Retired: Singer, Actress, Killer
“The tire’s flat.” Her manager said, peaking her head through the driver’s side doorway.
“Okeeey. Whatcha want me to do about it?” Stephanie asked, her nose still buried in her phone.
“Nothing,” her manager grumbled under her breath, “not like you’d help anyway.”
“How much longer ‘til we get there?” She kicked off her leather boots and propped her feet on the dashboard.
“I don’t know.”
“Ugh, Margaret’s skatin’ in Rockefeller right now. Of course I’m fucking missing it.” She groaned and slumped further into the passenger seat. “Why the hell did you drag me to bumfuck nowhere?”
“This role is huge. It could b—”
“Close the door, I’m gettin’ cold.”
“Whatever.” Her manager threw the door shut, zipped up her coat, and shuffled around to the trunk.
It was humiliating, trudging through a foot of snow in a pair of converses for a girl half her age. She didn’t deserve this. She was famous once. She had dignity once. She had a name once.
Roxie.
It seemed like just last year she was singing in underground clubs. A month ago, she got the best call you could get from a record label. Last week, her first album hit platinum. A few days back, her debut movie bombed. A couple days after that, her second album flopped. Yesterday she got the worst call you could get from a record label.
This morning she woke up and she was 45. Where did twenty years of her life go? It wasn’t all wasted on wallowing and wondering what could’ve been, right?
It didn’t matter. She didn’t have time to cry anymore. Stephanie needed her to negotiate her royalties and schedule her appearances on talk shows and manage her budget on clothes and pick her up from clubs and wake her up in the fucking morning so she didn’t sleep away the life she didn’t deserve.
The trunk of the SUV popped open. She pulled out suitcases and tossed them haphazardly on the side of the road. A strong gust blew through the trees.
“Hurry up and close the doooooor! It’s cooooooold!” Stephanie whined.
“One more second.” Her manager pushed a suitcase aside to reveal the compartment with the spare tire.
“Be careful with that!”
“I am.”
“Good. That shit costs more than your entire catalogue."
The manager gripped the L-shaped tire iron with both hands. Her nails carved crescents into her palms.
Of course, the manager thought, I’ll be extra careful.
The trunk slammed down.
God forbid your Prada shoes get scuffed, or the heel breaks off your Versace pumps.
The manager walked past the flat tire.
I know you’d just die if I broke something.
The passenger door swung open. Roxie grabbed the brat by the root of her hair and dragged her out of the car.
She kicked and squirmed and screamed. Clumps of white powder flew up in the air. She shouted, What the hell is wrong with you?! Stop it! HELP! Blah blah blah… How uninspired. She should’ve had her ghost writer write her final pleas. The brat’s head dropped to the ground. A foot came down on her blonde hair. Her cries echoed through the trees. If only someone was around to hear them before their sudden stop.
It took a few good tugs to pry the tire iron from her head. A stream of blood ran down her forehead and outlined half of Roxie’s shoe.
Death wasn’t enough to satisfy Roxie. That brat didn’t deserve to lay in the snow so peacefully. She jammed the short end of her weapon in the corpse’s mouth and pulled it like a lever. Her two front teeth were knocked in, her lips widened into her cheeks, and finally, her jaw popped out of its sockets. She couldn’t sing anymore.
Next, Roxie moved to her legs. She beat her knees until they were a stew of blood and broken bones. She couldn’t dance anymore.
Now she could finally change that tire. As a treat she could back up on the little brat so, she sure as shit couldn’t act anymore.
Roxie skipped back to the trunk and grabbed the spare tire. She was already thinking of stories she’d tell the police. I was supposed to meet her up there. Oh, a drunk driver hit her while we were changing a tire. A bear came out of nowhere, she didn’t have a chance. We were—
She was gone.
The tire slipped through Roxie’s fingers and plopped onto the snow. There was a trail of crimson where the body used to be. She squeezed the tire iron until her knuckles turned white.
How is that bitch still alive?
She marched into the forest, following the trail around barren oaks. She couldn’t have gotten far. Snowflakes fluttered down. The track cut left, then right. How deep did she get? The snowfall came down as heavy as raindrops. Wind whistled through the treetops. Her cheeks burned from the cold. She tucked her hands under her armpits. Kill her. I’ll kill her this time. White engulfed the world. The wind whipped and howled. She staggered forward. A silhouette emerged from the blizzard. Kill. Die. Kill. Die. Roxie raised her weapon over her head. DIE BITCH! The tire iron stuck snow.
Her eyes darted wildly, trying to find where the bitch went. The blood was gone. She clawed at the ground and only got more powder. Stephanie was gone. That bitch left her behind again.
Roxie wandered aimlessly until her legs gave out. She shivered. She whimpered. She didn’t deserve this.