She danced as if everyone was watching, every movement calculated to maximum effect, yet somehow seamless, practised and precise. To an outsider, it looked careless, the way she ran her hands through her hair or down the sides of her dress, but to me, I could tell when one routine merged into the next, from the way her eyes flicked from person to person, to the way her head dropped backwards and her eyes closed completely, as though consumed by the music. It was all a beautiful act. But what wasn’t, with her?
Horatio Nelson was a man slowly whittled away by life.
“You talk about writing as though it were something sacred, but it’s not, it’s just words on a page.”
And just as suddenly, she disappeared. The videos, the blog updates, everything just stopped. It was as if she had ceased to exist, and for all intents and purposes she had – I could no longer follow her actions or commentate on her life from a distance. It sounds wrong, to say it like that, but it’s how it felt – she’d cut me out, cut us all out – all of those who’d followed her halfway across the world as she’d skipped town and fled, running from demons only she could see.
She made disappearing beautiful, but also frustrating.
I longed to see her again, a photo, a video, a hastily recorded song – half finished and with ugly, unpolished chords, anything, just to prove to myself that she was okay.
And I realised, not for the first time, that I didn’t really know her. I couldn’t contact her family, her friends, I couldn’t ask anyone if she was okay. All I had was the impotent knowledge that she was somewhere in New York, living and breathing in a city that chews people up and spits them out, and she was there without anybody, living with a kind of freedom which is both dangerous and inspiring.
And I missed her. Oh god, how I missed her.
But I was angry at her too. How could she just leave? Leave me, to trudge through my mundane life, only imagining her adventures? How could she be so cruel? And would she return, her makeup perfect, her voice pitched just so, a smile on her face a little too bright, explaining the wonders she’d seen and the people she’d met?
Or would she stay vanished this time for good, just another lost soul in the city that never sleeps?
“I think you like it, you know,” I said, throwing it back in her face.
“How could I possibly like this, being this way?” She asked, furious.
“I think you get off on it. The poor, misunderstood little girl, who never has to grow up, never has to face the real world. Everyone dances around you, makes allowances for you, don’t they? And you let them. You never stand up for yourself, you always have someone to do it for you. It’s ridiculous. Nobody sees it, but I do. You treat them like puppets, these slaves you have to your lifestyle. All because you can’t face the big bad world. Well, guess what, Sophia, one of these days they’re going to realise what you’ve done to them, all the lies you’ve told, and you’ll be left with nothing, nobody. And I hope you’ll remember today, remember this. And I hope you’ll remember that I told you so,” I ranted. Her face changed, closed down in front of my very eyes. She went from seeming soft at the edges, to suddenly very hard.
“Fuck you,” she bit out. “Fuck. You. You think I want this, for a second? You think I enjoy living this way? I hate it. Every minute of it. I wish I had the courage to step off a bridge and into the swirling tide, I really do. But I’m a coward. I don’t use people, don’t you see? You treat me like I’m using you because you can’t face the truth – that you allow yourself to be used. From the day you met me, you’ve chased me, fallen at my heels, desperate for my attention. Because I’m an idea to you, this unobtainable, magical girl, who, through her quirks, can cure your own ailments. Well, I’m sorry, but real life isn’t like that. Real life is me having to take my medication every day or risk losing the fragile grip I have. Real life is watching the world go by from my window on the days I can’t bear to leave the house. Real life is pretending to smile when all I want to do is cry. Real life is you, screaming at me, because you can’t bear that my illness is more of me than you would like. I’m sorry, no, that’s wrong, I’m not sorry that I’m not your dream girl, not in the least bit. I can’t imagine anything worse than having to live up to your standards twenty four hours of the day, fearing what you might say if I stepped out of line. You’ve built me up in your head for so long you don’t even see me anymore. I’m an idea to you, nothing more.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, certain.
“The thing is though, is that I’m not. I’ve met you before, dozens of times. And each one of you thought you could mould me into this perfect girl. And none of you saw the truth of it – I am me, already, not perfect, perhaps, but me, unconditionally and unapologetically. And believe me, I apologise for nothing.”
The first time I saw her, she was standing in the cleared out area we called the stage, her dirty blonde hair piled on top of her head like a cheap Amy Winehouse impersonator. Unlike Amy though, her eyes were ringed with golds and browns, and her lips shone red as coral. She fidgeted with the microphone, bouncing on the heels of her feet, pulling at the hem of her sequinned dress with one hand, before clearing her throat to begin.