Fictionalized News Story

            She slowly sat up in bed and moved her legs off of the quiet hotel bed with her hands. She choppily slipped into her morning shoes, a pair of two inch red heels, and stood up jagged and painfully before sitting back down on the bed. She raised her hands and a pocket of water formed at the corner of her right eye, she slipped off the shoes and let the tear continue to form until she squeezed it out and past her David Bowie t-shirt and onto her black leggings littered with holes.

            The hotel room was neat, almost exactly to order. The ice was melted in the silver bowl that it came in, the giant box of welcoming gifts and the hand written note from the owner of the hotel was untouched on the thick round mahogany table. Even the penthouse view wasn’t unused, and the only stamp of existence on the giant room was one suitcase next to the bed, unzipped only for a phone charger, and a makeup stained pillowcase.

            She spent most of her time on her tour bus, and didn’t remember the last time she stayed in a hotel room, but she was in too much pain to hide it anymore and for goodness sake wanted to be alone. She had everyone worried.

            She laid back and cried and allowed herself to be exhausted and felt the tears go into her ears and she cried more. She imagined the tweet in her head, ‘I’m so sorry little monsters.’ No, ‘dear little monsters, mother isn’t okay.’ No. How was she going to tell them? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t walk.

            “Gaga?” someone was at the door, speaking soft like he had just lost in rock-paper-scissors and was chosen by fate for the task. “Um, Gaga? It’s Terry.”

            She thought of her beloved photographer and she thought of the little girl with the pink bow and she twisted in pain and pulled the neat blanket over her head and didn’t answer. 

http://www.usatoday.com/story/life/people/2013/02/13/lady-gaga-cant-walk-postpones-shows/1915879/