Paparazzi
First and Last
Her life was the definition of dramatic. Alcohol addictions, drug issues, nude leaks, sex tapes, you name it. Not so much the ideal lifestyle. Of course, her facade was magnificent. In the media’s eyes, she didn’t give a fuck. Couldn’t care less what the tabloids said, and what the haters thought. Her fans will come and go as they change their opinions on her, as do her many lovers. Could they even be considered lovers, when nothing but a hint of lust was ever evident? She thought not.
What a whore.
Obviously, she did care. Why else would she be doing this? Fun? Sure, it’s fun. It’s a fucking blast, but that’s only because the rest of her sorrowful life is never fun. Posing for pictures and acting for interviews twenty-four seven only for shit to be talked upon her after she left. She does so much, for what in return? Yeah, a few million bucks. A few million bucks is pretty damn nice, but it doesn’t help her mentally whatsoever. Therapists are shit, if that’s what you were thinking. They don’t really care about you, no matter how much they act like it.
Fuck therapy.
Camera’s flashed and mosquitos buzzed outside her mansion. She set down her bottle and got up, stepping on countless magazines as she made her way across the large room wearing nothing but lacy lingerie. Hey, fans love slutty. It adds more “scandal” to everything if you’re wearing less clothes.
Scandal is sexy.
She opened the door to her balcony, stepping outside and looking down. It took a minute for them to notice her lean figure above them. They stared up at her and started snapping pictures, probably hoping to get flashed or something. Not happening. They’ve seen it all already, anyway.
No point in showing it off again.
She knew what she was doing. She had planned this for weeks, anyway. When you’re sick of this life, why not go out with a bang? She sat up on the railing of the balcony, heart racing. The people below her started to freak out. Was she really going to do it? They wondered. Their money-hungry morbid minds barely processed the thought of death, and only thought of getting it on tape.
Can she do it, though?
When you’re that high, rock bottom is pretty low. She contemplated it for a second. Should she really do it? Or was it just a drunken idea? She decided to let fate choose the answer. With shaking hands, she let go of the railing.
Falling, falling, falling, dead.
Panicked screams of the paparazzi filled the air. They gathered around her lifeless body, furiously snapping pictures while simultaneously calling 911. Blood spilled out of her head, staining her platinum wig a dark red color.
Life isn’t so glamorous.
What a whore.
Obviously, she did care. Why else would she be doing this? Fun? Sure, it’s fun. It’s a fucking blast, but that’s only because the rest of her sorrowful life is never fun. Posing for pictures and acting for interviews twenty-four seven only for shit to be talked upon her after she left. She does so much, for what in return? Yeah, a few million bucks. A few million bucks is pretty damn nice, but it doesn’t help her mentally whatsoever. Therapists are shit, if that’s what you were thinking. They don’t really care about you, no matter how much they act like it.
Fuck therapy.
Camera’s flashed and mosquitos buzzed outside her mansion. She set down her bottle and got up, stepping on countless magazines as she made her way across the large room wearing nothing but lacy lingerie. Hey, fans love slutty. It adds more “scandal” to everything if you’re wearing less clothes.
Scandal is sexy.
She opened the door to her balcony, stepping outside and looking down. It took a minute for them to notice her lean figure above them. They stared up at her and started snapping pictures, probably hoping to get flashed or something. Not happening. They’ve seen it all already, anyway.
No point in showing it off again.
She knew what she was doing. She had planned this for weeks, anyway. When you’re sick of this life, why not go out with a bang? She sat up on the railing of the balcony, heart racing. The people below her started to freak out. Was she really going to do it? They wondered. Their money-hungry morbid minds barely processed the thought of death, and only thought of getting it on tape.
Can she do it, though?
When you’re that high, rock bottom is pretty low. She contemplated it for a second. Should she really do it? Or was it just a drunken idea? She decided to let fate choose the answer. With shaking hands, she let go of the railing.
Falling, falling, falling, dead.
Panicked screams of the paparazzi filled the air. They gathered around her lifeless body, furiously snapping pictures while simultaneously calling 911. Blood spilled out of her head, staining her platinum wig a dark red color.
Life isn’t so glamorous.
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yayy oneshot! i finished this way fast. xD if it wasn't obvious, it's based off the song paparazzi by lady gaga. the great thing is, it can be original fiction, or fanfiction about whoever you want because it never specifies. :P yay!