Men approach the end of their lifespan much quicker than that of women. Some may blame stress but I beg to differ. If there is anyone deserving of a quick death due to stress it would be women, descendants of Eve. We are captured creatures made to be the dolls of the world. Endless closets filled with answers and the keeper of secrets. We are goddesses and I hope that I do not die.

I am frightened to leave the comfort of this room. Once my safety net is gone and I close this door from the outside the world is a stage and I am the brightest star. My name is everywhere and I long for the silence that will never be. My name is Aubrey Lenoir and I am tired.

I find that aside from death, being the center of attention for more that two seconds in this vapid, dry hell we label Hollywood is the most unappealing feeling in the world. I cannot tell you how many nights I have cried longingly for the dark anonymity that was left behind in New York City. The place my friends and I like to call the original city of broken dreams. The place where everyone’s a freak like me and no one cares whether your hair is black, purple, or green. Talent is the key ticket for entry anywhere and everywhere.

We were used to disappointment; in fact, I do believe that we reveled in it. Each day was an adventure and we were soldiers marching through the cold war. Nobody could tell us anything. Because we knew it all or at least we knew enough to get out of trouble.

Bobby was our leader and protector. He had the face of a demon, my own personal Lucifer. He was so handsome and many might even say that he was beautiful, almost painfully so. Our demon was so full of anger and he used his voice to lure in his prey. His guitar and his voice were both his weapon and our protection.

My sister Lonnie was his exact opposite. She was both quiet and soft spoken and filled to the brim with endless kindness and manners that even today seem to evade me. I think perhaps that is why together they where the perfect fit. Without her, his rage would consume him and without him she would fall into herself or be swept away into the nothingness of life. She was the drummer in the family

Andre was the artist. For him, his paintings were his world, because according to him, real life offered nothing but disappointment and who could disagree with that? He was also a damn fine bass player.

Though he lived the life of an artist he was hardly starving. His father was the world renowned French painter Auguste Barrington II and though he is not titled (yet) he is still one of the richest men in France and maybe even all of Europe. His paintings are always in demand by the crème de la crème of society. I do believe that without him there are times when we would have starved.

My own position in our little makeshift family was that of a singer. I sang to keep the voices at bay. It was my only weapon against the nightmares and my only solace from the hardship of reality.

How dramatic we were then; so full of life and lacking in refinement and patience. But what we lacked then we have gained ten-fold. Now we are always waiting. We are stuck in the middle of everything with no where to turn and only schedules and pre planned routines to keep us a float. I fear that we are slowly losing control of ourselves and are burying our emotions. Who’s to say that drama is dead? I could have been an actress in another life. Who is to say that I am not one now? I wish for the happier days. I cannot continue on like this.

A/N: I am very excited by this story. What do you say? Shall I continue on? Please read and review. I world appreciate any and all opinions on this story. Also I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind checking out my poem Prophecy or my short story labeled 5 minutes.

Have a lovely evening.

dark88poet a/k/a Danielle Martin