I Don't Need Anything Else

8: This Isn't Fun

Elena

I have been searching for him.

But it's a little difficult to look for someone when you don't even know their name. All I could tell the useless private investigators was that he's Hispanic, handsome, tall, and strong. Besides that, I don't have a single detail about him.

Just that when I looked into his eyes I felt something. He had that look when a little kid tries to hide that they're sad but they can't really hide it well. The only detail was that in his eyes, I felt something in me click. I want to be protected by him but I also want to protect him. I want to be the one who takes the sadness out of his eyes.

I want to see him let go.

I can't tell all that to the investigators so "he's handsome" is going to have to be enough for now. 

"Elena?" my producer, Mark, says. Through the glass, he sits in front of many computers, sipping on his 8th cup of coffee. The absolute zero sunlight in here isn't helping with his drowsiness. The bags under his eyes are becoming more prominent. Mark looks like a mess. The stubble trails his face, his curly hair is spiked in each direction. As much as I wish I could end this here, I won't. Every song I make has to be perfect.

"Let's do it again. I think I can hit the note higher." I sing into the mic, feeling the satisfaction of hitting all notes perfectly and smoothly, connecting them together. Then when we get to the bridge of the song, I open my mouth wide and sing, the vibrato resonating in my chest. The whole room is filled with my voice, powerful and pretty all at once.

It wasn't actually my intention to become a singer. I loved doing it and I was good at it but it was always drilled into my brain that the only job I needed to have was to get married. But as I grew up, I had my own dreams and wants. This was one of them. And no matter what the public says about me, no matter what scandal they will drag me into, none of it matters because at least I can sing and I have a voice none like any other. No matter how many times my father tries to bring me down, at least I have this.

If I'm an arrogant, self-centered narcissist, at least I'm one with reason. 

"I think this one is good," he says. I put on the headphones to see if I agree.

"I think so too. Okay, then we're done for today."

Mark nods, chugging his coffee. "You don't feel tired at all?"

It is 3:45 in the morning and I have been up since 7. "I don't really sleep much."

It's true. Once in a blue moon you'll find me having a full night's rest. Other than that, I have my nightmares to keep awake. "Gotta go."

"Where are you going?" Mark asks.

"I'm going to report a crime."

If I can't find him, maybe the police will. So I make up some fabricated lie to the officers and they eat it up because I'm Elena Cortez.

"You're saying this man," the officers holds up a very pixelated photo of him, "stole your ring?"

"Not just any ring, officer. You see, it was one of the last gifts my late mother gave to me. And she gifted it to me after buying it for some lousy 46 million." I see his soul leave his body as I mention the price. "But the money isn't important. What matters is that that is the only thing I have left of my mother." Tears fall from my eyes and I wonder where my Grammy nomination is for this performance of mine.

His thick rectangle mustache wiggles and he sniffles, trying to think of a way to get rid of the crying celebrity. "You promise me you'll do your best to find him?"