Becki
I don’t talk to Anton for the rest of the cab ride back to the hotel. I turn on the TV as soon as we are in our room so I can think of something else. Instead, every channel has pictures of me. They alternate between sad music and weird montages of my songs. Soundbites piece together the story as I cycle the stations."Tragedy today/Becki Murphy/Becki Mur/tragedy/singer was killed/kidnapped from her/kidnapped and murdered/body has not been/Becki Murphy/concert tickets will not be refunded/Murphy’s parents could not/tragedy/Becki/kidnapped/.directly, but an official statement thanked the public for all the support."
I turn back to the channel that mentions my parents.
"They said that Becki would be happy to know that so many people cared about her, and that all she ever wanted to do was make people happy..."
I turn off the TV. I can hear Anton moving around in his room, turning off the lights, going to bed.
I go out to the balcony and stare down over into New York City. I’ve heard so many bad things about this place, and I see now that it’s true. When my tour was coming here, one of the roadies said, “Every second someone dies, and it’s usually in New York.”
Far below us, horns are blaring, people are yelling. People are thinking about me dead. They are reading articles with quotes from my parents who hate each other. They are sad because I will never release another album. They want to know more about me. People that didn’t care before will now watch specials about me on television. The whole world will love and miss me now, instead of the millions that did yesterday.
I hate them. I truly hate them with all my heart. I want to scream when I hear my name mentioned and rip up every magazine with me on the cover. I want to cry every time I’m recognized. I want them to have never known about me in the first place. I want them to never see me again. I want to never feel their eyes again. I want to be dead.
I kick off my shoes through the iron rungs and watch as they seem to fall forever. I lose track before they hit the pavement. I’m crying pretty hard as I climb over the railing.
There is so much I’ll never see.
I take a deep breath and lean forward.
The sliding glass doors open and I manage to catch myself. I expect a hand to fall on my shoulder, for him to catch me. If I fell, would he save me? Does he still have wings?
Instead, after a long period of silence, he just says, “Suicides go to Hell,” and goes back inside.
I get down off the rail and stand there for a long time before going in as well. I think about the swamped autograph signings, and the one where a riot started because I left before everyone was through the line. It didn’t matter that the signing went an hour longer than scheduled, and some people had been through the line three or four times. I think about the rumors, the websites, the rip-off artists trying to copy my career. They can have it! I think about the people that clog the streets around my house when I’m home, to the point where my neighbors want to move because of me. I think about the people that come at night to steal things from our lawn while I’m away on tour. I think about the people I've never met detailing my childhood on television. One family petitioned to have us kicked out of town because we were creating a public nuisance. I used to play with their kids when we were little. That one made me cry.
I think about my parents, forced to smile at each other in magazines, unable to work out their problems because my record company thinks it would be bad for my career. I’ve heard people describe themselves as feeling like a piece of meat, but it wasn’t until now that I know what they meant.
When I come inside, Anton is cutting lines of cocaine on the glass coffee table. "You had me worried for a minute," he says and snorts a line with a $100 straw.
“Anton,” I say, and he pauses before doing another line. “You can grant me any wish?” I ask. “You can do anything for me, if I commit this murder?”
He shakes his head. “Well, there are some limits to my powers, but I doubt you will ask me for anything I can’t grant you.”
“I don’t want my name to be famous anymore,” I say. A weight tears free in my chest with the words and I feel like I can stand up straight for the first time. “I want people to lose interest in me. I want no one to buy my album ever again. I want people to try and sell my used albums, and get so frustrated that no store will buy it that the discs are broken and thrown away. I want to be forgotten. By next week, I want the world to not care about me at all. I want to go home, see my parents, and try to find the life we used to have.”
He raises his eyebrows and nods. “Asking for big things, huh?” he asks as he paces back and forth a couple times. “Changing the opinion of the whole world, that’s a big one. I’m impressed.”
“Is it too much?” I gasp, terrified that the one thing that could give worth to this ordeal would be over the top for even the Devil to accomplish.
He purses his lips and shakes his head. “I said it was difficult, I didn’t say it couldn’t be done, especially in turn for you murdering the Savior.” He chuckles and puts on his suit jacket. “That’s why I chose you and not some thug off the street. Most other people would be asking for the opposite. You know how boring of a wish that is to grant?” He inspects himself in the mirror behind the dresser. “Besides, just look at history and see how many times I’ve changed the world’s opinion. I’ve just never had to change it so quickly.”
I hardly hear him, whispering the word, “Murder.” It doesn’t even sound so distasteful anymore.
“So you’ll do it?” he asks.
I nod solemnly.
“Good,” he says. “Now get ready to go, you can sleep in the car.”
Go to Chapter 53
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