Work Text:
Shimmer grabbed her cassette, slipping the tape into her walkman as she slung her backpack over her shoulder, and made her way to the bus stop. Her own soprano vocals sung in her ears, a voice from so many years ago.
All I want is a room somewhere~
She remembered being on that stage, switching between accents at the drop of a hat, shining in the spotlight. The girl they all admired.
Peggy had been in the audience for her. The tape was a recording of her own, one taken surreptitiously in the backstage.
Shimmer sighed, sticking her arm out for the bus, and swung herself into a seat, mouthing along to the lyrics.
Lots of chocolates for me to eat~
The girls back then couldn’t imagine who she was now, or that she was free from the debt that clawed at her as a monster. She wasn’t in the starlight, not anymore. A voice, without a face. A teacher, with someone else to represent her.
The girl who was Eliza, and the girl who loved her, wouldn’t believe this.
Who takes good care of me~
She felt the wheels thrum beneath her, the heartbeat to her life, replacing the conductor’s stick and the piano’s gentle rhythm. It had been some time since she thought of Peggy. Shimmer twisted her hands, feeling the joints clicked as she ran them around one another. Peggy had a car, she thought with some regret. Maybe she should learn.
The rain in Spain~
Robert. He’d been her mentor, her inspiration. She’d never told him about the Omertas, never mentioned the constant shadow that loomed over her every performance. They all thought she was dead, now. Peggy and Robert, Lila, James and Sandy. All of them.
Shimmer watched as the houses scrolled by her window, and wondered if any of the cast listened to their own performances. Peggy had a tape too, and she’d seen James’ orchestra recording a rehearsal, once. Did they think of the dead girl they’d once known? Did they remember that strange performer who burnt like a flame and dreamed only of the stars?
How kind of you to let me come!
She wasn’t the girl who was Eliza anymore. That girl was a memory, preserved by those who loved her, and the women who emerged, battered and bleeding, from her decaying body.
Tell me no dreams filled with desire.