Smiling at Everything

Jazz curled up in her papasan chair on the terrace, her body fitting to the curved shape of the chair. She kept her Mickey Mouse cup close to her, having been refilled moments ago. The sun was rising in the distance; the sky a mix of colors. In the fuzzy haze of exhaustion, she could still appreciate the beauty of it. The air was cool, as it was every morning. It was just right for sitting on the terrace. On her potted plants were speckles of early morning dew. The cushion of her chair was also a tad damp, not that she cared. She wasn't dressed up anymore; she was in a pair of cotton panties and a tank top. She didn't need to worry about ruining her clothing.

Throughout the night, she managed to rid her mind of most thoughts. Though caffeine typically caused her thoughts to race, her thoughts weren't on any important topics. A majority of her thoughts during the night focused on unicorns and jelly beans. She wasn't thinking about the past or the future. She didn't care that she was faking her life in front of her friends. Nothing mattered.

Besides Zack's comments.

He had been so spot on, it was ridiculous. He knew but she didn't think he realized how much he knew. It was likely that he was just taking stabs in the dark. Or maybe he was really paying attention to her. Jazz was used to male attention but not positive male attention. The wolf whistle, crude comment, and offer to help her reproduce were the extent of the attention she got from the male population. Anytime a woman found out Jazz was bisexual, she generally dealt with the same thing, just without the reproduction offer.

Well, that was sometimes in there too.

But she wasn't used to the type of attention Zack was giving her. It was more on the gentleman side of the male spectrum and less on the pig side. Zack was a gentleman to everyone; she shouldn't have expected him to act like a pig around her. She just didn't expect him to be so kind to her.

If he found out about her past, would he treat her the same way? Or would he think she was disgusting?

She felt she was disgusting. She was sure Zack would feel the same way. She was sure everyone she knew would feel the same way. Her parents would come up with a plastic surgery procedure to fix what happened so she would be perfect or disown her. Her band mates would kick her out of the band because she wasn't role model material. Zack would hate her; the fans would hate her. She would be alone.

She couldn't be alone.

Jazz groaned and pushed herself from the chair, walking back through the sliding window into the house. She sipped from her Mickey Mouse cup while looking around her living room for something to do until it was a decent time to go to the grocery store.

She had to go grocery shopping today to stock up for the tour. There wouldn't be much time for that the next day. She had to eat with both of her parents. Mother for brunch; father for lunch. Eating with her parents was a weekly thing, unless on tour. On occasion one would fly out to take her to eat at some "quaint" restaurant that they had the "pleasure" of finding while on a "business" trip.

Jazz knew both of her parents were screwing around behind each other's backs when they were married. She wasn't stupid. Her father's frequent business trips were undoubtedly to see his many lovers. Her mother often fooled around with the pool boy while he was gone. Jazz walked in on her mother and the pool boy when she was ten; that was when the idea of sex was introduced to her.

It had been a very awkward talk.

Jazz sighed, trying to find a way to distract her mind from the constant thoughts swirling around. She was doing good until now.

The penthouse was clean thanks to the maids that took care of each room. Her car would be clean too, inside and out. Playing her piano was out of the question, as she was tired from not sleeping for a number of days. Her friends weren't up to bother.

Packing was an option. She would have to remember to keep a few pairs of clothing from the bag to wear during the days before the tour.

Jazz walked through her living room, up the winding staircase, down the short hall into her master suite. It wasn't a room she went into often and it showed. Nothing seemed to be touched. The bed was still made, the carpet had no foot marks. If it weren't for the maids, there would likely be dust covering almost every surface. Jazz hadn't even taken the time to decorate the room. It looked the same as it did when she first moved in, aside from the items that her father bought. Besides grabbing clothes from her walk-in closet and drawers on a daily basis, she avoided the room.

Everytime she walked in, she felt the need to fall asleep.

Jazz entered her walk-in closet, turning on the light so she could see the articles of clothing she was pulling out. Her eyes wandered the closet. She made mental notes on the things she definitely wanted to take with her. One wall was a set of shelves filled with shoes. Another held racks of the expensive clothing her mother bought her, the clothing she wore only when visiting her parents. In the set of drawers underneath the racks was the lingerie her mother bought her for her future husband.

Jazz never touched that drawer. Though her parents were divorced, they both wanted Jazz to at least reproduce. Jazz, on the other hand, never wanted to have sex again in her lifetime.

The first number of times had been traumatizing.

The last of the three walls held the clothing that Jazz wore on a daily basis: her work clothes, her performance clothes, and her day-to-day clothes. It was the only section she needed to pull anything from. Besides the shoes she would be taking with her from the shelves.

She would need two suitcases, one for clothing and one for energy drinks. The clothing suitcase would be much bigger than her energy drink one. But both would be filled. She couldn't go a day without energy drinks if she planned to survive the tour. Her sleeping patterns demanded that she drink energy drinks to stay alive. Clothing, well, she could do without it. It wasn't as necessary for her to have as the energy drinks.

Jazz wished she could bring her baby grand piano with her. But it was too large to carry on the tour bus. Plus, she didn't want anyone to hear the music she created on it. She would settle for playing her keyboard on the bus anytime she felt the need to hide from her thoughts. It would do just as well as the baby grand.

The keyboardist reached to the shelves above the racks of clothes her mother bought, tugging a large suitcase down to the floor. With the suitcase, fell a green spiral notebook. It hit Jazz's head and landed on the ground.

"Ow," Jazz mumbled, rubbing her abused head.

She bent down, picking up the notebook. She couldn't remember putting a notebook in her closet. It certainly didn't belong there.

An object slipped out of the notebook as she raised it, landing on her closed suitcase. She stared in disbelief at the shining metal object. It couldn't be sitting there. She thought she lost it years ago when she quit cutting. She didn't know she still had her razorblade.

Memories bombarded her mind. Memories of all the nights she spent ripping apart her arms because she couldn't handle the pain she was feeling. Memories of almost getting caught by her teachers. Memories of how hard it was to stop.

Jazz grabbed the razorblade from its spot on her suitcase, holding it close to her face. It was speckled with rust and dried blood, remnants of the past. The blade seemed just as sharp as it had been when she last used it.

But she couldn't believe she was holding it in her hands. She had to be dreaming.

Jazz glanced at her arms littered in scars; some words, some haphazard cuts. On one arm, a scar reading "whore" dominated her arm. On the other, the words "I'm fine" and "cunt" took up the space on her lower arm. The remnants of words that faded were underneath the prominent words. Jazz looked down at her tank top and panty clad body, knowing there were scars in places people would never see, knowing that she had cut on her private area because she felt so disgusting.

Jazz placed the razor against her arm subconsciously, pressing it to arm and attempting to drag it. Pain immediately encompassed her.

"Shit," Jazz yelped, dropping the blade.

It certainly wasn't a dream.

The cut she made wasn't deep enough to bleed or long enough to be noticeable amongst the set of scars adorning her arm but it hurt. She couldn't see how she was ever capable of making deep cuts on her arms, ones that seemed to never stop bleeding.

Jazz grabbed the blade and dropped it in the trash bin in the corner of the closet. She didn't need the razorblade to live her life anymore. It helped but it wasn't a sufficient or healthy crutch.

But the barely existent cut she made was enough to make her want more.