Chapter 2: Can't Hold Us Down

Aurora's POV

Hello there. Well, there's a lot to talk about but this is my side of the story.

My head was muddled. I couldn't remember the how many shows I've done. All I know is this would be the last one. Gutters, girdles, barely there lingerie, so not my style. Singing, that's what it was. The play: Chicago. Every girl's dream! I was portraying Velma Kelly. How I got this part had to be the most perverted, degrading thing a women could ever do to catch a break. I've never had sex for the roles, just hand jobs. Some actually asked for blows and well I succumbed. I had to. I really wanted to act. I never even listened to that angel on my shoulder.

I really only was doing the stuff so I can #1: pay for my dinky apartment in the East scapes of Brooklyn, #2, because I loved theater. I been always so fascinated by the texture of how scenes, words, and gestures were manufactured. Life would just be a big shit whole without it. I tell ya, the feeling I get onstage is incredible.. Just indescribable. Like you can't just have one bit of your favorite candy bar, you have to have all of it.

Most of the cast sniffs, snorts, shoots, eats and drinks pretty anything that will stop you heart or make ya feel like you're the best in the world. OK, I'm a little exposed but I've never actually done anything but smoke a ciggy. That was when I was 18 though. Well, here I am, 20, still slightly chunky, and I have a super cool job that pays for life for now.

My ultimate dream is to oh shit I can't tell you that. There's always too many dreams with me. Let's just start with the obvious. Scoff... paralyzing emotion. Yep, its true. Never had or believe a single ounce of what that bitch Danielle Steel yammers about. I never understood when people kiss either. Without really hashing the childhood book wide-open, I wasn't exactly the poster child for appreciation growing. Both my parents died because of high-deal drugging and I never knew until I was 14. I've been living with foster bitches since I finally got my first break after I turned 18. That's where I guess the pebbles of deep abuse had halted.

Anyway, back to my dream, I dream a lot. But, I really have no idea how to love someone. Its all rubbish and dangerous to me. I never gave it much thought. My parents weren't the nicest bunch o' folks to dine out with. If there's one thing I've learned from them its to close your legs before the guy cums in you. They never wanted me, I never wanted them. We both won. They died, I'm still unable. I tend to shrug a lot when it comes to people. I feel sometimes the trust card is burned one too many times. What are you gonna do? I figure maybe life would be easier if I didn't talk. I guess that it works. Maybe the real peace comes when we die.

Anywhos, I'm getting off track here. I was talking about dreams. What the hell is a dream? I guess its something weirdoes do. I hate when people take about they're stupid dreams like its actually going to happen. I feel like shouting in their face when they do. I feel ignorance is not bliss in any. I dare someone to actually explain how they put those too things together.

The only thing that seems patternistic in this life is that everything does happen for a reason.

Mistakes are made and what was learned has to be what not to do to make it happen again. I just wish maybe one day I will have utter happiness and not have to constantly look behind me. Everyone it seems tries to take that away from me. Especially what happened 3 months ago. I was sort of kind of involved in some small minor crime. OK it wasn't small, I almost got time for it. I have a good excuse: I was hungry alright? There were times when I actually had to look in the dumpster for something. Like bread or some sort of edible substance. Not something you want to think about. It was a really cold night too. It was the first time I've stolen anything and it didn't make me feel like I could do it again. I took the item and ran as fast as I can to what looked like sanctuaric atmosphere.

A week later, Chicago auditions were announced and I was chosen as Velma Kelly's understudy actually. The chic who won the role was involved in a vicious car collision. She remained in critical condition and was kept in a coma for almost a month. I'd never really met her personality that well all I knew first hand was her name. I've talked with her a couple of times and got that she seemed the kind of person you'd talk to. She wasn't rude to me but all the other girls at the audition they seemed to despise her immensely. Unbeknownst to me, she was a trained actress and was "living on trust baby finance." That's what I really twitched about her even without knowing her. The schools I went to were acting in wealthy areas which means daddy money was the subject of purchase. I would always grow insanely jealous of girls who "had it better" with everything. The worst part was what they would wear. Picture Cher circa 1974 Bob Mackie couture. Well, OK, so it was stupidly close I can assure you. Ugh, it was gross. Everytime I'd stare in that direction I wanted to dump red paint on their disgusting carcass-like fashion. I just roll my damn eyes.

Well, here I am: dressed, make-uped, spritzed with the best perfume for skin, and totally ripped and rearin to knock em dead. I think I really have to forget what I did to get this far with it. I stick my tongue at it but I shouldn't let it control my life. Hopefully, just maybe someone can see me and hand me a deal with something. I literally am to the point of starvation with roles. I can't afford to be choosey that's for sure. I hear someone offstage shouting my cue. I stand on my mark and promise myself praying silently that this final shot will do it. I have to. The curtains open and I take my position. My raven bob wig sits on for luck and the spotlight shines only on me like it belongs there.

Come on babe why don't we paint the town
And all that jazz...