Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
I’m not sure that she actually did just call me a big stupid, her voice is muffled against my midsection as I lug the device away from the wall and toward the window. Floor to ceiling windows line one wall of this room. They’re supposed to feel luxurious, but they make me feel like a lab animal in a lab cage, and most of the time Zayne insists that I keep the curtains closed anyway because people put up drones to record through the windows. But when Zayne’s not here, I open the curtains and I open the partitions of the windows that open because that makes me feel slightly less claustrophobic.
If anybody has a drone up now, they’re going to be getting some incredible footage.
“SHUT. THE FUCK. UP!” I explode with temper, hurling the whole box out of one of the open windows.
SMASH!
I realize far too late that the window wasn’t actually open. The television pierced the clear pane and is now descending toward the outdoor swimming pool in a cascade of razor sharp glass. Because of course there’s a swimming pool down there. From this height, it looks like a little blue postage stamp with tiny ants in it. But those aren’t ants. Those are…
“Oh no.”
I realize just that little bit too late that I have made a huge mistake. This behavior isn’t me. Well, it is me, but it’s a shitty version of me. A reckless, destructive, spoiled version of me. This is a version of me that hurts people, badly. What the hell is happening to me? Is this what fame does? I feel like some dark drug is coursing through my veins, making alterations to my behavior and my mind. I’m not even sure if I am truly myself anymore. I might actually be becoming the Lyric Walker they’re talking about in the media. The real me might be giving way to the fake me.
They say that fame changes people, but even though I knew they all said that, I never thought it would happen to me. I truly thought I was too old, too set in my ways, too sure of myself and self-aware to fall into the fame trap. But right now, looking at a shattered hotel window, and seeing the slightly brighter spot on the wall where the tv used to be, I don’t know myself at all.
I back away from the shattered pane, but there’s no backing away from what I’ve done. A small swarm of drones is descending on me, and without a window to stop them entering, they start to fly through the broken window and surround me, each of them performing a 360-degree pirouette, broadcasting every pixel of my humiliation to the universe. Their blades hum with a high-pitched whine, little black sky spiders turning me into more media. I feel so completely violated knowing that each of them is feeding images back to various media centers across the galaxy. They are seeing me without makeup, without hair, without any kind of filters at all. They sweep so close to me they nearly hit my face, and the sound of their whirring blades resonates through my skull. It is like being attacked by a swarm of especially invasive wasps. The consciousness of these creatures is designed with a point to penetrate my life.
I swat at them in the effort to escape them, but there is no escape. They’re all around me, surrounding me. I can’t turn to run, because they bump against me, threatening to scratch me with their sharp rotating blades. I’m trying as best I can to not give these cameras the kind of footage their operators are no doubt hoping for.
What I don’t realize until it is almost too late is that these flying cameras are herding me toward the same hole in the window I made with the television. They’re not just trying to film me. They’re now trying to kill me, or at least it seems that way as several of them bump into me from behind.
“ZAYNE!” There is more than a little fear in my shriek.
ZWOMP!
A sudden wave of crackling pressure is felt through the room, a blast that’s not physical, but electrical. The drones drop out of flight immediately, their wings stilling and forcing them to fall to the ground.
“I can’t leave you alone for two minutes, can I.”
When I turn around, Zayne is there. The tip of his tail is whipping back and forth in agitation, his arms are folded over his chest, and his eyes are narrowed at me. He has a small EMP in one hand, and an expression of exasperation written all over his handsome alien features.
I go from terror to guilt in an instant as relief floods me, followed by the realization I have yet again fucked up.