Graveyard Blues [Brallon]

Lights, Cameras, Action

The cameras flash all around. Microphones are held out over the barriers. Reporters holler for me to turn and comment, to look at the camera, to answer a question or two so they can twist my words however they please.

I keep walking. Not only because I don't care, but because I have a paid interview waiting inside, and all the people around me would do is sell whatever I give them for ridiculous amounts of money that I don't receive any percentage of. Others wouldn't care, and I truly don't, but I never wanted to give them the satisfaction of my attention or an autograph. At least I get a percentage of what the reporters pay.

I was taught to blend in. My best friend is still with me, recently in a more intimate way, but he devoted an intense effort to teach me how to act like the average human being ever since he figured out what was really wrong with me. He did fairly well — my identity is still kept between us and only us.

He follows a pace behind me through the parted sea of people and cameras, overwhelmed and on the verge of either snapping or shutting down right then and there. I tried to smile at him earlier, but he wouldn't look away from his shoes.

Past the doors, I was face to face with others just like me, but normal and slightly annoying to listen to. Every moment I spent with them, it became more and more difficult to act like them. I had to learn new techniques quickly, and it worked.

The doors swish shut and he grabs my hand, squeezing tightly three times. "Can't wait until the paparazzi occupation goes extinct."

"Won't happen," I mutter to him, "unless their average income decreases significantly, or the death toll rises in that specific occupation."

"...Do you plan on contributing to that last option?"

"Not if they get out of my face and leave me alone every once in a while. I respect the boundaries they cross to provide for their families and prevent death by starvation or dangerous weather conditions. It's slightly admirable."

"That first part won't happen." He smiles.

The doors across the room shoot open, and out rush the paying interviewers with their camera crews and exaggerated microphones. They part to the various others in reach, and immediately begin introducing themselves and firing questions like machine guns shoot bullets.

He lets go of my hand and steps back as a set approaches and began to film within seconds of reaching me. It was ridiculous.

She's wearing in a tight black dress, simple but open in the back. The sleeves stretch to her wrists, but the hem of the skirt only hits mid-thigh. Her dark heels are so tall, she can almost directly look me in the eye.

She flashes her perfect teeth at the camera lens. "My name is Christine Winters, and I'm here with Dallon Weekes for the premiere of his latest action thriller, hitting theaters near you soon. Could you tell us who you wearing tonight?"

I look down. It's a casual black suit. There is nothing special about it, except for the shoelaces. They used to be stained with blood, but I don't tell people that. "Mothballs from the deepest corner of my closet. I think my costars are much more interesting and covered in less dust."

She laughs. She's comfortable. "Do you think can you give us an insight to your character? How do you play into the storyline? What should we read into during your performance on the big screen?"

Brendon holds an encouraging thumbs-up at me. He stands in my peripheral vision, just almost out of sight. I could strangle her right then and there and then dig her another grave next to the other animals, but I'm being filmed, and I have to blend in.

"As you could see from the trailers, my character is more of a silent but deadly type of person, working on the side instead of really on the field. Uhh, whenever he's on screen, there're always little hints in the actions he uses when speaking, or in his facial expressions. There's always something new to notice each time you watch."

He gives me two thumbs-up, and she nods. "Do you have any future plans? Any contracts you've signed recently? Any film industry secrets that you might be able to slip us?"

I can't legally tell her anything. It's written in the multiple contracts I signed over the last couple weeks or so in order to star in more movies and make more money. "I don't think I can say exactly what, but the film industry certainly hasn't seen the last of me." I add a smile and a wink at the end, charming for the viewers so I look excited. I am far from it.

She thanks me and I keep up the act until she leaves. Then my expression drops and I head back to Brendon and linger outside of the crowd of reporters that are far more interested in the lead female for her groundbreaking role.

"The smile was a good touch. You did look a little vacant when you started talking, though."

"I am," I say and he sighs, "because I don't care. I've acted for my whole life, through another shit movie, and I still hate interviews."

He frowns. "That's the basis of your career. Acting should come easier to you, considering everything. It's a little sad, really."

"I don't see why. I believe sad is when somebody passes away, or when you lose something important. The definition does not include being careless or not putting effort into something you are supposed to be a professional at."

The premier begins in fifteen minutes, and my costars are still being crowded and treated like zoo animals behind glass while I stand by and observe silently. I believe the contrast would be classified as humorous. "We should get to our seats before anybody else can talk to me."

"You're so... antisocial."

"Wrong disorder."