Shackled to fame

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic

A short story of a girl who has become imprisoned through fame and the only way out is to end it all.. I hope you enjoy


Norma Jean she had called me. I wonder if my mother were still sane when she had decided on the name. Who’d know with her, I was never bestowed with the privilege to see my mother in her normal state of mind. I’m not sure if I should love or despise the woman. She gave me up to lead a life full of mislead hope and sorrow while she slowly became a prisoner of her own mind. Is that my destiny, to live through the fame and the fortune while each day that passes I’m slowly becoming trapped in the confines of my own mind, rotting away any chance of happiness?

To the world I am an iconic sex symbol yet if they looked past the beautiful façade they’d see that I am no more than a hollow shell, lifeless and frightened. On the outside I’m living the dream but somewhere along the line it turned into a vicious nightmare that I cannot wake from. I never imagined the life of the rich and famous would soon become an unpredictable hell. I’m being watched wherever I go, gazed upon through tinted windows and stalked into the darkness of the city streets. Perhaps the hereditary mental health issues are to blame for my seemingly paranoid thoughts. I look over my shoulder at every given chance and tiny little words of fear creep into my head like mutant bugs entwining themselves through the thin constraints of my mind; planting destructive unthinkable ideas.

I’m in my most vulnerable state on nights like this, where the realisation that I have become a prisoner in this world between fame and reality becomes clear. Nothing but a cold stranger staring back at me through the cracked mirror in some desolated motel room. A series of pills lay exposed on the basin just yearning to be consumed. The pressure is causing my chest to cave in and I wonder if death is such a terrible thought. There is no other way out of this prison I’ve been confined too, nowhere to run and certainly nowhere to hide. Norma Jean died along with my innocence and purity, who have I become. It’s simple question that has only one answer; my mother.

I tear myself away from the mirror if only for a second, I begin to write my final goodbyes on tatted paper which smells of cigarettes. I wonder if anyone will find this letter or care to read it. Perhaps by the time my body is found the ink would have seeped through the thin paper and all that’s left is blurs of the ramblings from a mad woman. How could anyone possibly know of the demons I hold within me, these demons which keep me captive in this feeble mind of mine. Have you ever laid awake for hours waiting for morning to mark yet another day of being alone, threatening to draw you into madness. If you’ve never experienced this torture then bow your head and thank God for it’s a strange thing indeed being shackled to fame.

Yet it isn’t my arms or legs that are held tightly with thick chains, it’s the insanity which has seeped through, threading its web until every inch of my frail conscience is caught in its grasp. I gulp down the pills before I have time to hesitate. I can feel my body becoming numb and my eyes are like steel shutters closing for what I hope is the last time. I leave my note resting in my palm and await my inevitable death.

‘My name Marilyn Monroe and there is much more to my story than the bare bones I have outlined. My fame had consumed the last piece of sanity I held within me and so here I am on the floor of a dirty hotel room with more money but less dignity than I was born with. Much to your dismay this was no life I was leading and beneath it all, I was a little girl who hurt just like anyone else. Perhaps that is the most important lesson to be learned from my death. Illusions are just that. We must always try to see the person beneath them’

Submitted: April 27, 2012

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Add Your Comments:


Bill Rayburn

"Yet it isn't my arms or legs that are held tightly with thick chains, it's the insanity which has seeped through, threading its web until every inch of my frail conscience is caught in it grasp"...this, young lady, is pretty good writing.

The subject of "illusions" is rife for exploration. With humans, it almost automatically segues into denial, fear, not facing the truth...all of these are subjects an agile mind like yours could sift through for writing angles.

I imagine there is at least come catharsis for you with this subject matter...demons, et al. Writing about demons can also be an interesting journey...defining them; battling them; conquering them; even getting your ass kicked BY them.

Some distilling would go a long ways in improving your prose style. What I mean is, when you re-read your work, try to do so with a mind set of "can I say that better, more succinctly, with fewer words?" The answer to that question is almost always a resounding 'yes'. For example: I would consolidate your final two sentences into one, as follows:

"The presence of illusions must compel us to seek out the person behind them."

Less is not necessarily ALWAYS more, but it is one concrete goal I pursue every time my fingers hit the keyboard. On to the next, young lady.....and I ask only one favor: Smile once in a while; maybe some mirth might slip into your is not always a dark, ravenous-bat-filled cave...sometimes there is a sunny beach and a loved one and a Pina Colada, which can be equally as compelling to write about as the cave.

Sat, May 5th, 2012 4:01pm

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