This weeks MWBB has provided us with the Amy Winehouse track, You Know I'm No Good.
Here is my story...
Here is my story...
Staring back at her was a woman she didn’t recognise; her face was drawn and sallow, dark circles sagged beneath her eyes, her cheeks sucked in of their own accord, deep crevices weaved across her forehead and fine lines emanated from the outer corners of each eye, a puckered smile rested in a permanent droop. When did this happen to her?
She sighed, releasing a breath of acceptance combined with cigarette smoke, and began to apply the makeup that would make her presentable enough for tonight’s show, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough and that she couldn’t go on without help of some sort. She had options. She chose Jack.
Pulling the bottle from the back of the dressing table drawer she smiled when she saw it was unopened, she liked to peel of the plastic seal and make that first twist of the cap and smell the whisky as its aroma escaped and snaked up her nostrils. The smell alone was intoxicating to her but not as much as the first drink of the day. Her taste buds long damaged by excess she judged everything by how much it burned going down. This burned. One glass would not be enough, the crowd was large, and they had expectations. They knew she was spiralling but they still wanted their piece of her. Whatever she did they still came and as long as she could still perform then they would still come.
It took half a bottle these days to steady her hands and stop her from shaking, she would finish the rest during the interval, and she took one last swig from the bottle and screwed the lid tight. She removed her dressing gown. Every time she saw her body reflected she never really recognised it, she never really recognised herself in any way anymore, somehow her identity had been lost and she was flailing without it.
She threw on a dress that someone had left in the dressing room for her; she slid her feet into blood red stilettos and felt physically repulsed when she saw herself. She was disappointed that Jack wouldn’t be able to help her on his own and grabbed some pills that had been left out for her (her manager was always so helpful) and swallowed them back. Her hair required little effort and she coated it with another layer of hairspray.
The knock at the door meant she was on, time to shine she told herself, time to live the dream for a moment. The remnants of who she had been walked slowly onto the stage and the audience roared in applause as if she was someone special, as if they didn’t know she was no good. The music began, she felt it ripple through her veins, and she sang. She sang as if she was someone special as if she was someone good.
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