Author: izziet PM
Everyone hates the beautiful people because they're lucky. But what if the world's top model hates herself because she is lucky? Please R & R!Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Hurt/Comfort - Words: 878 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 05-16-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3022931
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
AN: This story is inspired by Britney Spears' Lucky.
I wake up and stare at the blank, colourless ceiling.
I glance at the alarm clock.
6:00. Perfect timing, as usual.
Life has gotten boring; the same old routine every day.
I stand up tiredly and gaze around the room.
Surprisingly, it's rather boring considering who I am.
Just plain egg white walls. Nothing hanging from the walls.
I walk towards the adjoining bathroom, where I look into the mirror and scrutinise myself.
To the world, I'm thought to be one of the most beautiful women in the world.
My hair, even after just waking up, is perfect. Curls of dark auburn hair fall gently to my delicate shoulders.
My hazel green eyes are big and expressive, framed with long black eyelashes.
My nose is small and petite and my mouth is very red and full.
To me, I am ugly, revolting and repulsive.
I hate how I look.
Why didn't everyone else?
Luckily, today is my last day.
Just one more day of makeup and perfect smiles.
Then I can escape this world and go to the next, if there is one.
Everyone thinks I should be happy that I am the world's top model.
I definitely don't.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
They think I'm lucky to be famous and rich.
Lucky! As if.
If they only knew what it felt like every single day, doing the same old thing.
No freedom. No adventure. No excitement.
I hate my life.
Everyone is so fake, only wanting to be your friend because you're famous.
I don't have any true friends in this mob.
I had a best friend in high school but we grew apart.
I don't even know where she is now.
Although these people think they know me, they don't.
Nobody even listens to me.
They think that just because I'm perfect, I should be happy with my oh-so-wonderful life.
How wrong they are.
I get into the limousine where my agent sits and the driver chauffeurs me to wherever I need to go.
My agent starts twittering, like an annoying bird does early in the morning, waking everyone with their mindless chirping.
I block her chatter out and stare outside the window, objects hurtling past blurring together to make an indefinite shape.
We step out of the limousine and walk into a pale cream building.
People hustle around me, running around, doing their jobs as I stroll past.
I put on my 'model' face and smile gracefully as beauticians and their assistants smile at me, awed.
We finally reach the changing room where I strip and someone hands me a shimmery silver dress.
They pull me down into a chair after I had changed into the dress and start fixing my hair and applying my makeup.
The narcissistic photographer flirts with me confidently while I blank out and look around the set.
When the makeup artists finish, the photographer takes my hand and drags me towards the camera.
He tells me what to do, his lips parted to show blindingly white teeth, as the camera flashes rapidly and I easily follow what he says.
Pose. Smile. Laugh.
While inside, I'm secretly dying.
I silently change back into the outfit I was wearing before and saunter out of the changing room happily, delighted to escape this torture.
I gladly leave the modelling studio behind for the last time as I head towards the limousine that will take me home.
Once again, my agent starts nattering on about new shows and photo shoots.
But this time, I listen to her as I know I will never talk to her or hear her voice again.
When the limousine stops in front of the mansion, I surprise my agent.
I hug her tightly.
It is the first time I have ever shown warmth to her and, unknown to her, also my last.
She stiffens, shocked, but eventually relents and returns my affection cheerfully.
I smile, sadly and gratefully, at her and memorise her familiar appearance.
Then I turn away.
Once I'm in my room, I turn and soundlessly lock the door.
I search for the multiple sleeping pills I had hidden around my room for the past few months.
I find several although some are missing.
I grabbed a glass and fill it with water from the bathroom tap.
The silence in the room is almost peaceful but at the same time, nerve-wracking.
I sit on my king-sized bed, pills in one hand and the glass of water in the other.
I take a deep breath and look around the room for the very last time.
I sigh and smile hopefully.
Maybe my next life will be better.
The next morning, after breaking down the door, the world's most beautiful model is found dead in her room, lying face down on her bed, a gentle smile on her lovely face.
The world is amazed and shocked at this unexpected suicide.
They ask themselves why she did it.
But they already know the answer.
Fame and depression.
AN: I feel so depressed after writing this. :/