I’ve seen many unusual things over the past few years, but the item I’m staring at right now takes the crown. It is grotesque. Beautifully grotesque. It astounds me anyone would think I’d want a hair clip made from a live beetle as a gift.
It’s cradled in an ornate box, the beetle’s shell lavishly adorned with tiny green jewels. The poor creature is tethered to the hair clip by a fine golden chain. Surrounding the beetle are veined fragments of what look like wings, iridescent green and yellow.
The beetle twitches its legs, yearning for freedom.
Poor darling thing.
I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. ‘Poor darling thing,’ I tell myself because am I not similar to this beetle, tethered by a golden chain to the industry that discovered me, is devoted to me … and now devours me?
Honestly? I don’t really know what I am beneath the jewels and the fame. Am I the Oscar-winning actress my fans see? A cash cow my agent and film studio see? The vulnerable daughter and sister that my family see?
I move my fingers down my cheek, to my neck and over my collarbone as I watch myself in the reflection. I definitely feel like I am a thing to be pawed, to be ravished, to be adorned like this insect. The truth is, I don’t even feel human anymore, skin peeled away layer by layer. Less Cordelia, more a nameless entity that exists to be admired and stroked.
I read an article yesterday about this condition called scleroderma, where sufferers slowly turn to stone, calcifying. I’ve been feeling like that lately. Numb. Still. A statue. When I told my mother how I felt, she said I needed a break from everything. It felt like a hallelujah moment. She meant a literal break, of course, like the one I took last year to Koh Samui. A physical removal from New York. But I realised it doesn’t need to be as drastic as that. I just need a break from all the distorted images I see of myself. The fact is, my phone has become a house of mirrors with versions of myself constantly thrown back at me, pushing me off course. I don’t need to go on holiday. I simply need to put my phone away.
So here I am, about to begin my digital detox. But before I do, one last picture for him. I need him to know this isn’t his fault. That he is one of the few who truly see the real me. It’ll be just two weeks and I’ll be back to him again.
I go to take a selfie but realise how ridiculous I look, all pouty-lipped and wide-eyed. I need it to mean something. To enamour him so much, his beautiful eyes won’t stray.
So I return my gaze to my little friend, this beautiful beetle. I decide to let him see both of us, and perhaps he will even understand what I am telling him. About myself, my life. And I know it will capture his attention, the sight of such a rarity attached to my hair. One picture, then I’ll find a way to free the beetle from this prison. Maybe it can be my little companion over the coming two weeks?
I carefully remove the hair clip from the box, feeling the beetle’s legs twitch against my fingers. It makes me think of summers in the park behind our house, my brother bringing me bugs as gifts as my mother laughed.
‘Shhh,’ I whisper to the beetle. ‘You’ll be free soon, I promise.’
It stills, as though it understands.
No, as though she understands. I decide she must be a girl, like me. What shall I name her? Mabel, after my grandmother, another actress, another time. She would have understood what I’m going through.
I lift the hair clip to my fringe and gently slide it in. I have to confess, it looks rather beautiful against my red hair. I press it down. Click. The cool metal of the hair clip scratches against my scalp and I feel a pinch, subtle but sharp. I wince slightly. Beetles can’t bite, can they? I ought to remove it, but all I need is a quick photo. I hold my phone out, ready to capture this bizarre blend of horror and vanity in a single frame. Mona Lisa smile. Alluring eyes.
Click.
Change position.
Click. Click.
As I turn, the room blurs at the edges, a strange haze clouding my vision. The pain in my scalp increases, like a clawed hand is tightening its grip over my head.
Something’s not right.
My own hand darts up, my fingers clawing at the clip, but it clings to me, an unwelcome parasite. My breath shortens, each inhale a labour, each exhale a plea for help that won’t come. The room spins, my silk sheets crumpling under clenched fists as a cold dread spreads through my veins.
The beetle. Is the beetle doing this?
A silent scream builds in my throat, my muscles seizing. The world fades to a pinpoint of light, as elusive as the fame that hollowed me out. My eyes, growing heavy, fixate on the ceiling above, where shadows dance in a mocking waltz.
Darkness edges in, curtains closing, slowly slowly until …
Nothing.