She was certain she had achieved everything possible by being who she was. Energetic, in her early twenties (because that sounds better than twenty-seven), she seemed to have a witty retort ready for everything, always. A successful woman. A complete success. That's how they saw her, and that's how she was. Beautiful, healthy, intelligent. Desirable. She had a job thousands of women dreamed of – she was an actress. And still sought after, despite reaching the peak of her career, full of passion and offers for ever-new scripts. She had numerous admirers, a legion of fans, and any lovers she wanted, because everyone was at her beck and call. Money, fame, and beauty. She wielded these three attributes with intimidating self-confidence. She sifted through offers, as picky as someone in a shop buying a belt, so her acceptance to appear in a film was treated as a grace or a miracle.
She was a queen, loved and admired by all. For teenage girls, she was an idol, a role model. Boys wallpapered their rooms with her photos. Newspapers sent their best photographers and sensation hunters to chase her with their tongues hanging out like a pack of loyal dogs. They were faithful to her, day and night. They waited around corners as she tried to pretend to be a normal, anonymous person, going to the newsstand for a newspaper or to a café.
This popularity didn't bother her. It didn't tire her. She felt incredibly comfortable among fans, flashbulbs, and people asking thousands of questions at once, shouting over each other. She lived for it. She read every magazine, even the biggest tabloids, which mentioned her even a word. She watched television programs, listened to the radio, and went to see her own films, even after their premieres. She seemed to have no private life; everything was open to public scrutiny. It didn't embarrass her; she didn't want to live any other way. She was completely satisfied with what she had. This very life.
She wanted to shine in the sky of countless Hollywood stars. At the same time, she wanted to be remembered. She didn't want five minutes of fame. She wanted to shine for a long, long time. To go down in cinematic history as a brilliant actress, remembered even after her death.
Loneliness didn't bother her. In fact, she chose among men, never committing herself to any one. Although more than one declared her love. Even if they did so in the most passionate and moving ways, she remained steadfast in her resolve to love nothing or anyone so deeply that losing it would hurt her. She had already made that mistake once. And that was enough. She would never again allow someone's passing to push her to the brink of mental illness. She barely escaped. Miraculously, she survived. She resolved with complete determination and awareness of the consequences: never again.
Her name was Sophia Littleborrow.
Stuart was an old friend of hers from high school. One of the few she'd decided to keep in touch with, after all. Or rather, he'd decided to. He was the kind of man who was first impressed by a woman's intelligence, and only then glanced at her feminine attributes. He was an excellent listener and friend. And not just to Sophia.
Usually, on Fridays, they had lunch together at La Festa—a rather elegant restaurant, but not so popular that they couldn't talk in peace about this and that. A so-called exchange of ideas, pleasant conversation, and perhaps a bit of gossip from the world.
This time, however, Stuart called her on Thursday evening and asked if they could meet at his place. This time, unusually, because he wanted to introduce her to someone. Of course, she agreed. What reason could she have not? If only she'd known…
On Friday, July 8th, at the appointed time, she pulled up to Stuart's door in her Porsche, gleaming in the hot July sun. He lived in the suburbs, in a small, modest house. Nothing fancy, but nice.
She got out of the car and, with a thoughtful glance at the road she'd just arrived on, closed the door. Adjusting her dark glasses, she approached the door.
Stuart greeted her, as always, with a cheerful smile and a warm hug. He was as warm and spontaneous as few people she knew. He invited her in, apologizing for the unexpected change of venue. They exchanged the usual, unremarkable exchanges, settled into the cozy living room, and enjoyed drinks they'd prepared earlier. The conversation had the tone of a normal conversation, yet a warning of dark clouds gathering on the horizon hung in the air. The tension rose to electric particles swirling around Sophi's fingers as she slowly and steadily tapped her manicured nails against her glass. Was it erotic? Naively. That moment of anticipation, full of turbulent emotions, waiting for the other person's first move, and the impatient biting of her nails in her soul.
Just as she was about to ask who he wanted to introduce her to, a young man entered the living room. He was maybe twenty, maybe a little older, maybe a little younger. He was of average height, of a good build, and had incredibly graceful hands. It was this detail that caught her eye most as he lit a cigarette. He had fiery red hair and, contrasting with its vivid disarray, calm, almost lifeless eyes. He looked at her impassively when Stuart introduced them. His name was Rhea. Simply Rhea. He was an oracle. He knew the future. Did she want to know anything about hers? Let her ask.
She was silent. For the first time, she didn't have a trick up her sleeve called a retort. She stared into those cold eyes, and he didn't move, silently watching her too, perhaps assessing whether she could bear the burden of knowing her future? The lazy movement of his cigarette, which he removed from his mouth, snapped her out of her reverie. She quickly glanced at Stuart, checking if he was joking. He wasn't joking. He was incredibly serious. When he joked or lied, his left eyelid twitched. Now it was still. She returned her gaze to Rea. Closing his eyes slightly but still watching her, he took a drag on his cigarette.
What could she ask? How long would she be a movie star? Would she meet her Prince Charming? Would her current film be a hit like her previous ones? How much would she earn? Would she win an Oscar? Questions like these flashed through her mind, but she dismissed them, shuddering at their triviality.
"Tell me about my death," she said. Before the last word had sunk in, she was already regretting it. Was this as trivial and stupid as her previous ideas for questions? But the expected condescending smile didn't come. Not from Stuart, who had silently assumed the role of passive listener, nor from Rhea.
The redhead removed his cigarette from his mouth and exhaled a puff of smoke. He stood leaning against the couch, looking down at Sophi. His voice was as impassive as his eyes: impassive, cool. He spoke quietly, slowly, weighing his words so they reached her unaltered, appropriately.
"You want to know your death..." He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to recall long-lost memories. How often had he done this? When he opened them, something like some emotion flickered in them, perhaps it was compassion... "You'll die in the hospital," he began, his words perfectly measured. It didn't seem so terrible to her. Perhaps an accident? Perhaps old age? Perhaps surgery? There were many possibilities. Who knew? He knew and continued. Ruthlessly driving more knives of terrifying cold into her heart. "In solitude. Amid the monotonous hum of the machinery that had kept you alive until now."—that couldn't be true. After all, she was loved and adored. She couldn't die alone. Perhaps it would happen in the middle of the night? Perhaps that's why she would be alone?—In the last few days, too, no one will visit you. There will be only silence and loneliness. No one.—Will no one come? Absolutely no one? He continued, her attention full and tight with fear. "Long-term treatment won't help. It will only destroy your body completely."—A silent question formed in her eyes: "Treatment for what?" He answered almost immediately. "You'll die of AIDS. In three years. July 18th. At 5:34 p.m.." He put a cigarette in his mouth and turned to leave.
She remained silent. The words caught in her throat, and something inside her screamed, "This can't be true! This is some stupid joke!" But she knew it wasn't a joke. Stuart didn't do such things. She remained silent, staring at the departing man. He stopped suddenly, and, taking the cigarette from his lips, turned to her, as if remembering something.
"I warn you, when I spoke of your future, I didn't consider how telling you might affect it." He took a drag on his cigarette and walked away.
It was July 11th. A scorching hot day, without a cloud in the sky. A perfect summer's day. Not even the news of the suicide of twenty-seven-year-old promising actress Sophia Littleborrow had marred it.
The rich don't jump off bridges, get hit by cars, let alone turn on the gas to choke, or slit their wrists. They can afford the kind of death they choose. In any setting they wanted.
According to the newspapers, the postman, concerned about her not receiving her mail, found her sitting at a table in her apartment. In an elegant dress, with exquisite makeup, her hand on a glass that still held traces of poison. Beside her lay a sheet of paper with the test results. Just as obvious as the fact that she was dead was the fact that she had AIDS.
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