Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Cinderfella
“This is so wrong!”
“I want to go home!”
“Why do we have to do this?”
“This isn’t fair!”
“I wish my Mama was here!”
Brian looked around at the new set. Techs hanging up props, setting lights, screaming for gaffer tape, barking orders at one another that no one heard. Everyone was running around like as though it was the final countdown. This was wrong. How could a label care so much about making money? It wasn’t even about the music anymore. Of course, as long as Brian had worked in the industry, he was well-aware of that. He was also incredibly sick of it. Fifteen years, and not a damned thing had changed.
Brian was bloody damned sick of it.
Just. Fucking. SICK OF IT.
He watched the girls, who’d become like daughters to him over the last week and a half, being primped and curled and stuffed into fabric that resembled clothing, but didn’t do what clothing was intended to do, which was namely:
1) Keep you warm
2) Keep you covered up
Brian just sat in his chair. There wasn’t really much else he could do. Just sit, wait till the lesson is learned, and hope to God someone doesn’t come out of this all fucked up. He fidgeted with his Smart phone. I fucking hate this. Frank made a joke. I get that. People were offended. Here’s the price you pay for a little joke. Ha ha, God. Very funny.
Brian was bitter, but he didn’t care.
Granted, this was all Frank’s fault. At the same time, Brian found it impossible to be mad at Frank, especially because he looked so…miserable. Brian looked over to Frank, whom was wearing a pair of white knee-high go-go boots, a navy blue miniskirt that may as well have been a belt, and a lacy white shirt which Brian knew for a fact had been purchased from the children’s department at Target. Two women were pulling Frank’s hair back with clips. Brian could see his temples throbbing. That fucking shirt, Brian raged to himself. That mother. Fucking. Shirt.
“The tighter, the better,” the wardrobe manager said, showing Brian the shirt earlier that day.
“Yeah right,” Brian had scoffed.
He wanted to punch something.
Brian’s phone rang.
He smashed it into ground. It broke into pieces. He was satisfied.
“Why’d you do that, Brian?”
Brian jumped.
“Ah—I was—” Brian turned around, uttered a long sigh and placed his hand on Pixie’s head. “I’m so sorry you saw that, darling,” Brian said. “I’m really angry right now.”
“At me?” Pixie said, her eyes brimming with tears. “I didn’t mean to…I forgot to sit down…
I’m used of standing…and…”
Brian enveloped Pixie into a hug. “No, Pixie!” Brian exclaimed. “It wasn’t that.” He cupped her face into his hands and looked into her hazel eyes. “No,” Brian said again, softer this time. “I’m angry at the label for making you all do this.”
“Why can’t you make them stop?” Pixie pleaded, her voice timid and her eyes pleading.
Brian wanted to blow his head off.
He didn’t want to look at her. But if he didn’t, she’d be scared. Whatever had happened during the transformation, it seemed as though Pixie was the one whom had been affected by it the most, though she wouldn’t complain about it. Whatever had happened, Brian deduced, she was no longer a 30-year-old man mentally, but rather a very, very, young teenage girl. Brian doubted she was even sixteen. He was unsure, but Brian had to guess Pixie was barely thirteen. Fourteen at the highest, but Brian didn’t think so. Pixie was really quiet, and didn’t reason like an adult at all. As a matter of fact, NONE of the five could reason like adults. Fuck reasoning like a grown man. That was totally out the window. The only one who had some adult male mentality left was Frank, and it was only at half-mass. The five were aware that they HAD been adults and knew they would turn back into them one day, but that was about it. Whatever Pixie had been as adult, which was Gerard Way, the crazy, eccentric, fun-loving front man of My Chemical Romance, was gone. Left in its place was a quiet, timid, shy little black girl whom just…existed. If you looked at her eyes, though, one could see how old she really was.
And how unhappy she was.
“Brian.”
He woke from his thoughts.
“Mm?”
“I’m tired.”
Brian looked at Pixie, dressed in a green dress that was too old for her and a pair of matching silk stilettos that were just as old and entirely too high. This outfit is too mature for a thirty-year-old woman to wear. Pixie’s hair was the only thing that was age-appropriate about her. For some reason, though, the green ribbons tied to her pigtails made her look “barely legal” (which she wasn’t). Of course, this is what the label was going for. Pixie was swaying; her eyes could barely stay open.
“Come take a nap in my lap, Pixie,” Brian opened his arms.
Pixie climbed into his lap and fell asleep immediately.
A stylist came running over. “Hey! You’re going to ruin her hair!” the stylist yelled.
“Shut the fuck up and go piss in a corner,” Brian snarled in a low voice.
The stylist backed away, then disappeared.
“Pixie, you’re still so warm,” Brian said, grazing his lips across her forehead. Brian looked around.
“Hey boy,” Brian snapped at a young man with short brown hair in a white t-shirt and skinny blue jeans whom was just lulling about as everyone else ran around doing something. “Get me a bottle of water. You’re getting paid, aren’t you? Standing around like this is some kind of prom. Step on it if you want to keep your job.”
“Y-Yes sir,” the young man stammered. In a flash, he’d returned with a bottle of Smart Water.
“Here you go, sir,” the young man panted. “Best water there is. It’s Smart Water. All the A-listers drink it.”
Brian cracked open the top and held it to Pixie’s lips. “Water is water,” Brian said. “Trendy water,” Brian scoffed. “ ‘Madonna drinks only Kabbalah water,’ ” he mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Stick her ass in the Sahara for three days and the bitch’ll be glad to drink pool water.”
Brian looked up from Pixie. “Why are you still standing there?” Brian barked. “Get the fuck outta my face and go do something!” The young man blinked and ran off to find gaffer tape.
Pixie stirred in Brian’s lap.
"Brian, don’t be mean to people. You were never mean to people.” Pixie coughed, then fell back asleep.
Her tiny, cracking voice tugged at Brian's heartstrings. He fought back tears.
She was right, Pixie was. Brian was never such an asshole. It’s this whole girl thing, Brian thought to himself.
“I want to go home!”
“Why do we have to do this?”
“This isn’t fair!”
“I wish my Mama was here!”
Brian looked around at the new set. Techs hanging up props, setting lights, screaming for gaffer tape, barking orders at one another that no one heard. Everyone was running around like as though it was the final countdown. This was wrong. How could a label care so much about making money? It wasn’t even about the music anymore. Of course, as long as Brian had worked in the industry, he was well-aware of that. He was also incredibly sick of it. Fifteen years, and not a damned thing had changed.
Brian was bloody damned sick of it.
Just. Fucking. SICK OF IT.
He watched the girls, who’d become like daughters to him over the last week and a half, being primped and curled and stuffed into fabric that resembled clothing, but didn’t do what clothing was intended to do, which was namely:
1) Keep you warm
2) Keep you covered up
Brian just sat in his chair. There wasn’t really much else he could do. Just sit, wait till the lesson is learned, and hope to God someone doesn’t come out of this all fucked up. He fidgeted with his Smart phone. I fucking hate this. Frank made a joke. I get that. People were offended. Here’s the price you pay for a little joke. Ha ha, God. Very funny.
Brian was bitter, but he didn’t care.
Granted, this was all Frank’s fault. At the same time, Brian found it impossible to be mad at Frank, especially because he looked so…miserable. Brian looked over to Frank, whom was wearing a pair of white knee-high go-go boots, a navy blue miniskirt that may as well have been a belt, and a lacy white shirt which Brian knew for a fact had been purchased from the children’s department at Target. Two women were pulling Frank’s hair back with clips. Brian could see his temples throbbing. That fucking shirt, Brian raged to himself. That mother. Fucking. Shirt.
“The tighter, the better,” the wardrobe manager said, showing Brian the shirt earlier that day.
“Yeah right,” Brian had scoffed.
He wanted to punch something.
Brian’s phone rang.
He smashed it into ground. It broke into pieces. He was satisfied.
“Why’d you do that, Brian?”
Brian jumped.
“Ah—I was—” Brian turned around, uttered a long sigh and placed his hand on Pixie’s head. “I’m so sorry you saw that, darling,” Brian said. “I’m really angry right now.”
“At me?” Pixie said, her eyes brimming with tears. “I didn’t mean to…I forgot to sit down…
I’m used of standing…and…”
Brian enveloped Pixie into a hug. “No, Pixie!” Brian exclaimed. “It wasn’t that.” He cupped her face into his hands and looked into her hazel eyes. “No,” Brian said again, softer this time. “I’m angry at the label for making you all do this.”
“Why can’t you make them stop?” Pixie pleaded, her voice timid and her eyes pleading.
Brian wanted to blow his head off.
He didn’t want to look at her. But if he didn’t, she’d be scared. Whatever had happened during the transformation, it seemed as though Pixie was the one whom had been affected by it the most, though she wouldn’t complain about it. Whatever had happened, Brian deduced, she was no longer a 30-year-old man mentally, but rather a very, very, young teenage girl. Brian doubted she was even sixteen. He was unsure, but Brian had to guess Pixie was barely thirteen. Fourteen at the highest, but Brian didn’t think so. Pixie was really quiet, and didn’t reason like an adult at all. As a matter of fact, NONE of the five could reason like adults. Fuck reasoning like a grown man. That was totally out the window. The only one who had some adult male mentality left was Frank, and it was only at half-mass. The five were aware that they HAD been adults and knew they would turn back into them one day, but that was about it. Whatever Pixie had been as adult, which was Gerard Way, the crazy, eccentric, fun-loving front man of My Chemical Romance, was gone. Left in its place was a quiet, timid, shy little black girl whom just…existed. If you looked at her eyes, though, one could see how old she really was.
And how unhappy she was.
“Brian.”
He woke from his thoughts.
“Mm?”
“I’m tired.”
Brian looked at Pixie, dressed in a green dress that was too old for her and a pair of matching silk stilettos that were just as old and entirely too high. This outfit is too mature for a thirty-year-old woman to wear. Pixie’s hair was the only thing that was age-appropriate about her. For some reason, though, the green ribbons tied to her pigtails made her look “barely legal” (which she wasn’t). Of course, this is what the label was going for. Pixie was swaying; her eyes could barely stay open.
“Come take a nap in my lap, Pixie,” Brian opened his arms.
Pixie climbed into his lap and fell asleep immediately.
A stylist came running over. “Hey! You’re going to ruin her hair!” the stylist yelled.
“Shut the fuck up and go piss in a corner,” Brian snarled in a low voice.
The stylist backed away, then disappeared.
“Pixie, you’re still so warm,” Brian said, grazing his lips across her forehead. Brian looked around.
“Hey boy,” Brian snapped at a young man with short brown hair in a white t-shirt and skinny blue jeans whom was just lulling about as everyone else ran around doing something. “Get me a bottle of water. You’re getting paid, aren’t you? Standing around like this is some kind of prom. Step on it if you want to keep your job.”
“Y-Yes sir,” the young man stammered. In a flash, he’d returned with a bottle of Smart Water.
“Here you go, sir,” the young man panted. “Best water there is. It’s Smart Water. All the A-listers drink it.”
Brian cracked open the top and held it to Pixie’s lips. “Water is water,” Brian said. “Trendy water,” Brian scoffed. “ ‘Madonna drinks only Kabbalah water,’ ” he mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Stick her ass in the Sahara for three days and the bitch’ll be glad to drink pool water.”
Brian looked up from Pixie. “Why are you still standing there?” Brian barked. “Get the fuck outta my face and go do something!” The young man blinked and ran off to find gaffer tape.
Pixie stirred in Brian’s lap.
"Brian, don’t be mean to people. You were never mean to people.” Pixie coughed, then fell back asleep.
Her tiny, cracking voice tugged at Brian's heartstrings. He fought back tears.
She was right, Pixie was. Brian was never such an asshole. It’s this whole girl thing, Brian thought to himself.
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