This is an original work of fiction and is in no way endorsed by or related to Robert Pattinson.
Massacre Me Beautiful
scribbled by: @RobsFallenAngel
“Another stupid fucking day, another stupid fucking client,” my voice rang out, touching the walls around me as the only ears in the vastly vacant room were my own. Vigorously scrubbing the lens of my Canon, I muttered a few more obscenities before jerking my arm and tossing it into its bag. I was already ready for this day to be over and it hadn’t even begun yet. Great.
I took another glance about my hotel room before swinging the last of my awkwardly heavy camera equipment over my small shoulder and headed for the door.
Winding through the hall of the far too expensive hotel I was booked, I hooked a right and slithered past a group of people at the elevator and into the stairwell.
“No thanks,” I muttered, glancing at my bare wrist for the fourth time since leaving the room. I had, of course, conveniently forgotten my watch. “I can walk faster and lose a few calories. Win fucking win, baby.”
Not that I wasn’t comfortable with my body, I’m just not a huge fan of it being cramped into a too small by fucking tiny mobile room with strangers. I’m not what you call ‘touchy feely’.
Digging through the pockets of my jeans for some breakfast, I cursed my growling stomach while popping another stick of Trident in between my teeth. “Healthy,” I spit to my lack of eating habits in the morning as I unlocked my car.
Sliding into the familiar leather interior, I sighed a breath of relief all too soon. His familiar smell washed over me as I took in a deep breath.
“Fuck. My. Life,” I gripped the key in my palm hard enough to shoot an electrifying pain up into my arm before shoving it into the ignition and turning my arm to start the car. All to no relief.
“Really? Today? Really?” a flurry of cusses swarmed out of my mouth, my feet kicking the pedals before stubbing my toe, “Please, dear god, someone kill me now.” I huffed the air from my lungs, slamming myself against the headrest, sending my hair to gently fly around my face before trying to start the engine once more.
This job was taking its toll on me and I knew that. I wasn’t always the girl with a dirty mouth and an attitude that bit you in the ass. But, photographing people on a daily basis wasn’t always the most pleasant thing in the world. You slaved over your classes at school and somehow acquired a chance of a lifetime; someone noticed your work, and you’re hired around the world to take pictures of sheep. Sheep, or more commonly known as ‘models’, and the occasional big-headed celebrity. None too smart, all overpaid.
I used to love it. I used to dream of it. The bigger the dream, the more I’d strive in the business. Now that fantasy world was taking over and ruining my very soul and sucking any sort of life I had in me out. I couldn’t even tell you who I was anymore, but I could tell you it wasn’t who I thought I’d become two years ago. And I didn’t like that.
It’s really those I shoot, getting paid to do a ludicrous job at the amounts they were waged, that really struck a chord in me. Come in, stand there, look pretty, I’ll do all the work and you’ll get a big fat paycheck. Yeah, awesome, want to lend me a fifty? I’d like to eat today, since I know you probably won’t anyway.
Was I being bitchy? Sure, but we all know the truth behind your size zero asses and lack of undergarments caused by a lack of flesh to fill them. We all know that Photoshop and harsh lighting saves your skin and chases away those pesky wrinkles of yours. We all know that the make-up crew had to cake on multitudes of concealer to cover your pimples, hide your red blotches, and tidy up your hair extensions before you came over to pose for me.
Yeah, we know all your tricks sweets, because we are the ones who taught you.
Was I stereotyping? Sure, but if you have a problem with that say ‘hi’ to my middle digit. I work this shit; I know what I see, and it is anything but pretty.
My shoulders slumped inward as my fingers started to shake with unusual anxiety, begging for a cigarette that wasn’t about to come. Quitting the habit was just another step of getting over shit in the past, a ‘change for good’ and all that nonsense. Right now though, I could really use a smoke.
“Who am I shooting today anyway?” I chuckled to myself. Shooting sounds pretty good right about now, too bad it’s with a camera. I scanned through the email on my phone I got a few weeks prior to flying out to San Diego, and furrowed my brow.
“R.P.? The hell?” I pushed for more information, for even a first name to wrap my head around, and found nothing but measurements, sex, hair and eye color. Nothing but the bare minimum requirements to book a photo shoot. “How fucking typical, can’t even Google the prick before I work with them.” I threw my phone violently into the passenger seat, hearing it bounce off the car door and land on the floor with a muted thud. I knew if I called and asked for more information on my mystery “R.P.”, all I would get fed was the phone clicking shut on the other end. Yeah, even my boss was a real beauty to work for.
My eyes narrowed at the ignition before testing it once again, daring it to give me more trouble while I was already hardly on schedule.
“Well, would you look at that,” I practically sang out as the car vibrated awake, “Something in this already God awful day is working out.” I pulled out of the hotel parking lot, catching a glimpse of something oddly familiar: disarrayed, reddish-brown hair bobbing up and down before entering an SUV parked beside the hotel lobby.
Comments? Questions? Concerns? Massage? Anything? *whispers* please be gentle… ~ Fallen
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