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𝓜—

"𝐀 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝."

In a style reminiscent of a waterfall, her rich chocolate brown hair fell down her back. She found it difficult to focus on her own since she flinched whenever her hair brushed her forearm. As she let out a low hiss, it was clear that she was exhausted. After all, whose idea was this? Someone at VOGUE magazine decided that taking images underwater would be a fantastic idea. What is it about water, especially ice-cold water? Morons. The photographer and Megan's favorite director, Karyn Kasuma, stood tall where the towels were. Every time Megan and Karyn were together, it was like 2008 all over again. As Megan was about to roll over onto her back in response to Karyn's cries for redirection, a massive wave pounded on her.

As the water struck Megan's body, it seemed as if she were being struck by frigid bullets or broken glass. It seemed as if her clothing—or lack thereof—did not provide any protection for her body. Hollywood at its best, or at least that's what Megan thought. She emerged from the water with a hollowed-out expression, her fury and contempt evident in her arched eyebrow, as she could still hear the crew laughing.

"Cold?" Jesse chuckled as he stood upright to gather Megan in a warm fluffy towel. His blue eyes watched as small water droplets poured off the tattoo, on her shoulder blade.

"No, I'm not." She sneered with a deadpan voice. Wrapping the towel around her closely, Megan felt her teeth chatter and she then looked up at Jesse, seeing his warm smile. "Thanks, for coming along."

Leaning down, Jesse delicately pressed his nose against Megan's, a half-crescent grin tingeing his lips. He grinned subtly as he saw Megan flush. However, Megan's sudden bending down and starting to shake out her hair quickly ended the brief moment of kindness. Despite his scowl, Jesse only rolled his eyes.

Karyn grinned from behind the 33mm film camera, very proud of the shot. "Regular mermaid stuff, I like it. Though, when are you going to help with the Independent Films? We need more writers."

Megan chewed on her bottom lip, a slight grimace from tasting the salty ocean water that had mixed with her cherry lip gloss. "Mmm, we all know, how I feel about being at those public events."

Jesse, snaked an arm around Megan's small frame. "Plus those events are just a gateway for critical naysayers to have an unwanted opinion."

"You won last year," Megan jabbed as she leaned her damp body into Jesse's. His arm the lowered to her waist and he chuckled as he felt Megan shiver beside him. Karyn eyed them both and then gave a callous shoulder shrug. "Meg, you're a hot commodity, you're what the people want."

The years Megan spent officially disappearing from Hollywood's pretty heightened expectations of her undoubtedly benefitted her, since she was no stranger to public appeal. But she felt a shiver go up her spine at the thought of going to a crowded awards ceremony. Once Megan dried off and changed into dry clothing, the discussion could get back up. Along the way to her trailer's changing room, Jesse accompanied her. Upon entering, Megan combed her hair to remove any remaining water before turning to see Jesse staring at her. She couldn't help but grin at his irresistible good looks and the way his smile revealed his dimples. Jesse remained one of Megan's closest, not strange, Hollywood friends despite the success of the Transformers film, Jennifer's Body, and Megan's other endeavors.

Sitting in peace, they were now both dressed in plush bathrobes and enjoying a few drags from Jesse's cigarette.

"I think you should do it."

"Maybe, maybe..." Megan shrugged, as she expelled the nicotine from her pouty lips. "Who knows, I may be back in Hollywood."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Comics, writing, and exploring unorthodox poetic forms were always Megan's passions. Now that she was alone at home and had given up on the stressful ritual of posing for photos, she was able to unwind in her peaceful surroundings. The den, which included just one architectural style, was her favorite room in her large Calabasas house. An oversized recliner known as a "laxy boy" that had been in her family for many years.

The chair was still an important part of her life, even if the leather was ripping and it had some scratches from her beloved Kitten, whose name she changed every day. Continual struggle between a desire to return to Hollywood and the reality of her non-negotiable demands for equality and far-reaching respect. If that's the case, Megan sees no need to hide her stunning appearance, charisma, and witty humor from the world.

She sat back in her plush chair, legs spread out, eyes wide open, and her jaw hanging open as she began to doodle and sketch. Subsequently, she started penning a succession of little poems underneath each miniature caricature she created.

—

She is shattered, scorched, bruised, and bloodied, yet she is also... identical. The unending resolve of which originates from the tarnished veins inside her. The relentless flow of drugs, the ominous references, and the evasive touch, in which she is but a skeleton, that never lets up.

Having thorns form one's wings means there's no need to worry about looking foolish. When spikes prick you, black magic won't work. There is no such thing as a single butterfly; you must soar.

The menacing smile that curved Megan's lips was impossible to resist. She stopped for a bit after running her fingers over her silken hair. Maybe she is nothing more than these little cartoons and fragments of poetry. Maybe both the enigmatic and the unfathomable. That made her turquoise gemstones eyes sparkle, and she kept writing—the waves and the spirit of everything were seeping in, copacetically groovy.