"You’re a star!"
Those words always drift into my mind when I recite lines.
When I sing and dance.
(Smile for the camera, Ry!)
I always do. I can laugh, I can smile, I can sing, I can dance, I can cry on command.
(You’re beautiful!)
That’s what they all tell me. I’m beautiful, flawless, stunning, gorgeous.
Am I, really?
When I ask the mirror all it shows me is a pretty pale face framed by ebony hair with olive green eyes.
(Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the most perfect of them all?)
They tell me I’m such a great star. That the name Ry Johnson will be remembered long, long after I’m gone.
People I don’t even know will mourn when I die.
…What a morbid thought.
(Why won’t you answer me, mirror?)
The mirror stays silent and I strain to hear its answer. I never do, though. I just have to work with what people tell me.
(Wow! You’re so great! Just give us that smile, now.)
Everything goes like it is in the movies I star in.
Everywhere I go, heads turn.
I recite my lines. I move exactly how I should.
My choreography is flawless.
And I’m always on tune.
(Come on Ry. Turn back, flirt a little.)
I can laugh, I can smile, I can sing, I can dance, I can cry on command.
But I’m so used to doing those things because someone tells me to, I’m afraid I might have forgotten how to do them alone.
But I chase that thought away, because always being around people and pleasing them is better than just doing it all for myself…right?
I never have to be alone, anymore.
I have the cameras.
Right. I never, ever have to be lonely, among my awards, my admirers. Among the flashing lights that follow me wherever I go.
(Give the audience one last look!)
…One last look before I’m gone.