Present Day–Tuesday

“Karmen, we’re ready for you now. If you will follow me to your dressing room, our stylist will get you prepped for the show.”

My heart was pounding already and it was still an hour before show time. The last ten minutes that my mother and I sat in the waiting area had been pure torture for me. For one, I hated sitting still longer than fifteen seconds and two, my anxiety levels were peaking. The reality settled in that I was about to be interviewed on national television for the very first time. I mentally kicked myself for allowing the pleadings of my mother and my Uncle Cy, who happened to be my editor as well, to sway my opinion and talk me into this living nightmare. Why did they think it was such a grand idea to throw the shy, introverted writer into the limelight?

My mother sensed my apprehension. She gently slid her cool hand into my clammy one, forcing me to follow her lead and stand or risk looking like a dolt glued to the chair. Once on my feet, I tried not to wobble, which was rather difficult considering my knees were literally knocking together.

Realizing that I wasn’t going to respond, my mother took control of the situation and answered for me.

“Thank you, Miss…?”

The six-foot Amazon lady in front of us smiled, her perfectly sized teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Her shoulder length hair was too beautiful to be real and not one strand of the flaxen waves was out of place.

“Arianna. Arianna Scarsdale. I’m Renee Jackson’s assistant. And you are?” she replied. The phony smile on her lush, red lips never made it past her protruding cheekbones.

“Shasta Moncrille. I’m Karmen’s mother and her manager.” My mother added the last part with particular emphasis. I guess she wanted to ensure that Amazon Arianna acquiesced to her presence being allowed in my dressing room.

With a slight nod of her head, Arianna turned on her ten inch stilettos (okay, so they weren’t really ten inches, but they may as well have been because there was no way I could ever totter around in those toe killers) and sashayed down the hallway. My mother and I exchanged glances and followed, my rotund rump feeling abnormally huge compared to the boney protrusion that I assumed Arianna called her rear. I mentally cursed the heritage that imprinted itself in my DNA with so many curves.

My palms were nearly dripping with nervous perspiration. Arianna was chattering about the sights as we passed each one, pointing out the editing room, the video vault and then the studio set. When I saw the multitude of cameras and an enormous picture of me behind the set, I almost fainted. Thankfully, we stopped in front of what I hoped was the dressing room door.

“Here we are. Have a seat in front of the mirror and Danielle will be right in to do your hair and makeup. Mrs. Moncrille, I’m sure you will find the accommodations suitable. The refrigerator is fully stocked with drinks, and the fruit and muffin basket on the table is our gift to Karmen. Please, help yourselves.”

“Thank you, Ms. Scarsdale. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated.” My mother guided me through the open door. Before she closed it, she turned back around and addressed the Stiletto Queen once more.

“Ms. Scarsdale, would you mind turning the air conditioner to full blast? I’m afraid Karmen is suffering from a major case of stage fright. Water just isn’t going to do the trick to soothe her nerves.”

I forced my eyes not to roll in embarrassment at my mother’s request and the irritated expression that crossed the face of our usherette. Thankfully, no response was given other than a curt nod of Arianna’s head and then she was gone. The tap, tap, tap of her dagger-heels faded as she strode down the hallway.

I stopped in front of the swivel chair that was perched before an enormous mirror. The last thing I wanted to do was sit under the hot, blaring fluorescent lights. Strike that, it was the second to last thing. The first was the freaking interview. It was too late to back out. Instead I did the next best thing and plopped down unladylike onto the cool leather and glared at my mother.

“Karmen, don’t look at me like that. You are acting like a pubescent, hormonal teenager. You agreed to this interview, and you know exactly what it will do for your career.” Her voice was steady and calm, just as I recalled from childhood. Not once in all of my twenty-two years could I ever recall her yelling at me.

My mother never raised her voice even during my tumultuous teenage years. Rather, it became a sweet, sticky nectar that oozed forth, cloaking her irritation in sugary words. A person could become an instant diabetic if they listened too long. No wonder I was such an oddity that hated chocolate.

I closed my eyes and took a long, cleansing breath, controlling the air as it left my lungs. Sometimes my deep breathing exercises worked to settle my nerves but not today. What I really needed was to talk to Uncle Cy. Something about him, some undefined aspect of his aura, calmed me in a profound way. He was the complete opposite of my mother, which made sense since they were ten years apart. She was blonde; he had auburn locks. He was tall and wiry, and mom was as curvy as one could be without being considered overweight. She had curves reminiscent of the 1940s that she generously passed along to me. Not that I had any choice in the matter.

I was a strange mixture of both. At only five foot four, I had my mother’s body and my uncle’s auburn hair, but my face didn’t resemble either of them. I was the spitting image of my father, at least as far as I could tell from the old pictures my mother had shown me when I was a child.

The other main difference between my mother and Uncle Cy was that I could actually carry on deep conversations with him about any subject. When my inquisitive questions became too much for my mother she would simply smile and say, “That’s a topic for your Uncle Cy, not me.” Politics, forensic science, global warming, the economy, literature, religion—you name it and we could converse for hours, completely oblivious to the world around us.

When Uncle Cy spoke, his rhythmic baritone voice pulled me inside a bubble, encapsulating me inside a cocoon of tranquility. When he remained silent and listened to my musings, I sensed deep down in my core that he heard, and understood, what I was saying. It never mattered to me whether he agreed with my opinions or not; I adored the fact that he listened and at least feigned interest.

My pining for his calming presence was interrupted by the loud entrance of yet another scrawny, perfectly primped and preened plastic Barbie-humanoid crossover. The woman I assumed was my makeup artist, Danielle. She flounced through the door and quickly made a beeline for the makeup chair. Guess I really looked like I needed a makeover.

“Wow, Karmen Moncrille! I’m so excited to meet you. I’m a huge fan. I’ve read all your books, which of course were much better than the movies. You know, it’s true what they say, the book is always better. I almost fainted when I heard Renee was going to interview you and I would be doing your hair and makeup. What an honor!”

The words gushed out of her full, pink lips almost as fast as her hands dove into the mound of cosmetics on the table. Before I could even respond she began slathering tons of the smelly goo all over my nice, clean face. The woman’s rapid fire pace at talking and grooming me was making me dizzy.

“Now Ms. Danielle, not too heavy on the base or concealer. We don’t want Karmen looking like a piece of wax, do we?” My mother spoke in her neutral yet commanding voice and to my surprise, Danielle paused in mid-swipe.

“You’re right! Look at that complexion. Nice and peachy. The camera will pick up her natural glow quite well. Dabbing at my eyeballs she said, “Let’s do a hint of a smoky eye and leave her cheeks and lips nude. It will give her a nice, gothic-esque look and tie in perfectly with the whole ‘chic author’ thing she has going on with her outfit.”

I wanted to roll my eyes but feared Danielle might poke one of them out. Instead, I expressed my irritation with a heavy sigh, a protest at being groomed to conform to what society deemed was beautiful.

My mother and Danielle ignored my obvious discomfort. They chatted about how to best present me to the public like I was a prized show dog. Since they decided to talk about me like I wasn’t there, I opted to ignore them and concentrated on my answers to the questions that Ms. Jackson would soon be asking me. Those prepared questions were the one caveat I insisted upon before I agreed to participate in this farce. I personally wrote each generic and easy to respond to question and sent them to Ms. Jackson with strict instructions not to veer from them. I was unwilling to entrust anyone else with this responsibility, not even my mom. There was no way I was going to be broadsided with surprise questions, and I was determined not to be asked the standard probing one always asked: where do your ideas come from.

If that question was posed, I would come across on national television as a blundering idiot. I wouldn’t be able to form a cohesive sentence to answer and that terrified me. People would finally know the truth about me. I didn’t want to be remembered as the insane person who talked to the ghosts of dead writers in her dreams.

“Where do my ideas come from? What an interesting question, Ms. Jackson. I have conversations with the dead in my dreams that I only have vague memories of and when I wake up an entire novel is on the computer screen! Isn’t that just the neatest?”

Yeah, that response would go over great. I’m sure my mother would have me hauled off in a straightjacket to a padded room at Hotel Hysteria. And my career would go down in a ball of flames.

While I was lost inside the twisted hallways of my mind, Danielle and my mother finally agreed I was ready to face my adoring public. Through a cloud of fine powder and hairspray, I felt my mother’s gentle urging from behind to stand up.

“You look incredible, Ms. Karmen! Please, before you head out to the soundstage, may I get your autograph? And a picture? My friends won’t believe me unless I have some solid evidence.”

Danielle, the Queen of Hairspray, held out her cell phone to my mother then stuck her face next to mine like we were the bestest of friends and grinned. I did manage to produce a smile, but only because I recognized the irritation on my mother’s face at doing something so menial. My mother preferred being the director. She finished snapping a few pictures and practically threw Danielle’s phone back at her.

“Thank you! It has been a pleasure. Come on, it’s show time. I’ll take you to the stage.” Danielle no longer looked our way. She was too busy tapping away on her cell phone and probably sharing her latest custom masterpiece all over every social media outlet she used. I had no interest whatsoever in this trendy pastime. I let my publicist handle my online presence because it held no interest to me. Obviously, Danielle did not feel the same way.

My mother was already at the door raring to get the show on the road. I pretended not to notice and stole one last look in the mirror. My God, I didn’t even recognize myself under the layers of product. My curly red hair had been smoothed down into soft waves that delicately framed my face and floated down past the top of my shirt. From a distance, it looked shiny and beautiful except when I reached up to touch it a hurricane wouldn’t have been able to lift a strand from place.

I rarely wore more than the sheer minimum of mascara and sometimes lightly colored lip balm. On a night on the town, which never happened, I might indulge in a hint of rouge, but that was the extent of my relationship with makeup. I hated the look and feel of the goop on my clean skin. Why women felt the compulsion to masquerade as sideshow clowns escaped me.

Gone was my normal, fresh look that I loved. Now, I had what looked like a pair of hairy caterpillars sitting on top of my eyeballs, matched only in obnoxiousness by the intense colors swooped across my eyelids. Half a tube of ruddy, brownish lipstick was slathered across my lips, which made them look like I had fought and lost a battle with a horde of bees.

If this was Danielle’s idea of “nude” I shuddered to think what she considered “colorful.” There was enough crap on my face and hair to add ten pounds to my weight. Getting it off later was going to be an interesting experience and would require an entire bottle of shampoo and facial cleanser. Maybe a blowtorch.

I was afraid the scary reflection in the mirror might cross over into my realm and attack me at any moment. Thank goodness my mother brought me back to reality. “Come on, Karmen. You look fine. Quit preening.”

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of handshakes, introductions, and a few more cans of hairspray and powder. The lights above seemed like a miniature solar system, making the sweat pool under my arms. Thank heaven I wore a black shirt. Mom said the dark color would set off my fair complexion and complement my red hair. My guess is she knew it would also hide my baseball size pit-stains.

Renee Jackson was pleasant and professional as she walked me through what to expect regarding camera angles, to speak slow and enunciate, and finally, to enjoy the next thirty minutes. Easy for her to say and impossible for me to do. My heart thrummed in my chest and I heard its rhythmic pounding in my ears. Thirty minutes? I wasn’t going to last five.

“Good evening. I’m Renee Jackson and this is Hollywood Moments. Tonight, our very special guest is the award-winning and reclusive author, Karmen Moncrille. Her novels have received unparalleled acclaim worldwide, and she is the only author to have all thirteen of her works made into movies within five years, three of which received several Oscars. All this has been accomplished by this amazing woman before the age of twenty-three. Never before has she granted any interviews, and it is my pleasure to be the first. Please join me in giving a warm welcome to Karmen Moncrille.”

You can do this. Just keep your eyes on Renee. Don’t look at the camera. Easy. Breathe.

“Thank you,” I managed.

So much for astounding the viewing audience with my sharp wit. Please, please stick to the questions. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

“Well, let’s get right down to it, shall we?”

I nodded, my cheeks already sore from the frozen, fake smile plastered on my face.

“You wrote your first full-length novel at the age of sixteen entitled Shrewsbury. The high praise for that book, including comparisons to the uncanny similarities to the writing style of William Shakespeare and the modern take of his work, The Taming of the Shrew, is legendary. Within three weeks of its release, it hit the New York Times bestseller list and stayed there for an impressive ten months. You were, and still are, so young. What was that experience like?”

Oh man, I have to speak now…

“Well, it was rather overwhelming. Sort of like sitting under these hot lights,” I replied with nervous laughter.

“That’s an understatement. You have sold over seven hundred million books in sixty languages during the last five years. What an incredible accomplishment. And now your latest book, Madness, is being touted as your finest work ever. One critic even said it ‘was like Dante Alighieri was resurrected’ through your words. I understand that production has already begun for the movie. You are breaking all sorts of records, young lady!”

She is veering from my questions. This isn’t going to end well. Where is Uncle Cy when I need him? He promised he would be here. Just focus on the movie. Steer her in that direction.

“I am very excited about the movie. I will be on set as a technical advisor while filming so that will be a first for me.”

“How exciting! What is it like knowing that everyone, and I do mean everyone, not only reads your work but never has any negative feedback? Every author has at least someone that doesn’t like their style but not you. To what do you attribute this almost inexplicable connection with your readers and the critics?”

Renee’s face was the picture of perfection. Not a hair was out of place. No sweat poured down her face unlike my own. Her bright red lips parted slightly, her white teeth nearly as bright as the stage lights. Her smile made her millions and seemed genuine from a distance. But up close was another matter. Her eyes reflected something dark, sinister and probing. I could almost feel it inside me, like a worm crawling under my skin as she stared.

My chest became tighter and my breath became shallow. The sound of blood pounded in my head followed by the telltale tingling in my feet and hands. Any second now, a full-blown panic attack was going to hit me. Desperate to fight it off, I tried to answer her questions, to focus my thoughts on speaking rather than fainting.

“I really, well, I don’t know. I am simply grateful that they do,” I muttered.

“Even the harshest critics are saying you are extraordinarily gifted. A child prodigy if you will. Is it true that you never attended public school? That your mother raised you alone and homeschooled you?”

Thank God. She was back to the list of questions again. Okay, Karmen, you can do this.

“Yes, that is true. My mother stuck a book in my hand before I was old enough to hold it. She instilled in me a love for the written word and started my lifelong fascination with reading.” I snuck a quick glance at my mother who stood as close to the stage as she was allowed. The ever doting mom watched her baby chick with pride.

“I know the world thanks her since you have graced it with such incredible works. Where do you get your inspiration from? And what is your writing process like?”

No! Not that question.

“Well, um, it’s rather hard to explain…” I faltered.

“Don’t be shy, Ms. Moncrille. I am sure the viewing audience includes every author alive watching and dying to know your secrets to success. Throw us a bone to nibble on.”

My chest froze. No breath could pass between my mouth and lungs. Fire burned in my clenched throat; my words locked behind the budding pyre. The whooshing in my ears grew louder and my vision started to blur. Panic tore through me and exploded out of my chest as my entire body began to tremble.

I tried to lock my eyes with Renee’s. If I could just concentrate on them and nothing else, maybe I wouldn’t faint. Intense heat pulsed through my legs, past my torso and up toward my neck. I blinked twice and tried to lose myself inside Renee’s dark brown eyes. To hold on to consciousness through the sable orbs that looked back at me, unblinking.

Just as quickly as it spiked, the heat began to lessen. I could see Renee’s lips moving but couldn’t hear her words. I couldn’t hear anything for that matter. My head suddenly felt heavy. Fear settled over me when icy fingers gripped me from behind. I wanted to jump and run, but I couldn’t move. I tried to turn my head to find my mother except the pressure of the frozen hands pressed harder against my temples, immobilizing me.

The blaring lights around me faded as darkness began to creep in. The walls of my mind compressed as the vise-like grip squeezed tighter. Unable to move or speak, I could do nothing but implore Renee with my eyes for help. The response was lips moving in silence to my deaf ears.

Without warning Renee’s face contorted, the once beautiful brown eyes elongating into thin, red slits. Her cheeks and forehead morphed into an unrecognizable mass of flesh while skin pulsated and took on the appearance of things that could simply not be. The woman interviewing me was gone, her face shifting and transforming, changing into the faces of writers long since dead. The same writers I drew inspiration from. The inflated, dried lips began to move and this time I heard the words. They rang past my ears and pierced my very soul.

“It is time, Karmen. Time to fulfill your destiny. We have prepared you well. Go, write it.”

The panic attack was miles behind me, the heated flush a distant memory. It was replaced by pure, unadulterated terror as I heard the garbled words spoken in a language impossible for me to know, yet I fully understood. The words weren’t simply heard, they were felt throughout me, reverberating inside every cell.

The tight embrace around my head ceased and my body went limp. The faint scream of my mother was the last thing I heard before I succumbed to the enveloping darkness.