Work Text:
They ask her how she does it.
Brooke doesn’t know.
Not how she does it. She knows that part. She does it with vodka and cigarettes and burning the ends of her fingers on candles.
She doesn’t know how to explain how she does it.
Because how can you explain to people?
Normal people
That being loved
Being wanted
Being adored
is all you’ve ever wanted
The glitz the glamour the drug addictions
They make it look so difficult on screen
It isn’t
Truly
It isn’t hard to become famous
You just work your ass off everyday of your life.
Find one or two or seventeen bad habits that will most likely kill you. (Like smoking. It’s so sexy to show people that you are killing yourself while holding the gun in your hand.)
Be attractive.
Pretend you are happy but make sure people know that you aren’t. (Make it a relatable plight. Nothing too dark. It still has to be palatable to the media. Maybe depression. Or anxiety. Or, if you really wanna spice it up, ADHD.)
Keep you opinions to yourself. (Unless you are right.)
Play the part. (But don’t play it too well or people will get suspicious.)
So, maybe it is a little hard.
Maybe it is the hardest thing Brooke has ever done. Harder than telling the love of her life that he didn’t deserve her.
Every tweet she sends is met with a pang of nerves in her stomach.
Did she push too far?
Did she misspell something?
Did she lie too much?
That’s the other thing that never sits well with her. The Lying.
The lying to friends and family and strangers and lovers and people who mean nothing to her. (and to herself)
She’s walking on eggshells in her own mind. She knows that one wrong move can. in an instant, crumble everything she has worked to build herself up to be.
It is terrifyingly addictive.
The lying.
The fame.
It is killing her slowly. And she is holding the gun in her own hand.