*BLACK SCREEN*
*High heel footstep sound, Sound of keys, elevator etc*
My, my. Look at what the cat dragged in this time. A songbird from overseas, an Englishman in Los Angeles. To what do we owe the pleasure?
To seek refuge at the Chateau is a beginner’s mistake. I would know. You think you’re escaping one hell but really you’re just quietly entering another.
The descent to hell is easy when the poolside is beautiful and the room service is great. Good chefs, too. I doubt they serve such good appetizers in Heaven. Our kitchen seriously rivals theirs, someone should take that up with God.
*FOOTAGE BEGINS / PLAYS*
But good appetizers or not, Hell remains Hell. The mouth of the monster is warm like a mother’s womb. And hell becomes home when you overstay your welcome.
What is our songbird running from? None of my business, not really. At least not for now.
(pause)
(In a pensive tone)
Those are nice shoes he has. Red bottoms . I like Red bottoms. The glasses aren’t so bad either.
What should I steal from him?
It’s this philosophy I have. I tax my newcomers. Within a reasonable limit, of course. I am not a monster after all. Passports, engagement rings, baby diapers, keys. I take liberties. Whatever I can get my hands on.
What we obtain by asking is not really ours. But what we acquire by stealing belongs more to us than it did to the previous person. There is something romantic about theft. I am risking the axe over my lily-white neck because I wanted something of yours. And I am ruthless about it, I will love your belongings more than you did.
I steal in good faith.
It is an offering to the land, an offering to the hotel. You cannot enter new soil empty handed. It’s bad manners.
I’ll spare this one though.
There is nothing of his that I want.
Maybe a couple of cigarettes now and then. He should cut down on smoking anyways. Take care of his voice.
You’re luckier than most, kid.
You get to keep your shoes and your passport.
I think I pity him. Although I never pity any of them. It’s very unlike me to get sentimental. My first maternal bone growing, after a hundred years of haunting.
How moving.
Maybe this will make God reconsider my position. There is not much merit in being a straying Ghost. It is the equivalent of being a janitor in the underworld. It’s not so terrible, but it could certainly be better.
He is somewhat famous, from what I’ve heard. I must be getting old, I’ve never heard of him. Is that what these kids listen to these days?
Fame isn’t kind to the young heart. Fame isn’t kind to anyone, really. Some are just better built to handle it than others. Like horses sent to war, not everyone comes back alive.
A terribly lonesome business, this musician thing.
I can smell the carpet burns on his heart, I can smell them right through his flesh. No amount of expensive perfume covers that stench.
I used to smell that way too until I discovered the wonders of this new laser technology, I don’t recall what it’s called, I’ll slip him the number of my doctor. But alas, ever since no more burns and no more stench. And if you aren’t brave enough to undergo cosmetic surgery for the heart, well, maybe you should consider killing yourself.
A hundred times I dreamed I was free. Does he dream of that too? Does fame feel like a life sentence to him? A punishment?
A ghost is a parasite. I am a parasite. I need a host. What am I without one? What is a ghost with no one to haunt? No writer and no artist has ever answered that question. I don’t blame them, it’s not an easy one to figure out. I don’t want to leave him alone. I don’t like any of the other people staying at the hotel. I want to stay by his side. I think I will tie a ribbon with a bell on his ankle so I can hear him move around. I want his heart, his memories, his women, a string like charms, worn around my neck.
A modern fairytale, blue and sharp at the edges, soft in the belly. Artificial lightning, stage lights. He practices his verses in an empty staircase, the curtainfall feels like an axe hanging over the neck. He thinks of his father, he misses him. A priest’s warm hand on his cheek. His overbearing excess compared to the priest’s bareness, the shame that comes with it. Happy is he who owns nothing.
Nursing an everlasting wound with the breast of a chemical brute, alone in his hotel room. Supernatural lights of cartoons on TV, like watercolors on his ribcage. The flesh has forgotten the sun. Your vice is nourished by being concealed.
You want somebody to come and kill you, but nobody ever does.
Night bird, you sleep all day. Roam all night. Restless and beautiful, new generation rap royalty. A prince with no land to govern. A rose of no man’s land.
Has London spat you out? Is that why you wander this world like a dog with no home? Don’t you know heaven is at your mother’s feet? Don’t you know Paradise is found in the fields of Basildon? You’re looking for peace in the wrong place. This land has no reassurance to offer you. Go back home, kid.
Go back home before I trap you in the snow globe downstairs and keep you to myself. It’s bad business for a ghost to fall in love with the young and the restless. You are exactly that, restless. And I am unmovable. I have no other home. There were times when I wished you could have died in that room, just so I could be by your side. Overdose at 21. No one would have batted an eye. But I won’t be cruel. I’ll keep the pills for myself. There will be a piece of me in every woman that you love. An eyelash, a whisper. You’ll meet me time and time again. Your millions, your millions. Who will you leave it all to?
Young boys mend their broken hearts, but it will be their livers that bring about their end.