Blurry

Perfection. A high impossible attribute to achieve. The only thing anyone ever wanted out of me was just that. My agents, my assistants, random strangers, even my husband lusted after my supposed “perfection.”
My insecurities, my flaws, my ideals, my blunders were all criticized in any and every form of media. Everyone had high, high expectations. I had to dress, act, walk, talk, and appear flawless. Every single waking moment. A robot.
A tear shed? Fake. Radiating confidence? Also fake. Beauty? Like the old saying goes, skin deep. I was nothing but a monster. With my outer appearance and acting abilities, they took me in, deceiving me with their sugar-coated illusions and lies. Soon enough, everything was blurry and I didn’t know fact from fiction, right from wrong.
I tried building a wall. No matter how hard I attempted to put a barrier between me and the public, my privacy meant absolutely nothing. Every time I wanted to scream, it always came out as a barely audible whisper. Hoarse, choked, ragged, forced, “Stop…”
The most unbearable part of it all was The Scandal. We didn’t mean to…it was just an accident. The pink plus sign staring back at me and Ryan was almost too big of a cross to carry at this point. I was only twenty fucking one.
The innocent fairytales that were the pinnacle of my childhood encouraged me to be a mom someday. But now wasn’t someday. And now I’ve come to realization there never would be a someday. Not ever.
My baby would be followed day and night by the stalkerazzi. He/she would be a hybrid of two monsters: me and Ryan.
Immoral. Wicked. Corrupt. Murder. These words were thrown at me, but I decided to be ignorant and do it anyway. It was a worse crime to bring a baby into this world, innocent and as lovely as a cherub but then being destructed by the same false pretense that made me into the monster I am. I couldn’t bring myself to take the chance of him/her being sucked into the glitz and glamour Hollywood appears to be.
In countless interviews I tired to explain my side, but no one would listen. Soon enough, Terra Rinehart became the flavor of the week for all the wrong reasons.
“I’m going on a two week vacation to Santorini…in Greece. I need a break. I need to be alone for a bit, sort things out, get my head straight.” I told him. “I leave tomorrow.”
All he did was nod mutely. Sigh. A miserable look. He would have to deal with this all on his own.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, an infrasonic sound. He looked away, not seeming to hear. Nothing new.

This all leads to me ending up here, on top of high cliff in Santorini. Very unsafe. Very dangerous. Very insane. Very deadly.
It was windy that day. My favorite pink silk sun dress billowed out all around me. My thick, reddish-brown hair that all the tabloids ranted and raved about clouded my vision.
But I needed to do this. It was the only solution. The shallowness. The lies. The blurriness. The fucking pain. It would all be gone.
I took my last breath and soared. Down, down, down.
So much pain. Everything is so damn blurry. Weakness. Silence. Breathless. Deafening. Fear. Excitement.
Then, sightless. Painless. All at once. And then, nothing at all.