♔ roxanne // capitol // done ♔

A cracked wail echoed through the vast expense of apartment space. He rushed over to find her, almost in tears, flares of anger blaring in her pale eye, holding two ripped halves of a magazine. He shot her a questioning glance. Another furious burst rang out and her long arms sent the glazed page hurtling in his direction.

“Look at what they did!”

He picked it up to see her most recent magazine interview. Not that she had been offered many of late. The people of this city had short attention spans; supposedly slaughtering your husband only interests the neighbours for so long. No matter. By the look in her eyes and the beastly contortions of her face there might be a new incident to gossip about; ‘Remember Roxie? She’s done it again. Yeah - it was her brother this time’.

What had they done? Looking over the photos he saw little difference between them and the wreck of a woman before him.

Defined features; sharp cheek bones, collar bones to die for, a hint of pale glitter beneath her skin. Taller than him by a significant few feet. Her style was perfectly synchronised with the fashion as it altered itself by the second. It baffled him how she had the money or the time of maintain such a wardrobe.

The only difference he could see was the new hue of her short hair. As it did from week to week its golden glow had melted into a matte pitch.

He shook in head in defeat after a moment. “Sorry - I don’t see-”

“They didn’t fix my freckle!”

“Where?”

“Look, there!”

The barely visible brown dot sat on her cheek. He thought it looked quite nice; some things that might be considered natural blemishes often appealed to him. But he daren’t tell her that.



“If you don’t hold that door for me, I’ll crush your head in it.”

He did and she smiled as she passed under his arm. She bobbed and giggled a ‘thank you, sweetie’. She carried herself as if a string of adoring gentlemen were following on her tail. And when this was truly the case her face was painted with an elegant innocence.

But when performing and lingering around her fans, there was something fake about her. Within that innocence and 'nice-girl' act there was the a hint of hell. She still played the murderess. And they loved her for it.

Alone, she was one or the other. For an hours she might be the angel; 'Need a hand with you shopping, lady?', laughing, dancing about like a child. Then, everything crumbles and a devil rises from the ashes.

"You're marrying again?" her brother asked. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure - I'm pretty sure his taps drip molten gold."



"When you gonna get it in'ta that empty little skull of yours, sweetheart? Your ain't never gonna be a star. The only thing that's ever gonna make you special is bein' married to me."

Her legs ached as she pulled herself back to her feet. Blood began to run from her nose but it nothing like the movies said it looked; rather that a calm drop trickling down, red oozed rapidly, quickly smearing everywhere as she covered it with her hand.

"Oh, here we go!" He cried, watching the tears stream down her cheeks. "Boo hoo, sweetheart."

In an instant he was at her side. Her hair was caught in his brutish grasp. Blood muddled through the strands and his dirty skin as the struggle ensued.

"Kiss me then, damn it!"

He pulled her closer. But he felt nothing on his lips. Instead, something warm and passionate took hold of his stomach. Much like the ache of love, it was unrelenting, until
it killed him.

"You're so wrong." Her voice was iron through the tears. "I'm not you're wife... And I am a star."

Roxanne left the knife where it was. The authorities found it protruding from him when they arrived at her doorstep not long later.