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#Log_013 - Behavior Anomaly
Reese slams the door shut before Contestant 14 can catch him and ask for his opinion on yet another lyrically starved, socially resentful rap song.
“It’s great, man. Just open a dictionary every once in a while.”
As he steps inside his bedroom, he sees a small box on his bed, wrapped in decorative paper. He was expecting presents from his fans—just not so soon. It had only been three days since they got there. But what the hell, he isn’t going to complain.
He grabs the box almost by inertia and looks at the paper, but his mind is so far away that he doesn’t even take in the pattern. The voice from the speakers comes back to him, and what it explained earlier about the security around the house. Explaining is a generous word, Reese thinks. It sounded more like a threat.
“There are security measures all around the house. Of course, none of that should be your concern. Let’s hope you don’t have to learn what they are.”
What it did state clearly was that all bedroom doors shall remain open at all times. That, and a stupid rule about food not being allowed in from the outside. Weapons, neither. According to the voice, the doors should be kept open for service reasons. Bullshit—no one had made his bed or picked up his dirty clothes that morning, or the one before. But now it all makes sense. Surveillance and gifts from the fans. A perfectly balanced service.
He unwraps the paper and opens the box. His eyebrows rise at what he finds inside. A sparrow figure, wood-carved, wings spread. Surprisingly thoughtful. “Sparrow in the Mud” was, in his humble opinion, the best song he’d ever written. Probably because it was the last one that had meant a damn thing in a long while. Back when he was naïve enough to believe he’d meet like-minded people in the music industry. People he could actually connect with.
He breathes a laugh and slips the sparrow into his pocket. Then he sinks into his deep armchair and throws his head back, resting it against the soft fabric.
That’s what he needs, he realizes as he rests his feet against the corner of his bed—a song. Just like the voice advised them before ending with that passing note: “You just make certain that you give the viewer something to enjoy.” A song should be disruptive enough to keep things going.
He checks his phone and scrolls through social media. What’s the mood? What’s everyone talking about? What can he use for the lyrics?
He slides a finger over the stories, checking some of them at random. Except for Contestant 22’s. That one’s not random at all. She sure knows what her good angles are. Today, she’s posted a picture of herself in bed. Her huge ass isn’t in it, but her breasts are—and the jumpsuit doesn’t hide the fact that she’s not wearing a bra. There’s also a caption. Something sad, it seems. Probably why her nose is red.
He keeps scrolling. Then he stops.
Rebecca must be hungry—she posted something. That’s the only time of day she dares to share anything with the world. When she needs to eat.
Reese scoffs.
He hesitates, for some reason, before clicking on the red circle with her picture. Today, she’s posted a chair. An empty, totally ordinary chair.
Reese stares at the picture for at least half a minute. How is it possible that Rebecca thinks she’ll become popular like this? Does she even care? Does she not know she’s going to die? He wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t care about that either.
He exhales and lifts his finger from the screen. He should go there. She’s in the dining room—if she just started eating, she’ll probably stay another ten to twenty minutes. Did he try making her laugh? He doesn’t think so.
No. Bad idea. She already seemed fed up with him when they left the common room. He’d better just write a song.
He opens the notes app and stares at the yellow screen. The plan seemed so simple: get someone to fall for him, pretend to love her back, and fake a tragedy. Pretend to be a man who loved the most beautiful woman in the world—only to lose her to the ruthless, unfeeling machinery of media entertainment. The number of lyrics he could mine from that story would give him material for years.
But Rebecca plays hard to get. She thinks she can resist him. He scoffs. That’s fine. He likes it that way. Makes it a challenge. What he doesn’t understand, though, is why nothing seems to work on her.
His only explanation is that she’s probably used to people bending over backwards for her. Maybe she just assumes they’ll inevitably be drawn to her—to her porcelain-doll face, her tight legs, and perky breasts.
Fuck. He is drawn to her.
And she’s being such an idiot. Doesn’t she see how convenient this is for her? None of the others will get her nearly as far as he will, that much is obvious. He’s willing to do that for her.
“I’m willing to do that for her,” Reese whispers to the air. “I’m willing to do that for her. I’m willing to unveil my skin.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He starts typing the words as fast as his thumbs allow. Next time, he’ll make sure a fan sends him a notepad and a pen. But the inconvenient writing tool doesn’t stop him. Words pour out of him. He loves it when that happens.
After two verses and a chorus, he stares at his phone, amazed at himself. “Where the hell did that come from?”
He shrugs it off. He’s in no position to dismiss lyrics. Especially when they turn out good. After all, it’s probably just that his acting skills are getting better, thanks to that hell of a madhouse
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This chapter was one of my favorites to write. We get to know Reese a bit better in this one. Please let me know what you think. Thank you for reading!