|| Ill And Considering. There Are Only A Few Days Left Until The Start Of A New Year. Unable To Sleep,

—Solo—

IV

The flickering sound of the candle echoing in the quiet room illuminated the small space. Casting shadows over all the hair and makeup products stacked upon the dressers. In a criss-crossed position, Angelina tilted her head back while the loose leaf paper in her lap slipped to the tile floor, like a water fall. The tile floor was cold against her bare legs. She had been in the position for quite a while now by her assumption.

It wasn't for any particular reason. There were no underlined secrets as to why she was hunkered down in her room. Dressed in the short cut red robe she had worn after her shower, her legs were becoming numb from the cold porcelain tiles- she figured it was time to get up.

This was Angelina's moment of complete dissociation. As she stood dragging more of the papers to the floor. Her thumb poised between her lips, the electric devices she owned were turned off. She desired seclusion and was in a deep trance. The past few work days—were duplications of days prior. Interviews, same questions, and the impending thoughts of what was next.

“What is next?” She said, as her teeth grazed the skin on her thumb.

She pondered the question out loud. And of course no one else but herself could hear it. But maybe the universe. Her darkened blue eyes followed the paper trail, her free hand tugging at the collar of her robe. “What else can I offer...?” she asked herself. The question was rightfully so to be asked. As Gia was becoming a distant, rather large, memory— Angelina found herself in the trance of where to next.

Upon the mountain of interviews and appearances is on late night talk shows, she was set to sit down with Bobbie Wygant. The woman was more than a reporter—more or so a staunch supporter of Angelina's father. Following his career. That thought alone created butterflies in the woman's stomach. Bending at the waist, Angelina picked up a page her eyes squinting in the dim light. ‘The Bone Collector’ was scribbled throughout the top of the page.

Lisa Rowe was still in effect, production being pushed back a couple of weeks and months or so. This next film, had an amazing cast. Denzel Washington was in it. Her eyes widened at the name.

The actor's cinematic range surpassed virtually every other actor's. Angelina found it to be rather fortunate to be part of this film. However, there was a bit that scared the thin movie star. The attempt to play such an intimidating role. Amelia Donaghy— had several different parallels from Gia, Lisa, almost every character she had done prior.

Padding across the floor in her room Angelina fingered her frazzled hair that was now a dirty blonde. Blonde with light brown highlights, if you looked closely. Angelina paced back and forth, before stopping to take out her open pack of Mallboro cigarettes. While doing so, she hesitated the thought of lighting one, and asked herself if she was strong enough to appear in this film?

Her manager, assistant, and friend Julia had continuously argued with her that if she didn't commit to this film— there was a strong chance that they wouldn't work together anymore. Angelina found it to be more or less an empty threat. Julia had said that about, ‘Gia’ and well...the movie was made. At least that's what Angelina remembered.

Lighting the cigarette, Angelina took a deep drag of nicotine. The pages of the script surrounded her feet. Her open journals tossed about as she stood here absorbed in thought. Her mind suddenly flashed to her mom. Miles and miles in Cambodia - on a journey of "self-discovery." Angelina just needed to hear her mother's hippie but... accurate advice.

Angelina's mother had always wanted to be an actress. And contrary to what people believed—her mother never forced acting upon Angelina or her brother James. Her mother had come to the rather fast conclusion that she wanted to be a dedicated mother. Devoting her time, energy, and life strictly to Angelina and her brother. But she never failed in telling her children, to always express themselves and to follow whatever passion they had.

When Angelina couldn't decide what to do, when she didn't want to be a ballerina anymore— the choice of mortician was no longer an option. She chose acting. And her mother was delighted. And the advice never changed.

“Go for everything that's in your reach. Discover who you are...with every opportunity.” Is what her mother would say. She'd say it, at the most random times...but that meant something.

Once more, Angelina expelled smoke from her lips and took another puff of her cigarette. She let that smoke go— easing from her lips slowly. Regaining her position on the cold floor, cigarette in her mouth, her eyes fixed on the scattered pages of her script, Angelina made the decisive decision. She could do this. Not just this film, but all things in life that she had crazed passions for. She could do this.

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒅𝒅𝒔, 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆. 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐, 𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒔. 𝑻𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎, 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒚 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆. 𝒀𝒆𝒕...𝑰 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

You may find me to be the candidate for dos and don'ts. I can unravel with the times and wind up when the sun rises...

Even my own eyes cannot recognize me sometimes... that's okay. I like being mysterious. I beat with old blood. Bad, contaminated, drug-infused blood. But it's still blood...and I still am human.

In fact, the thing that scares me is not what I do, but what I like. I'm your typical punk girl with tattoos and a pouty face. Dark, right? But believe me, I am light. I am an enigma. I am a phase...I am human.

This. Really, really, really—felt this.

i am always giving, and never receiving. when is it my turn to be special to somebody

𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬. 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞. 𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞.

Ja. Einzigartig. Das uralte Gedichtgerät. Schön.

Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka: 1910-1913

Where does it begin? Every story has its origin. Of course, of course, nothing can not possibly exist without something. Of course! Okay, okay— here we go.

Angelina padded across her kitchen barefoot, eyes sleep filled, mind cloudy and her entire morning demeanor; groggy. Her warm body awoke to a chilling tile floor. The bare peaks of the sun were breaking their way into the kitchen, past the flimsy lace curtains. She kept her head low as if the sun was irritating her. She lived sometimes as if she was a roadie for Janis Joplin, setting up for three days of Woodstock. A far reach? Maybe. Although Angelina never considered herself to be too entertaining, she fought for certain roles, scripts in the entertainment industry. Angelina lived the “rockstar” life, but she never considered herself to be a rockstar. Far from it— but she partied like one. Always had. Everything Angelina wanted in life and everything she did was to access.

If she drank, she did that to free the chaotic terror of thoughts, that plagued her mind. She wasn't a looney bin case or anything; nothing clinical or diagnostic had ever been performed on her. But Angelina knew she was different. She had been in school, in acting classes, in auditions—she was different from her own brother. Hell, they didn't even share the same last name; of course they were different.

Standing with the fridge door open, the lanky brunette eyed her choices of the morning. A cold glass of water and...her head whipped toward the counter where she spotted the fresh bananas in the wooden bowl. Ah, Carolina, her every twice of month made must have gone shopping— a blessing.

That was settled then. Breakfast had been decided, now if only she could make the quick choices like that for the rest of her day. Or life. After pouring her glass of water, snatching a banana she shuffled downstairs to her bedroom. It was her seclusion bedroom.

Where she came to write, read, relax...and occasionally, do her extracurricular excessive activities. While Angelina's writing, attempted script and dialogue— talent was a kept seclusion secret. Her use of “recreational activity” i.e. drug use, was not. Almost everyone in her camp— knew she used drugs. And ‘used’ was a limp and loose term. Angelina had gone days, weeks, months, without using sometimes. Then like an uncharted gravitational pull, mustered up enough voltage energy and would pull her back in. And then, she'd be on the wagon. Tinfoil, spoons, baggies, would appear and disappear from her bag, bedroom, all areas of the places she'd go.

Angelina took a small bite of her banana and smirked to herself. How could she...work, agree to drug test, and yet...be an “addict?” But then again she couldn't really classify herself as an addict. In those almost paralytic, drug psychosis states... she'd vow for it to be the last time. And sometimes she'd mean it! Yeah, going months without even giving smack’ a second thought.

A half finished banana was tossed into the waist bin. Her lips disconnected from her glass of water as small dribbles of water, trickled down her chin. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Angelina shook off the impending heard of bison stampeding thoughts and prepared for the day. GIA was wrapping up, final scene changes, edits, cuts; the whole shebang. A nice hot shower, maybe a little coffee, and she'd be on her way.

II. —Solo—

“You’re getting something else over it?” Julia asked, her face was contorted in concern as her voice was laced with disbelief.

Angelina nodded as she sat in the backseat of the car criss-cross with her journal prompted on her lap. The girls had been talking about various things. More particularly, the next few days of Angelina's schedule. Cristofer put off filming due to the confusion and frustration derived from traveling from New York to Philadelphia - there was trouble transporting filming equipment. Angelina enjoyed the fluidity and breaks between filming.

Again, the topic turned into the “wild” stuff Angelina had been dabbling in. Though, she couldn't exactly lable it as ‘wild’ when all she did was get two new tattoos. Slip-shot ones at that. Initially, Angelina's tattoo was to be completed in the Netherlands. She had a nitch now to travel-she was itching to be anywhere but where she was. But just like the filming, it had been cancelled. Nothing to worry about-she hired an artist.

Julia looked over her glasses peering at the almost fading in colour, brunette. “You really had that guy tat you, in the back of his car? Needles and everything?”

“Mhmm,” Angelina answered as she flipped through her journal. Some pages felt damp to the touch; signaling she had just written on them...more or less scribbled too.

Julia was stunned when Angelina told her how her dragon tattoo was done. It was not so much that Angelina got it in such an insensitive place, but rather where, the tattooist had done it. In the back seat of his car! The women had traded sentiments of bubbling fun nitpicking jabs—in which Julia had grilled Angelina in a questioning manner if she had been high at the time.

“Well yeah... How else do you think I stayed calm?” Angelina laughed giving a callus shrug.

Her need, the burning intensity to just say 'fuck it!' and get the tattoos was evident that night. It hurt, and the close body heat between her and the artist was above her comfort zone. It didn't matter though; She felt like she was trapped, too confined, too small right now. Is this what would happen every time the end of filming approaches? Angelina had been wondering that for a couple of days now. She didn't forget that under her pillow, at home, laid Lisa Rowe. Scripts itself were like a hot portal into the next character, next personality she would be exposed to. Or rather, it was like a hot piston digging into her body. Is that why she was on the edge of running? Wanting to get pricked and drawn on?

Angelina twisted her lips in a puckering motion as she let these dragged and explosive thoughts filter in and out of her mind. Her eyes were on Julia but she couldn't hear or understand what she was saying—she knew she was saying something because her lips were moving. While she delved deeper into her thoughts, Angelina felt her conscience slipping. What was truly happening to her? Not in the moment, but inside of her. Why did she store the script under the pillow, like a dirty little Playboy magazine? Why was she still insistent on getting a tattoo?

With a few slow blinks she raised a hand to her head touching the messy bun of hair. Almost like a reassurance that she was still here, still alive, she tugged at the hair on her head and let out a low chuckle. Julia had turned fully in her seat facing the correct position; done speaking, Angelina guessed. It was almost like the ride was going on forever—she'd lost track of where they were going. Next to her were the roses that the tattoo artist had given her. They were wilting now; it seems like she was wilting as well. That thought alone caused a bit of a creepy smile to curl her naturally pouty lips—yeah, maybe she was wilting...changing, adapting. It could all be into something she'd look back on and be proud of. Maybe, maybe, that's why she wanted new tattoos, maybe that's why she found herself recording everything into her journal, maybe that's why Lisa Rowe frightened her so. Maybe. Maybe was always a bright side.

—Solo—

III

It changed into Conan, Leno, Letterman, Stewart— all the late night shows wanted her. Even good Morning America, wanted Angelina on their show. And for what? GIA had emerged as an overnight success. HBO clearly had executed nicely, as did she—a Golden Globe nomination; and that was nothing to sneeze at. Matters were truly starting to pick up voltage with her career. Plenty of new projects sat on the horizon. Some scripts and films Angelina had fawned over for a couple of years, unsure if it honestly it matched her. Lisa Rowe; Girl Interrupted, actually was one that seemed to suit her quite well. But then came such movies as the Bone Collector, Pushing Tin, Gone in 60 Seconds— all of which made her uneasy. some of the “potential” cast participants were all stars she had watched on the large screen. Idolized even. Now, to be performing alongside them...become like an in depth fever hallucination of some type.

She and Julia acknowledged their way to the cramped crowd, that waited for them outside the hotel. Angelina was continually dazed to visualize fans—actual people who were there for her. It was insane to her. Her free hand fished the packet of cigarettes out her pocket, fitting to light one—then the bustle begun. Shouts for autographs, pictures, the whole nine. Angelina pleasantly submitted, satisfied and starstruck herself. With the unlit limp smoke in her mouth she marked a few autographs.

“Angelina!”

“Angelina! Are you and Johnny Miller back together?”

“Angelina! Are you going to do the movie with Denzel Washington!”

Going through as many autographs as she could, Angelina shook off the questions. “I don't really know...” She wasn't insensitive or mean--honestly, she didn't know. With the last autograph, she granted the person who wanted a kiss. That certainly revved up the crowd even more, causing both she and Julia and rest of their beefed up security team to laugh.

Waving to the rest, Angelina got into the SUV, buckled in, and lit her cigarette. Julia looked on with an unpleasant expression. She hated cigarettes. The fading brunette hair, actress raised an eyebrow as her lungs inhaled the nicotine. “Find me something better and I'll quit on the spot.”

Some of that statement was truthful. Angelina had done well for herself not to take drugs over the past two days—not that she could. With the Golden Globe nomination, the squeeze and the end of the film, she didn't have time to do her extracurricular business. And quite honestly she didn't miss it. That wasn't to say that Angelina hadn't taken up quite the chainsmoking—habits, but everything was a working progress.

Angelina always came away from meetings with certain executives emotional. Otherwise, there would have been no particular reason for her to be at a hotel. It wasn't in a negative sense she felt emotional- but a sense in which she was actually doing THIS. This—meaning: really picking scripts, having producers, directors, writers actually want her. After all, she had signed on to do the next few films. Taking the cigarette from her lips, she let the smoke escape through the crack in the window; a smirk of satisfaction rested on her lips as she did.

The car ride had only been several minutes. A quiet ride between she and Julia—no need to really exchange any words. As the SUV pulled into her driveway of her darkened house, Angelina cursed softly noting and perceiving she hadn't left a light anywhere in the house. She only hoped Yogi— hadn't caused any damaged or had been damaged himself. Yogi, was her new bestowed upon her puppy! Her brother James had randomly given him to her. Now, the four legged cutie was apart of her life. It was dark and the klutz she could be...it wasn't a good set up, as she made her up the steps of her porch. With her purse slung over her shoulder, shopping bags nibbled at her fingertips, and her journals pressed against her chest the actresses jogged, carefully up the rest of the stairs to her front door.

Most of the time Angelina wouldn't bother to leave the doors locked. Even though safety precautions warranted her too. It made things easier when meetings, filming—ect ran late. Her body made it through the door on cue as the horn of the car, signaled a goodbye. The shopping bags fell to the floor, her purse slipped down her arm, and of course the journals in her hands began faltering as well.

Before long she could hear the deep pounding padding steps, of her eager doggy Yogi. In a blink of an eye the lovable chocolate Labrador—ran upon her. Tail wagging, eyes large with anticipation, and barking as if Angelina have been gone for hundreds of years. Bending down to meet the adorable canine halfway. She scratched him, patting his fur, and permit the four legged animal to lick her face a bit. “Been a good boy? Hm? Yes? Yes!”

She was answered with more speedy barks and licks of affection. Regaining her standing position, Angelina and Yogi traveled past the dim living room, over the two little steps and into the kitchen. Out stretching one arm, Angelina flicked on the kitchen light and was met with the white affluent, peaceful ambiance of the kitchen fully. Most of the cooking contraptions, the actress had failed to use— her attention span for cooking was anything less than bearable.

Small chuckles echoed from her lips as she fished around the lower cabinets trying to find a snack. Yogi, budded his head against her leg— almost asking for one himself. After grabbing a few simple crackers for herself, dog treat for the pup, Angelina pranced her way to her bedroom.

The lanky actress had wolfed down the crackers fast. Now she became situated in a heated, candlelit, door closed and locked, bubble bathtub. Her pale skin soaking in the sweet lavender body wash, she so graciously added to the water— along with some honeysuckle bath bombs. Angelina adored bubble baths, mainly after long days which includes one like today. As the soothing, muscle relaxing home spa like treatment was needed—to was the Rose Gold, Pinot wine that sat half empty on the rim of the sleek porcelain tub. In the beginning stages of her soak she had, nursed the wine. Baby sips, little nips. Then, grabbing the glass by the base she downed the wine. Rich in taste, smooth on the route, leaving a satisfied almost drool expression upon her face.

Raising her head a bit, damp strings of her hair sticking to her neck. Her misty eyes viewed the steam from the water—it was gratifying to see. Angelina stuck one arm out from under the water, watching enticingly close, as droplets fell from her thin fingertips. A soft “Mmm.” Rang from the depths of her throat, and past her lips. This was bliss. This was truly a peace maker to her overactive mind. Overactive life in some areas.