Categories > Celebrities > 30 Seconds to Mars > Blue Hair And Paper Flowers
One: Prozac
0 reviewsRebecca, a twenty-one year old self harmer recovering from anorexia, moves from her little, rural town to L.A. in order to attent the city's prestigious film academy. Mingling with one of her new...
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Chapter One - Prozac
Her head hurt. She could feel the pain throb and bight and scream behind her eyes, it made her tired, made her flinch at even the slightest sound, made her want to fall asleep and wake up after five hundred years, made her want to slam her head against a wall. A different type of pain. She needed difference. She needed something new and fun and happy, something jolly, somebody blonde. Blonde. Blonde. Blonde. She was tired of brown haired men, tired of red-haired boys, tired of uptight families and ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I realized you’re not that perfect for me, it couldn’t possibly work out, you’re too weird.’ Weird her fucking pants. Her pretty, pleather pants. Those pants she loved so much. Those pants which stuck to her slimy, sweaty skin the moment she stepped out of the plane.
Shit.
But, after all, that was Los Angeles. And wasn’t Los Angeles supposed to be hot and terrible and full of douchebags? And hot. God, she hated the heat, that heat which only made her headache worse. Heat reminded her of Daddy and of everything Daddy meant. The thoughts grabbed onto her mind, threatened to drag her someplace she had traveled so far to escape.
Nope. Not today. Get. That. Fucking. Face. Out. Of. Your. Head, Becca. Pull your shit together.
She was new. Her life was new. Everything was new. Everything would’ve worked out fine.
She knew it.
She knew it.
She knew it.
All you have to do is tell yourself that everything will work out, that it’s aaaal gonna work out.
Yeah, right. With unicorns and rainbows. And fairies.
She trampled through the airport, hysterically grabbing onto her bag. The more she thought about it, the more she knew it was all going to fuck up. She knew it.
And the thought of it scared her so much. She didn’t want, or need, another fuck up. The last one had been so bad. She still had the signs racing along her mind, along her arms, along her soul. She still screamed at night. She still whimpered during the day. Memories are so hard to keep at bay.
Oh, stop it. You and your melodramatically ridiculous poet bullshit.
God, what was going on that day? She knew she was nervous, almost hysterical, she knew that there was some dark, dark piece of her mind that was whispering in her ear, telling her to do things to herself, telling her bad things, but that part was choked away, she hoped, by the double dose of Prozac she had taken-just to be on the safe side!- before takeoff, and now the effects of her choice were showing.
She needed a bathroom. Fast.
Oh shit. Oh fucking perfect. I hate my life. So much.
She must’ve wailed, or at least growled, or moaned because people were staring bewildered as she raced inside of the ladies room, arriving just in time to see a yellow stream of liquid launch itself out of her mouth, land on the toilet bowl.
Her head screamed.
This is exactly what I don’t need. At all.
She slipped to her knees, emptied her stomach (Becky, are you doing it on purpoooose? Clean yourself up, come give Daddy his kiss goodnight!) blinked. Now not only her head, but her innards were screaming for help.
Sleep, I need sleep.
She stepped out of the booth. Pale? Probably. Her entire body hurt so much. Didn’t even stop to look at herself in the mirror.
I need a drink. Wasn’t this supposed to be a new start?
Departures. Arrivals. Arrivals. Arrivals. Yes, arrivals.
Perfect.
She just wanted everything to end. The anxiety. Everything. A warm bed. Maybe something (SMALL!!!!!) to eat.
She managed to slip out of the doors of the airport, heart racing like mad (they forgot they forgot they forgot) eyes searching for whoever he was. He did sound nice, on the phone. So did his wife-or was she his fiancée?-, the rare times they had talked. She knew they had cats, they knew about her condition, they said they were cool with it.
Why in God’s name am I so nervous?
Because everything was so new, so scary. New food, new rhythms, a new school.
The Los Angeles Film School. It sounded so presumptuous, so arrogant, so big.
He waved. He was holding a sign. Becca Hanson. Good. He hadn’t written Rebecca (Mommy, Mommy listen!), hand’t written Becky (Daddy, Daddy dear and his sweet sweet amber bottle). That was a good thing.
She let her hungry eyes stare. Didn’t care about what others thought.
Cute. Long hair (I’d love to tug on it, yes I would. What are you saying? The fuck are you saying, Becca?), dark, dark eyes, the beard was maybe too much (but we’ll work on that, we’ll make him just perfect, won’t we?) she hated that voice, she hated it so much.
“Hey.”
She smiled, at least tried to, her hair was always getting in front of her eyes but oh well, blue hair, blue hair, it was pretty.
“Hey. Pleased to meet you. I’m Tomo.”
Her head hurt. She could feel the pain throb and bight and scream behind her eyes, it made her tired, made her flinch at even the slightest sound, made her want to fall asleep and wake up after five hundred years, made her want to slam her head against a wall. A different type of pain. She needed difference. She needed something new and fun and happy, something jolly, somebody blonde. Blonde. Blonde. Blonde. She was tired of brown haired men, tired of red-haired boys, tired of uptight families and ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I realized you’re not that perfect for me, it couldn’t possibly work out, you’re too weird.’ Weird her fucking pants. Her pretty, pleather pants. Those pants she loved so much. Those pants which stuck to her slimy, sweaty skin the moment she stepped out of the plane.
Shit.
But, after all, that was Los Angeles. And wasn’t Los Angeles supposed to be hot and terrible and full of douchebags? And hot. God, she hated the heat, that heat which only made her headache worse. Heat reminded her of Daddy and of everything Daddy meant. The thoughts grabbed onto her mind, threatened to drag her someplace she had traveled so far to escape.
Nope. Not today. Get. That. Fucking. Face. Out. Of. Your. Head, Becca. Pull your shit together.
She was new. Her life was new. Everything was new. Everything would’ve worked out fine.
She knew it.
She knew it.
She knew it.
All you have to do is tell yourself that everything will work out, that it’s aaaal gonna work out.
Yeah, right. With unicorns and rainbows. And fairies.
She trampled through the airport, hysterically grabbing onto her bag. The more she thought about it, the more she knew it was all going to fuck up. She knew it.
And the thought of it scared her so much. She didn’t want, or need, another fuck up. The last one had been so bad. She still had the signs racing along her mind, along her arms, along her soul. She still screamed at night. She still whimpered during the day. Memories are so hard to keep at bay.
Oh, stop it. You and your melodramatically ridiculous poet bullshit.
God, what was going on that day? She knew she was nervous, almost hysterical, she knew that there was some dark, dark piece of her mind that was whispering in her ear, telling her to do things to herself, telling her bad things, but that part was choked away, she hoped, by the double dose of Prozac she had taken-just to be on the safe side!- before takeoff, and now the effects of her choice were showing.
She needed a bathroom. Fast.
Oh shit. Oh fucking perfect. I hate my life. So much.
She must’ve wailed, or at least growled, or moaned because people were staring bewildered as she raced inside of the ladies room, arriving just in time to see a yellow stream of liquid launch itself out of her mouth, land on the toilet bowl.
Her head screamed.
This is exactly what I don’t need. At all.
She slipped to her knees, emptied her stomach (Becky, are you doing it on purpoooose? Clean yourself up, come give Daddy his kiss goodnight!) blinked. Now not only her head, but her innards were screaming for help.
Sleep, I need sleep.
She stepped out of the booth. Pale? Probably. Her entire body hurt so much. Didn’t even stop to look at herself in the mirror.
I need a drink. Wasn’t this supposed to be a new start?
Departures. Arrivals. Arrivals. Arrivals. Yes, arrivals.
Perfect.
She just wanted everything to end. The anxiety. Everything. A warm bed. Maybe something (SMALL!!!!!) to eat.
She managed to slip out of the doors of the airport, heart racing like mad (they forgot they forgot they forgot) eyes searching for whoever he was. He did sound nice, on the phone. So did his wife-or was she his fiancée?-, the rare times they had talked. She knew they had cats, they knew about her condition, they said they were cool with it.
Why in God’s name am I so nervous?
Because everything was so new, so scary. New food, new rhythms, a new school.
The Los Angeles Film School. It sounded so presumptuous, so arrogant, so big.
He waved. He was holding a sign. Becca Hanson. Good. He hadn’t written Rebecca (Mommy, Mommy listen!), hand’t written Becky (Daddy, Daddy dear and his sweet sweet amber bottle). That was a good thing.
She let her hungry eyes stare. Didn’t care about what others thought.
Cute. Long hair (I’d love to tug on it, yes I would. What are you saying? The fuck are you saying, Becca?), dark, dark eyes, the beard was maybe too much (but we’ll work on that, we’ll make him just perfect, won’t we?) she hated that voice, she hated it so much.
“Hey.”
She smiled, at least tried to, her hair was always getting in front of her eyes but oh well, blue hair, blue hair, it was pretty.
“Hey. Pleased to meet you. I’m Tomo.”
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