Week One
52 Storeys
She'd never claim to be a numbers person. Math wasn't her strong suit. But despite that, she knew she had more than anyone else. More followers. More fame. More importance. And from Madison's lofty perch, she knew those numbers were about to increase ten-fold.
This all started more than 25 years ago, back when Madison Light was known by her birth name, "Melissa Lowenstein." She'd sung a note-perfect rendition of "Part of Your World" from The Little Mermaid to Suzie whatever-her-name-was during recess. Suzie responded with praise, and from that day on, Madison was addicted. Her parents enrolled her in singing lessons, acting classes, and dance schools. Next came the parts in school plays: Ophelia, Annie, and Maria.
Ovations. Flowers. Clippings in the town newspaper complimenting the "choices" she took in each role. This was followed closely by an appearance in a local television commercial for Manny's Muffler Shop in which she'd absolutely crushed the role of "Teenage Girl #2." Like a call to prayer, everyone in the Lowenstein household had to stop what they were doing and gawk in silence whenever the commercial came on.
More auditions. More headshots. A name change. A boob job. And suddenly, Madison Light was about to conquer the world. She'd managed to score a starring role in a Saturday morning kid's show, which led to a country-wide concert tour. Then an international tour. This, of course, was followed by a conveniently crafted romance with another rising star - whom she'd only meet up with for photo opportunities while leaving fashionable restaurants.
Paparazzi chased her car. Articles were written about her diet tips. Facebook pages were created to worship her. She had to install cameras and a 24-hour security detail at her home in Montecito to keep out stalkers. She made a ton of money, but never paid for anything.
Every single morning, before she put her blue-eyed contacts in, before she had a sip of espresso from her specifically-designed in-wall Miele machine, she'd grab her phone and look at her number of followers. For awhile, she'd flip out if the number dropped between days. Then, she'd flip out if the number of new daily followers was below her average. Now, calls would be made to publicists, managers, and agents if - God forbid - Selena Gomez or Taylor Swift's follower numbers got close to hers.
---
She'd arrived in New York a week ago when she'd finished publicity for her latest romantic comedy, and early estimates were predicting it would open at number one. But despite all this success, something was nagging her. Something that she couldn't shake. This horrible notion that, when all was said and done, she had no where to go. She had nothing left to conquer. Politics? No, they take too much of a look into your private life. Sports? No, too risky. She didn't want to end up on some trashy website with a black eye because a basketball hit her in the face.
It took a few days of serious consideration before she came to a realization. A solution. The next step in her career would be her greatest. It would immortalize her. They'd speak of her forever. She'd join the likes of Marilyn Monroe, Princess Di, and, if she was going to be honest, Jesus Christ.
She had to die.
The theme song to Fame said it best, "I want to live forever." And goddamn it, she was going to live forever, even if it killed her. Plus, her death just before the opening of her movie would absolutely guarantee it would open at number one. The movie studio should build her a statue.
---
She'd counted each of the 52 floors up to the roof as the elevator bell ticked them off. Each ring brought her closer to legend. She'd chosen this particular building for several reasons:
- It wasn't on a crowded street, so the risk of accidentally killing someone - beside herself - on her way down was minimal.
- The sidewalk was recently redone, so the inevitable pictures of her demise would look clean and sophisticated without the decades-old gum that plagues most Manhattan sidewalks.
- You couldn't beat the view.
She'd determined that flinging herself off the top of a building was the most dramatic way to go. Overdoses were so typical and quickly going out of fashion. Wrist cutting was almost Elizabethan. Drowning too uncomfortable. And hanging was too barbaric. Suicide by jumping just felt right. After all, she'd always wanted to go skydiving.
Then, of course, there was the topic of a suicide note. She'd gone back and forth on it, but ultimately decided not to leave one. Less is more, right? Leave them guessing. She'd probably get an extra few days of news coverage out of it. First, of course, they'd look for one. Then they'd spend a considerable amount of time asking why; talking to her third tier "friends" about how they'd seen signs all along. But ultimately, it would be inconclusive and this unknowingness would help fuel her legend.
Madison sat on the side of the building with her feet dangling over the edge, her green dress (specifically chosen because it went so well with blood red) flapped in the updrafts. She stared out over the city and the millions of people pulsing around. She wondered how long it would take for the news agencies to pick up word of her death. How many phones would vibrate in unison as the words "Madison Light has died" crossed their screens. She wished she could be around to see it.
52 storeys on top of the world with an immeasurable audience in front of her, and a feeling crept over her - she'd never felt so alone. Madison took out her phone, opened her Instagram app and took a look at how many followers she had and smiled. She clutched the phone, looked over the abyss, and let go.
