The Shared Dream Ch 03 Juliet

I know this is going to sound ridiculous. I know I'll be ridiculed for even suggesting this, the audacious idea that someone so rich and famous can be drowning in problems, begging for sympathy is outrageous. So maybe don't sympathize, but hear me.

Being here, plugged into some soulless computer, I feel more alive than I have in years. Ever since my eighteenth birthday, when I signed that record contract in my blood, my life has been a blur, always at the mercy of touring managers, making press releases, finding the perfect bite-size blurbs to get clicks.

And not just in French

, they'd always warn,

The American market's too big to pass up. Say this in English. Say that in French. That market isn't as sex positive, wear this. Don't tour in those tights when you're in America. Wear your tube top a little lower when you're in Germany. Tove-Lo flashed the crowd and they loved it. Try that in France. Tell them you love them.

I'd barely celebrated my nineteenth birthday the day a manager leaked that I'd gotten plastic surgery to People. I'd been scared of the needle ever since I had my appendix taken out in grade school, and would have died happily never going under anesthesia again, but the rumor mill kept generating a larger and larger story, the controversy so large.

Your sales have doubled since the story broke,

he said. His office was small and cramped, perfectly build so he'd towered over me,

Pre-sales on Méduse have more than tripled. I don't care what the reaction is- money talks.

I had a breast enlargement before I ever walked around in public again. By 24 I'd done almost everything they could think of, fillers in my cheeks, my chestnut hair that I always loved so much was dyed bleach blond. A tabloid pointed out muffin tops when I went swimming, and the next day I was on the operating table for a tummy tuck.

For years, my absolute favorite thing to do in the world was sit in my cozy studio, wrapped up in a blanket while I sat around my MIDI keyboard. Just me, by myself, making music.

But you need to evolve your sound.

The voices said,

You can afford better writers. Releasing another soft album would be absolute suicide.

I don't remember recording

Mélancolie.

I don't think anyone on the entire planet but myself got the irony there. All I know is I made it one day at a time, falling asleep clutching a bottle, and waking up each morning to white powder, just to have enough energy to start drinking again.

My personal life was entirely non-existent. Friends I'd known forever didn't know how to approach me. It wasn't just the fame, the usual loss of touch as people get older, go their separate ways. Everything about me was different. To them, I looked like a stranger, and I can't say I blame them. I always walked with an entourage, and a bodyguard. Say what you will, but I was a famous woman in her early twenties, and the more money I made, the crazier, more delirious my fans got. I understood the term psychopath. The bodyguards were warranted.

So I didn't have any friends. Relationships weren't any easier. I can't count all the times I'd scared a guy off because paparazzi poked up from behind the bushes. I've stared numbly at men I really liked coming to terms with how ugly the internet thought they were. I've had managers tell me certain guys were bad for my image, that they'd hurt my sales. I've had them set me up, stage entire relationships.

And the inner circle never left me alone. By my fourth agent I was smart and specifically hired a woman. I've seen the way those men act, all nice, willing to do whatever you need, right up until they try to take the relationship as far away from professional as possible. And then I've seen the monsters they become when you turn them down.

After six years of feeling like I haven't actually lived a life, I wanted out. I wanted to know the truth of people like Elvis Presley, ask if there was really a way to disappear off the face of the world, fake my own death.

Things had gotten so bad I was agitated all the time. It didn't matter what I wore, nothing could disguise my fake figure. I've snapped at people, thrown blocks of cheese at creepy men in the supermarket that wouldn't leave me alone.

I'd even gone a step further.

If I can't fake my own death-

I never let my mind wander further than that. By the time I was beaten by a celebrity boyfriend at the Regalia Hotel, and the footage spread faster than wildfire, I knew without a doubt in my mind I had to get out, end this nonsense.

The people around me, all the shaded faces that were supposed to look out from me- I don't think a single one of them even checked in on me. No one asked me if I was doing ok, if I was healing, if my mental health wasn't completely and utterly shattered. All they could talk about was how huge the story was. How many records we sold.

When I heard about this place, I saw a faint light at the end of the tunnel. The only time I'd ever felt like when I was living, was when I lay in bed every night, picturing what could have been, the quaint little life I would have had if I'd just kept on making music for myself, never kowtowing to the money men.

You can live out your wildest imagination,

the PR guy said. I snatched the phone out of my agents hand and spoke directly.

It's only targeted at the hyper rich,

my agent scoffed,

There's no way to reach the mass market with this-

"Tell me everything," I said. He'd barely said two words before my hand was trembling with excitement, "I'm in."

Your wildest imagination,

I thought,

I've had six years of practice.

You can call me boring if you want, but after saying all that, I hope you understand.

I've always wanted a little cottage on a cliff, overlooking the ocean. I'd wake up each morning, eat my banana crepes, sip my tea, and feel the cool ocean breeze. I'd smile at the sunrise. I'd never have to worry about work or money, and when I made music, it was on my own terms, in my own cozy little studio.

I wanted to be around people, but real people, not hand-selected yes men. I let myself extend my picture, just a little bit. I imagined a small fishing town, but just the idea of the population, maybe two thousand people total. I wanted the computer to do the heavy lifting, because I wanted an authentic experience. I wanted to ingratiate myself into the community, and for the first time in my life, meet someone, fall in love, and have a real relationship.

I was walking through the thick grasses, slowly swaying in the breeze. The wind tickled my nose, but I wore a nice beanie, and a Canada goose jacket, completely warm. My hair had grown out, overtaking the fake blond. I let myself fall back into a more natural state, my boobs a little less rounded, my cheeks not quite so angled, my lips less like balloon, and more like an actual human being.

I didn't want everything to go back to my natural self all at once. Maybe I was scared of the shock of looking in the mirror, but if I'm being honest with myself, I think I just wanted it to feel realistic. I wanted to imagine one day this could actually be real.

I made my way into the town, stomping my cold feet and slowly pulling off my thick woolen mittens. The only store for miles was a small country market, a single man in a flannel coat working the register, maybe two people total walking around. In the back, a wood burning stove was burning, keeping the store warm.

I didn't know what I was looking for, but I knew I had the money. All I had to do was imagine it in my pocket-

Stop.

I thought,

Don't let this feel fake. Think it through. This is your future right? You have a passive income, royalty checks, interest on your wealth. So imagine that. Imagine all your money in a bank, slowly growing, and work with a budget like a normal human being.

$5000 a month I decided. I don't know if that's normal, I don't know what typical prices are or anything. Truthfully, I haven't been in a grocery store since before I'd sold my soul.

"Hey," a gruff voice said, "You new around here? Or just passing through?"

The man set his magazine down and stiffened up straight. He leaned against the counter like he was trying to study a woman that was somewhere between glamorous and a failed attempt at homely.

"Yeah," I said. I don't know if it was intentional, but my words were quiet, nervous. It was probably subconscious, but I felt absolutely certain he was about to ask for an autograph, a selfie. Maybe make a grab for me.

Being who I was, as long as I had been- I didn't trust people.

"I'm Hank," the man said, his callused hand outstretched. I took it nervously, and answered in a raspy whisper, "Juliet."

"My dad opened this store almost seventy years ago, working it right up until the heart attack got him. I've been keeping it running ever since."

I pulled my hand back. I fought every urge to wipe off the grime, brush it off on my pants. The man was just being friendly, but maybe I'd worked with too many creepy old men in my day. Everything about that white hair, that smile gave me the heebie jeebies.

I walked around slowly, taking my time as I took in the serenity of normalcy. I only got stared at once, but it wasn't recognition, it was confusion, trying to place what someone who looked so chaotically out of place could possibly be doing here.

"Hank," I said, a little louder as I rounded the corner back to the front counter, "What do people do in town? How do I meet people?"

"You looking for work or fun?"

"I think I'm good on money."

"Well there's a lot of tourism around here. A lot of people lead hikes, take people out whale watching. If you can wait a couple months, we'll get some snow and the ski lifts will open up."

I gave a small chuckle, "I don't think I've ever seen a whale."

"Some of the girls in town would be happy to take ya," the man said, "Especially if they think you might be willing to lead some tours down the line. Tell ya what, go down to the Frosted Pike, ask to talk to Dallis. She's always good with new folk."

I don't remember taking anything. Maybe I did. Either way, Hank didn't come chasing after me, so I was in the clear.

I crossed my arms as I walked. It didn't take long to be reminded just how cold real life could be. The sky was overcast, and the wind blew like it was mad at me. My scarf kept flapping in the breeze, constantly threatening to take off.

By the time I reached the Frosted Pike, a quaint little tavern overlooking the ocean, I was more than ready to get out of the cold. The bar was small, but cozy. There couldn't have been more than five high chairs opposite the barkeep and a handful of gnarled old tables tucked into the cozy little corner. Opposite me, a fire was blazing, the carved hearth as ancient as the tiny town itself.

I squeezed my way towards the bar, and stopped across a young Scottish woman, no more than 24. Her hair was as red as the flames in the hearth, a patch of dull freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"I'm looking for a girl named Dallis."

"Looking?" she asked, her accent far thicker than mine, "You've found her."

She smiled at me with the most effervescent smile, her blazing blue eyes so warm and cheeky. I felt my words catch in my throat. I took a gulp of air, trying to gather myself, and forced myself to speak.

"I'm new here," I said in a wavering voice, "Hank told me to find you, get the lay of the land, maybe go whale watching."

"He did, did he?"

"He said you take the tourists around, and you're the best."

"Two for two," she laughed. She made her way past the bar, slinking through the narrow opening. She sized me up, trying to figure me out. My dark roots, my plastic surgery, my confused wandering glances. "Big whale watcher are you?"

"Never been," I admitted, "But I'm new here, and want to find things to do."

"Have you got a name?" she asked, dipping her arms into a coat.

"Juliet," I said softly.

"And where's Juliet come from?"

"France."

"Well I knew that, you talk like Pepe Le Pew," she laughed, "That's like me saying guess what, I'm Scottish. I meant what's your story."

She zipped the coat and took a glance towards the door. The wind outside was howling against the small tavern's facade, as I tried to figure out what my backstory was going to be.

Would see even believe I was a popstar? I know this is all fake, but would that be too outlandish?

I watched her get ready. She was entirely comfortable in her own skin. Looking down, brushing that frizzy red hair out of her eyes. "Hey Ernie," she barked with a point, "I'm trusting you not to over serve yourself."

A gruff old man gave a callused wave, and Dallis' piercing eyes were suddenly boring into my soul again, waiting for an answer.

The truth, I decided, was easier than lying for years- however long I was stuck here.

"I used to be famous," I said. I couldn't look away from her eyes, "I was a singer in France, but I wanted to get away from all that. Surely you've heard of me-"

Shit.

I thought.

I just made her remember me. I said that, and now she knows every song I've ever sung, and those beautiful piercing eyes aren't looking at me the same way anymore, there's the awestruck glimmer I've wanted so badly to get away from.

Rewind ten seconds.

I thought. I pictured the entire world moving backwards, the sun streaking the wrong way across the sky. Dallis jolted back upright, already speaking, "What's your story?"

"I used to be a singer," I said.

There. Stay humble, be abstract.

"But I've got enough money now, I wanted a quiet, more peaceful life."

I couldn't quite read her smile.

"It must be nice," she said, "Getting to choose a small town like this."

"Well you're not from here," I said. Her accent didn't fit at all.

"A place just like it," she admitted, "A tiny little town with nothing but tourism in the summer, and a frozen wasteland in the winter."

She led the way, back into the cold. Her frizzy red hair billowed behind her like a banner. She didn't wait to make sure I was following.

She walked right up the steep cliffs, and started down an old wooden stairwell. The moldy old wood creaked underfoot, twisting back and forth the few hundred feet to the limestone beach. She led the way into a small rusted boat and took the helm.

"We've got a ways to go," she said. The engine heaved and complained, but rolled over. Black smoke billowed into the air, and we started towards the open ocean. "The pods never come too close to shore. But there's a spot, about twenty miles out where I almost always see a tail at least."

"Fine by me," I said. I huddled up in the chair next to her, and tried to cross my arms as tightly across my coat as possible. My teeth were chattering before we left the tavern, but now that the wind was blowing, and the ocean sprayed up over the bow, I'd reached a whole new level of cold.

"So singer, huh?" she asked, "Anything I'd know?"

"Doubt it," I said, but quickly cursed myself.

No. I'm still controlling the narrative. Let her come up with the answer,

"Maybe this one."

I took a deep breath, and forced myself to focus. My cheeks were a rosy red, and I felt the way my nostrils were starting to freeze, but I'd sung encore gris more times than anyone could count.

"Chaque année, il y a des jours où rien ne semble tomber L'air est calme, le ciel est gris et les choses ne changent pas du tout,"

I sang. My voice was tiny, the words barely a gasp of air.

I finished the first verse, and Dallis had started to laugh.

"French," she chuckled, "I should have guessed."

She shook her head, still laughing, "No. To answer my own question, I definitely haven't heard about you before."

I stared down, not sure what to think. She was leading the way out of the harbor, staring dead ahead, but must have noticed my silence.

"I wish I spoke another language," she said, "With Scots, and Gaelic, I barely manage whenever I go home. I think I ran away too young."

That got my attention, "You ran away?"

She laughed, "Oh, you know how it is. Pa loved the bottle more than mum, or me, or Eon. So I took Eon, told him we were going on an adventure, finding some long lost treasure or something, and we ran.

"He was always so good at seeing the beauty in everything. He's the one that first wanted to see the whales, go explore the mountains, chart out new paths. He wasn't ever scared about everything we left behind- and seeing him smile like that, being his older sister, it made me think things weren't so bad, we were gonna be Ok. Not just survive, but explore."

She was lost inside her mind as she stared out at the water. If I hadn't spoke, I wasn't sure she'd even remember I was there, "What happened to Eon?"

"Oh he's fine," Dallis laughed, "Shacking up with some girl out of Australia. He's still traveling as much as he can, working odd jobs to pay for flights."

"So is this just a temporary stop along the way?"

"It was supposed to be," she shrugged, "But I'm not Eon. I put down roots a little easier, and struggle a little more leaving things behind. I'm good here, making good money."

I slid closer towards her, and didn't feel quite as cold as I had. "So what makes you better than everyone else that drives the boats?"

"I won't do it the way tourists want," Dallis chuckled, "All the stupid nautical puns everyone says.

Say goodbye to your piers! You ok? You're giving me a stern look. What a boatiful day.

"Just skipping that- I'd say that puts me above almost anyone. But the real secret- was always Eon. He'd explore, he'd go further than anyone else. He'd find the best spots and pass them on to me."

"You're good to talk to," I added.

She laughed again, "

Whale

I wasn't gonna be the one to say it."

I glared at her.

"Sorry, I had to."

Then she kissed me. The movement was sudden. Like her eyes went empty, and she was a puppet, dancing for me. She darted forward, and we were making out, and I was grabbing at-

FUCK!

I was imagining it. I made her break character.

Look, judge me all you want, but you have no idea how hard it is to keep your thoughts to yourself when every single thought turns into reality. If, for even a second, I imagined her kissing me, she'd drop every narrative the computer came up with, and her hands would be all over me.

I rewound the world, and stared at her, time frozen in place. Her head was mid shake, kicking the hair from her eyes. Her hand was up, her fingers pulling back those crimson locks. Sea spray was frozen in midair, a fine mist that was just about to hit her. A smile was etched into her face, those blue eyes glistening-

I need a way to fantasize,

I realized.

If every single whim turns into reality, I need to find a way to separate the real world from my stupid desires. I need to imagine imagination.

I forced myself to picture what my mind used to look like. I imagined the real, the truly real world, how thoughts would keep to myself. There were two parralel realities, the one in my head, and the one I saw.

But shit. It's not the same. This machine is too good. It's like instead of normal imagination I've split the world in two, both equally as real as the other.

But I could process it all fine. That computer, was stronger than I realized. It worked with my brain, and effortlessly let me be in two places at once, controlling two completely different realities. It was like I was a hivemind.

I tested my little experiment. I let time unfreeze, and watched the real world play out, Dallis being herself. I wasn't influencing it at all. But in the other reality, my imagination, Dallis was already staring back at me, her eyes lusting.