I invite the press to see us after she finally dies. They all come, of course they come. What a story! This is the sort of story for which they exist. They crowd together into the hotel room, chattering excitedly like fat-cheeked children gathering at the zoo to see the lion feeding. The great beast emerges and it tears at the bloody meat, rips flesh from the bone. The king roars and tosses its shaggy golden head. The lion rules. And is forever inside his cage.
They take pictures. The flashes snap at me, like lightning in an empty sky. They watch as I attempt to explain it all, and I see nothing awake in their eyes but dead greed. I show them, I tell them. I lead them beneath the cross from which hangs the famous corpse. I fuck it for them and I can feel the searing glare of the flashbulbs on my grotesque form. I feel as though I am performing for them, that I am embarrassing myself for their amusement. I feel cheap, all the sacraments debased by exposure to this harsh light. Is this then what it is like to be famous?
Their attention is narcotic. I cannot stop now, I am feeding off their interest.
The police are eventually contacted. Of course they do not understand, they want to punish me, put me in jail. There is to be a trial. I welcome it. Alone in the cell I shiver, the need to be seen running through me like a virus. And then they bring me out into the chaos of the courtroom and all eyes turn to me. The world turns to me. It is power and flattery and satisfaction and I understand her. I have eaten her fame and now it is pouring from my eyes and mouth.
They interview me on all the TV programs, they put me in all the papers. They offer me a book deal. I can taste the fame in the back of my throat and though it repulses me I cannot but swallow.