Hollywood Forever

Author's note: This story contains themes of substance abuse, self-harm, grief and death.

I open my eyes. Light pours in from somewhere, the window, probably. Brighter than usual? Maybe I had a rough night. I squint and blink as I try to remember. Yes, something did happen last night. I try to move toward the kitchen, but the light is so bright I can barely see. Like the sun has turned into giant stage lights, my house into a sound stage. The house is not large, but the distance to where I need to go feels vast. I groan as I try to move. I haven't been this hungover in a while.

I hear something. Is someone here with me? Crying, maybe, or screaming? I rush toward the sound, my sluggish limbs hesitating to follow.

Hello? I call out. The screaming continues.

In the bathroom, a woman is sitting on the floor, back leaning up against the bathtub, head in her hands. The primal scream is coming from her. Something inside me swells when I see her. I think I love her, but I just can't remember. There is something behind her in the bathtub. I can't quite make it out, as if my vision is blurred, as if the object in the tub is redacted from my view. The crying woman picks up her phone with shaking hands and dials three numbers.

Hey, I try to comfort her, but she ignores me. I know her name, I think. Robin? That's Robin! Of course, the person who lives in the forefront of my brain, occupies all of my waking thoughts and possesses my heart. The love of my life. Blurry memories of her, of us, appear before me all at once like film on a grainy projector. 

Robin! I cry. Why is she so upset? What happened last night? Please don't let it be something I did. She's on the phone now, words barely coherent. I move to touch her, but my body won't cooperate.

Robin! I call out again. She must be upset with me. What have I done?

Then, there are men here. With uniforms and cameras, gloves and masks. Police? The police are here, but for what? The bathtub, something is in the bathtub, Robin is saying. She is in the bathtub, Robin says. The police are blocking my view.

Who is it? I ask. No answer.

Who is in the bathtub? I try again. I can see now that the floor is entirely covered in shallow water, leaking out into the hallway. Onto my antique terracotta tile that cost me a fortune.

They escort Robin from the house and it feels unnecessary. I want to follow, I try to follow. Where are they taking her? Who is in the bathtub? Why is it so goddamn bright in here?

I overhear the police talking to each other, as if I'm not even here. No sign of a struggle. No track marks visible. Any pills present? We got another pop star in the bathtub, boss.

A pop star? I think hard. Did I know any pop stars? I did, actually, quite a few. Was one of my friends passed out in my bathtub? I guess these things do happen.

Who is it? I try again, not really expecting an answer.

The cops eventually start searching my house, rifling through my things. God, they're trashing the place! This must be a horrible misunderstanding. I try to reason with them, but they won't listen. Where is Robin and why isn't she stopping them?

I overhear the cops talking in the bathroom again. What a shame, my daughter is a big fan. I'd be surprised if they don't order an autopsy on this one. An autopsy? Oh. Oh no. Someone is dead in my bathtub. Who is it? What have I done? If I am in some sort of trouble, why is no one questioning me? I wish they would just talk to me, tell me what's happening. My anger rises inside me like bile. It seems like it has been hours since I woke up, and still, no one is letting me see who is in my bathtub. Each time I try, something blocks my view.

---

I'm getting used to the brightness now. I just need to take a deep breath and wake up a bit. I'm no stranger to bad hangovers, but the brain fog this morning is the worst it has ever been. There are so many things I can't remember and my thoughts are all fuzzy. I feel so disconnected from my body, like a zombie wandering through my own home, hungry for life. Like a zombie, or a ghost. Yes, this must be what it feels like to be a ghost. What a bizarre feeling.

Then it dawns on me. No one has talked to me all day. No, they haven't even looked at me. Even Robin ignored me completely when she sat, screaming on the floor. She was crying, screaming. Because of me? No. Surely not. My head spins, replaying the events of the day. We got another pop star in the bathtub, boss. Another pop star in the bath tub. My legs don't work, but I force myself to drift to the bathroom.

Finally, I am able to see what I couldn't see before. Blurry vision suddenly crystal clear. The body of a woman, wearing nothing but lace panties, floating serenely in a flooded bathtub. The look on her face is one of despair, but surprisingly, relief. She's familiar to me. Looking at her lifeless form fills me with incomprehensible pain. I try to scream, cry out, make any sound, but there is no more air in my lungs. That's when I know. She is me. The body is mine.

Of course, I remember now. Not everything, but images are starting to appear before me. A pop star? I wouldn't necessarily refer to myself that way. I'm just a singer, or, was a singer I guess. At least that's the way I saw myself once. I never wanted to be a pop star, I just wanted to sing. Now as hard as I try, I can't make a sound. I want to cry. I want to scream in grief and rage. How had I let this happen? I concentrate hard on what I had heard throughout the day. Autopsy. Track marks? Pills? I just wanted to feel normal. Did I go too far this time?

My spirit is overcome with what I think must have been the last thing I felt before it all ended. Rest, please, I just want to rest. Not to end it all, not to die. I really didn't want to die. Again I try to scream so someone, anyone would hear. Is it too late to take it back? I want to live.

I watch as they take my body away. I cannot protest, I cannot stop them. I am resigned to remain a spectral entity, floating listlessly, taking up no space at all. I hear every comment made about my body, my career, my life. How much do you think these panties will go for?  They're going to have a heyday with those goddamn panties.

They load dresses, shoes, jewelry into bags like they are garbage. Memories flash before my eyes at the sight of each item. All of these things belong to me. A lifetime of things that I collected, things I cared about once, now reduced to tragic relics of a dead girl. People will pay money to have these things, to keep them and look at them and remember the person I was to them. And who was that, exactly? I know now, who I was. A star, an icon, an artist (depending on who you ask), all things that people called me once. I'm not the first famous woman to die a tragic death, and I won't be the last. But I always will be a woman who died. That will be my legacy. Not the albums, the concerts, the awards; not the people I loved, the relationships I had, the life I lived. Only the pills, the bathtub, the panties and the tragedy of it all.

I always assumed I would see my own funeral somehow. My body lying there, in full glam. Everyone I'd ever known mourning for me. The world mourning for me. It was a nice thought when I was alive. But I won't see it. Instead, I'm in hell. And it's not a flaming underworld filled with restless souls enduring some kind of eternal damnation. I know now that hell is much quieter, much lonelier than that. My spirit, or soul, or whatever I am now, will forever remain in this haunted house.

---

Robin comes back only once. Would it be possible for me to climb inside and possess her, if only to spend another minute in her company? I move to her. I try to wrap my spectral arms around her body. She closes her eyes for a moment and inhales, as if she can feel me somehow. It's so weird being back here, she says. The other woman in the room nods empathetically. Her sister, I remember. They talk about me. It breaks my heart. Is there something I could have done?

Don't blame yourself, it's not your fault, the sister says.

Tears fall onto Robin's cheeks. I just wish I could go back.

Her sister hugs her tight.

Did she know how much I loved her?

My spirit swells with something warm and deep. Of course I did.

---

After Robin leaves for the last time, the strangers come. Potential buyers. Voyeurs. Perverts. They take photos of my bathtub and talk about me in hushed tones. As if they know I'm right here, listening. They share their theories: I heard she killed herself because she was snubbed at the Grammys. She would never kill herself, obviously her girlfriend did it. Maybe she was just depressed because she wasn't relevant anymore. But she was doing so well. What a shame. What a shame. What a shame. Perhaps the truth is simultaneously more sad and boring than they realize.

So here I am, still, in my beautiful home filled with all of my carefully curated things; handmade doorknobs, bespoke cabinets and antique tile. Still floating aimlessly in the space that once belonged to me. And still, all I want is rest. Respite from the gaze of strangers and their cruel opinions. Rest, please, I just want to rest. I will always be here. Doomed to be remembered forever, but never seen again.