"For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.
So collapse.
Crumble.
This is not your destruction.
This is your birth."
-Zoe Skylar
—
A damask-rose dawn, hellish in its shocking pink, leached all the color from the stars as it spread across the sky. With the sun came bedtime. Down the throat went a Valium, chased by a cup of ice-cold Gatorade. The drowsiness came after, the muscles finally relaxed, tension dissipating, replaced by a soft sort of haze—if only for a moment. Turning off all the lights, even the pink neons, and the buttery yellow fairy lights, dousing the room with the cold thrumming air from the AC. Blackout shade lowered and curtains closed tightly. Finally, in the pitch black, it was time to get into bed.
Here, the fire consumed me.
Even with the icy air and the gulps of cold Gatorade, that fire burned through me, eating away at my bones until they felt brittle, as if I could snap with a touch. After an entire night of broadcasting on Gaminar, the streaming website that hosted my gaming channel, I felt weak and exhausted and overwhelmed from wearing the skin of a confident, bubbly girl who riffed off of negative feedback as if it was nothing.
But it wasn't nothing.
It was everything.
Put some clothes on, slut.
Why is your smile so weird?
Did you get those scars on your wrists from cutting yourself for attention?
"Stop," I whispered, covering my ears as if it would drown them out, but it did nothing. They were in my fucking head.
I wanted to sleep. I
needed
to sleep. I had work in six hours, and if I was going to make it through another day working for Duncan, the creepiest perv in all of West Hollywood, then I needed to keep it together and not be a zombie when I walked into his restaurant. He'd make a big show of pointing out everything wrong with me, too. Was my makeup too light? Too heavy? Why wasn't my hair down? He liked it down; didn't I remember him telling me so? Was my skirt fitting my tight body exactly as the employee handbook instructed? And was I still as athletic and toned as the day I'd been hired?
I just wanted to cry, but I didn't have the time. Breakdown hour wasn't until
after
work. Coming home, snapping open a can of beer, chugging it down to dull the sting of the tears. But it stung anyway. It always did.
And even though I tried not to cry, even though I did my best to just shut my eyes and go to sleep, the tears still trickled down my cheeks, wetting the pillow. I was stronger than this—and yet, I wasn't.
Because even the hearts of lions are vulnerable when exposed.
—
My father used to call me Little Bird.
Little Bird with the hair raven-black, a sleek ripple in the calm ocean breeze; Little Bird with the little mouth, speaking gentle words in a voice soft as the cotton of the clouds; Little Bird of enormous eyes, the color of the bluest sky on a clear day by the ocean; Little Bird with the
big
dreams, a heart the size of the entire beach-side town, big enough to love everyone.
Little Bird still so little, only six years old when he clipped my wings.
He left.
—
Duncan was waiting for me. I kicked down the kickstand of my motorcycle and took off my helmet, eyeing him warily as he smoked a cigarette.
"Kindra," he said, blowing out a puff of smoke. "Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence."
I checked my watch. "I'm ten minutes early."
"It's just a figure of speech."
It didn't make any fucking sense, but whatever. He was my boss, and I needed this job, so I handled it the way I handled assholes on my stream chats: I smiled. It churned my guts and made me hate myself, but I was a girl from a small town who was trying to prove that she could make it out in the big city. I couldn't go back with my tail between my legs. I just couldn't.
I was a hostess at Duncan's restaurant in WeHo. The dress code was, of course, ridiculous; tiny skirts, tight cropped collared shirts, unbuttoned almost all the way down, stockings, and high heels. The name of this magnificent restaurant? Knockers.
I knew what I was getting myself into when I applied. I knew the dress code. I'd even kind of known that the boss was kind of a creep. But I really, really,
really
needed the money, and Knockers paid their hostesses almost one and a half more than what the other restaurants in the area were paying. I guess if you want girls to trade their dignity for cash, you had to really give them something for it.
And I'd been parting with my dignity for a long fucking time.
"You need to unbutton one more button, Kindra," Duncan said with a smirk.
Yeah, too long.
I undid the button as I made my way into the restaurant through the back door, almost running into Garrison, one of the line cooks. He grinned, easily maneuvering a tray of prepped vegetables around me.
"Trying to ruin a half hour's hard work?" he called over his shoulder.
"Sorry!"
"Hey, chica," said another voice from the kitchen. It was Rosa, another one of the line cooks. She was battering up some onion rings to fry.
"Rosa, hi," I said, walking over to the employee lockers off to the back. I opened one and shoved my helmet in there.
"How'd your night go, Kindra?" It was our chef, George. He was grinning as he helped Rosa catch up with her order.
"Good enough," I said as I fixed my hair. Helmet head wasn't exactly appealing to customers. I looked over my shoulder, catching Garrison's eye as he walked back with a fresh box of vegetables from the fridge. Six months ago, by complete accident, he'd caught me streaming on Gaminar. It was my biggest secret—and he'd found out. I begged him to keep my secret, and I mean
begged
. If Duncan found out, he'd never let me live it down.
Garrison was a pretty sweet guy. He kept my secret.
It was lucky that besides Duncan, I had a pretty strong group of people to work with. They were kind to me, and at this stage of my life, it was the best I could hope for.
I checked my watch, clocked in, and headed into hell.
—
"You got ID, kid?"
A 12-pack of beers was on the counter. My eyes flicked to the cashier's face. He looked dead serious.
"Henry, I come here like every other day. You know I'm twenty-one."
"Barely," he said, cracking a smile. "Show me anyway. I like your picture."
I dug out my wallet from my back pocket, pulled out the ID, and slid it across the counter. He was right; it was a pretty good picture. Henry picked it up, examined it carefully, and turned it around.
