out three neat lines, pushing hair products and makeup to the side to make room. Once they were perfected, like three long scars upon glass, she bent down and snorted the first. Oh, what joyous need filled her heart…the need to control something, anything around her.

"Christine, please open the door…let's not be childish tonight! I just want to have a conversation…I'm not here to judge what you did! I just want to talk about it, okay?" He called out, his voice muffled by the distant screams of the crowd.

Oh, she knew how it would go, his promises for remaining civil. First he would be soft and gentle, luring her in, and then suddenly his eyes would grow dark and mean, like a beast out of a nightmare. Not tonight, not tonight…he would not ruin these precious evening hours. Not when she had such elaborate plans to escape him for at least 24 hours…

Or perhaps even longer, if she could manage it.

"I'm changing," she called out after raising her head high, tasting the foul drip of the drug down her throat. She filled the glass half full with whiskey to drown out the drip, and it did a magnificent job of numbing her further. Let's see how far I can go, tonight…

How far I can push my own limits.

That's what he wanted, right? For her to push herself to the limit of exhaustion, to perform show after show whilst drowning herself in alcohol in front of her fans. The worst part about it was that they loved it – her, getting carelessly fucked up in front of them…they only worshipped her more, all those empty faces out in the crowd. It was like living in Hell, with nothing around but fire and smoke, burning everything around her, scorching her shard of a spirit.

If Heaven did somehow exist, it was completely out of her reach. Dreams of Heaven and angels had come to an end once her father had died…it was a thought she no longer cared to believe in. Angels did not exist, nor did everyone's precious "God"…there was only darkness in this world. And as time stretched on and on, the darkness became deeper and more disorienting…

Such was the life of a superstar; oh, how beautiful the depression was, how lovely were the flowers that piled up in corners of her dressing room. How insolent and frightful the outside world became…as if she lived in a realm without hope or love…

And without a shred of compassion for her own soul.

"Well, once you're done, please let me in. It won't be an issue to explain what happened out there, believe me, Christine…you've done a lot worse! I just need you to be a bit more…a bit more understanding. I need to clean up these messes, and I can't do it if you're not even willing to try."

She grimaced at his words, bending down to take the second line. Her own heartbeat almost startled her as the drug began to take effect, and she smiled at herself in the mirror, batting her lashes in a cheap imitation of her purposeless, female fans. How they threw themselves at her blindly – did they have no self respect, did they have nothing better to do but pray to be exactly like her?

Christine threw her head back, her bright red curls falling down her back like a bleeding cut. She sipped her whiskey to drown the second wave of the drip, smiling widely as an immaculate euphoria began to spread through her veins – oh how quickly cocaine could latch onto her blood, how wonderfully abrupt it was, turning her sour mood into something magnificent. She took the third line quickly, sweeping a finger upon the glass for residual powder, wiping the last of it on the surface of her lips. This was her favorite part of the post-show ritual; the raw tingling and numbness that kissed the flesh of her lips.

Once the cigarette case had been stashed inside her backpack, she began tearing at the fabric of her beaded bralette, throwing it to the ground and kicking it into the corner. Next came the see-through mesh of nude that was her long, flowing skirt – she pulled it down, admiring the sculpted muscles of her abdomen. It was one of the good things, she thought, about barely ever eating – she looked so very fit, even though her body was riddled with an unstoppable sickness – the need to purge everything that her manager stuffed down her throat.

Christine stood naked for a moment, the euphoria drowning out her crippling anxiety and hatred – here was the part that would give her strength, tonight…the part that could take her into the Hills. She began to laugh softly, running both hands down the length of her legs, basking in the frenzy of bliss that shoved its way through her nerve endings.

More pounding on the door made her eyelids fly open, reminding her of the small window of time that she could escape through, like a tiny rip in the matrix of her ridiculous existence. She snagged a pair of loose leather pants from her bag, pulling them on with ease and zipping them up. Another dive into the backpack and her fingers grasped a black distressed tank top – something that showed off her navel and breasts, hugging her tiny waist tightly. Satisfied with her all-black appearance, she ran fingers through the ragged ends of her hair, while fixing her dark makeup – cleaning up the smudges that had formed underneath both eyes. She sighed dramatically, snatching her phone from the glass vanity and shoving it into her backpack before swinging it through both arms. One final look in the mirror portrayed a devilish, pallid woman with wild scarlet hair, and soft trails of mischief forming in the pale blue of her eyes.

"Coming," she sang out breathlessly, whirling around to stride across the small room, wrenching open the door with one hand. There, he stood – his dark brown hair slicked back, save for a tendril that hung across his forehead, out of place.

"Can we talk in here? And why have you already changed?" he asked, his disapproving tone already seeping into her like pins and needles. Christine nodded, stepping aside to let him through. She shut the door behind her, leaning against it, feeling her phone vibrate a couple times through her backpack. I need to go, and soon…

"Christine, I just…" her manager paced the length of the room, his eyes falling upon her discarded clothes from the performance. "You're going to piss off the designer," he said flatly, shaking his head. Christine shrugged, feigning innocence as she normally did while high. "I'm going to Athena's party in the Hills," she said lightly, a large smile still plastered upon her face. "I need you to get a car for me, on the side entrance. I don't want to be followed again."

Her manager swallowed, pulling at his button down shirt as if her words constricted his throat. "A party? Is that really what we need, now? After the stunt you pulled onstage?"

Christine let out a small titter of laughter. "So what, I got sick and puked, what's the big deal? It got cleaned up, I finished the show…I mean, half of the crowd was fucked up anyways…"

"Christine, that's not the point and you know it. How many times am I going to be in a PR mess, how many times are you going to tarnish your…your legacy? I'm here to make you look spotless…but I can't do my job when you're sabotaging every moment in the public eye!"

She raised an eyebrow, her lips tingling as she licked them. "Legacies don't exist," she scoffed, "and besides, I need a little getaway. Maybe 48 hours away from all this? I have a new song I want to run by some friends. It will be fruitful, I promise, Jack…and even better," she grinned, cocking her head slightly. "No paparazzi."

He strayed for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow, his pacing coming to an abrupt stop. "48 hours? Isn't that a bit much? Fans are going to ask – "

"Fuck the fans," she snorted. "they worship everything I do. Nothing would take away their undying love for me," she laid a forearm across her face dramatically. "So, the car? At the side entrance? Please…"

Jack seemed too overwhelmed to intervene. "I'll have it out there in five," he responded curtly, crossing the room to the door as she stood aside. "But keep your phone on you, and please, please don't let it die. Okay? Otherwise you won't have my permission for any more outings. At least for awhile. Christine, I'm trusting you…don't make me think it's a mistake." He pushed through the opening in the door, striding down the hallway while gathering security along the way. They had littered the hallway with their immense, vacant bodies…their eyes dead and blind to what she would do tonight. Christine's smile widened. She would get to the Hills…right on time.

She waited for five minutes, counting down each and every second with bated anticipation; soon enough she would slip out of the side entrance unbeknownst to her fans, disappearing in the black tinted windows of a sleek Maserati. The euphoria was building within her chest, now…pulling her up the side of a mountain breathlessly, knowing she would plunge headfirst into a flowing course of the purest drugs and the darkest of liquors. She could not wait to taste another line, to drown it out with whiskey or scotch – even the drip now seemed miraculous and alluring.

A member of security called her name from down the hallway, and she immediately left the doorway of her dressing room, almost skipping down the length of the bland white hallway. Christine smiled at him pleasantly, and although he did not return the smile, she knew to follow him through a small maze of corridors – a labyrinth of shiny white nothingness that would lead her into paradise.

She could not stop smiling. She had done it. She had escaped them all.

The security member pushed open her beloved side door – there was a distant roar of crowds coming from the front entrance, and she shivered delightfully, not caring a bit if they waited there for no reason. She hated them for loving her. And hatred felt so good now, so smooth and delicate – she could almost hold it in her hands.

Christine strode around the side of the car – a wondrous, muscular beast, it was – and slid into the passenger's seat, slamming the door behind her. The driver was another member of security, and although she could not remember his name, she did remember that he was not the talkative type – another silver lining that had edged itself into her glorious evening. "Take me to the Hills, house number is – "

"Athena's," the driver spoke monotonously. "Jack filled me in."

"Perfect," Christine sighed, slinging off her backpack to sit between her legs. As the Maserati roared to life, she reclined into the smooth leather, sliding her glittering platforms onto the dash. The driver made no comment, as per usual – she could do whatever she wanted, tonight. Oh tonight, the promise of it's secrets were almost unbearable! As she pulled a cigarette from her bag, the car began to pick up speed, lurching and flowing like the surge of a storm. Christine leaned forward to turn the music all the way up – yes, to something dirty and edgy, something that would define her very existence – something to make the time fall away like pieces of a shattered mirror…the one in the corner of her abandoned dressing room.

She lit her cigarette and rolled her window all the way down, feeling the warm night breeze sweep across her face and hair. The music swelled within her belly, and she reveled in the sweet taste of nicotine, wondering what treacherous adventure she might fall into, tonight…

Tonight, how you already taste so sweet…so innocent and free, like the wind that falls over me.

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A/N: Any thoughts, emotions, or feedback are precious to me. Thank you for reading. Love, L.