I Only Hate You.

Crime and punishment; a staple in civilized living. Those that commit a crime are dealt a just punishment. Be it swift and with mercy, or firm and hefty; crime is met with justice no matter the cost. The soiled ilk of France, the lowest of degenerates rot their time away in the galleys of the once beautiful land. Day after day, year after year, the criminal souls that fill the galleys toil away at menial labor as penance for their crimes. None such criminal was more deserving than the thief and runaway Jean Valjean. A man imprisoned for several years for the crime of robbing a baker, and the continued crime of attempting to flee is capture.

Yet today, the thief is to be set free. Allowed to run free among the civilized and conducted members of--

"CUT!" The voice cut over everything in a shrill scream; a scream that demanded attention.

Dozens of men and women came to an sudden halt when the woman's voice came over the narrating voice to the scene. 'Criminals' and 'guards' alike looked down from the rafters of the 'galleys' they were tending too. It was only the first scene of the movie -Les Miserables- and yet someone had already called cut not two minutes in. Eyes shifted to the director at the end of the dock they were shooting the movie on, only to see that he had his face buried in his palms. If the director hadn't called cut...

Voices started to mewl over in the back; actors and stagehands alike. However, a few eyes had already set on the one who called the to the scene. A sharp dressed person in a starch blue petticoat decorated in glittering medals and fine kept ribbons; their silver hair shimmering against the light and capturing specks of the sea air in its otherwise silky wave. One of the stagehands scampered up to them cautiously, taking the most nervous look one could imagine up to look the woman in the eyes. "M-M-Miss Trixie...? Um, only the director is allowed to call... Cut..." the stagehand's resolve fizzled into nothing with every word he said after their eyes met.

Trixie Lulamoon; a more imposing presence than the director and producers put together. Somehow dressing like the Inspector Javert only aided in the overall threatening energy she exhumed. Casually, she brushed off the stagehand with a wave of her hand and a proud beeline strut right for the director. Even over the muddled chatter of the crowds, Trixie's words rang far above any of them while she went towards her boss. "A director is to call cut when the order of the play is disrupted...!" As if talking to the stagehand that approached her, Trixie spoke with an authority.

Passing by one of the newbie actors still looking over their script, Trixie snatched the papers from them with a growl at them when it seemed they were about to protest; silencing the actor in the process. She quickly flipped through the pages while fluidly making her way through the throng of actors and actresses, still voicing her grievances without missing a beat. "And when the director allows a clear disruption to the show slip by, it falls to the star to pick up their slack...!"

With a flap of the script, Trixie waved the pages before the director's face the moment she was in reach of him. Slowly he withdrew his hand from his face with a tired sigh, waiting for Trixie to tell him just what he missed. "On page thirteen, the narration drags on for more then half a page; while the notes to the cameraman dictate that the scene 'roll over all the starving faces of the prisoners'." Trixie pointed out the page as she waved the script right in the director's face.

"Yes, Trixie. Is that a problem? We were running the scene exactly until you--"

"Until I saved your entire filming career," Trixie interjected, "For what could be a minute of screen time, the camera is not on the focal-point of your entire film, nor is the narration involving the key character."

"Trixie, in the narration it explicitly says Jean Valjean. He's the key character in this whole film," The director tried to reason.

"Oh please. No one will see your movie to watch a raggedy old man fumbling about for several scenes..."

"But that's how the play was written, Trixie..." the director found his face in his hands again.

"Yes-yes, I know. I read the book, of course. All in my effort to absorb my character. That's why I believe the cunning Javert would make for a much better focus," a few whispers came from the surrounding cast when Trixie made her suggestion, "Besides... All the world will be waiting on fated breath for moi to appear on screen. Why keep them waiting?"

"But, Trixie, the script's already written! If you had a problem with it--"

"The idea had only come to me now," Trixie dismissed the director with a wave as she turned and headed back to her spot on that 'galleys', "A rewrite to the script should take you no more then a night if you put your mind to it. Even a simpleton can pull that off. In the meantime, while we still have daylight, we best at least perform one musical number to make this day not a total waste."

While the director growled to himself, wringing out one of his own scripts with gritted teeth; Trixie clapped her hands together and drew in everyone's attention as she swept through the throngs of them. "Alright, alright, alright! Come now, everyone! From the top, let's do 'Look Down'."

For a moment, everyone just exchanged confused looks and worried glances to the director, hoping for directions from him. When no one struck up the song at her behest, Trixie grimaced and balled her hands to a fist before screaming at them, sparks of lightning erupting behind her in bright flashes of red and white. "I said sing 'Look Down'!"

Right on cue, every single actor on set jumped to action and ran the scene as if directed by the director himself. Lines of 'criminals' started heaving back massive ropes, dragging in a massive green screen prop that would later be edited to look like a boat, 'guards' patrolled overhead, and everyone started to sing the depressing song; much to Trixie's clear enjoyment. Returning to where she once stood before she saved the movie, a few eyes looked up at her amidst their singing. Vaguely, she could hear a few people singing an oft lyric as "Don't look her in the eye".

That worked just fine for her, and she loved it. People were either enthralled by her greatness, or shaken by power. Either way, she had them all wrapped around her finger.

My name is Trixie Lulamoon Esquire the First. Normally you hear of people not wanting to bore others with the details of their life. But in all honesty, your dull lives could only benefit from hearing the immaculate tale of yours truly. If you're truly lucky, perhaps it will rub off on you and you will be all the better for it. As I wrote in my best selling book -"I'm Trixie, You're Not, Let's Talk About It"- anyone is capable of greatness... Provided they have talent, good looks, and a winning attitude. Lucky for Trixie, I was born with all three. I'm an actress, a singer, a writer, and I'm sinfully attractive. How many other stars can boast that they have an entire generation stroking themselves to self-indulgent stories written by them in honor of me?

Many. But, not the point. I -The Great and Powerful Trixie- only mean to say that I am what some would call a "super star". Ever since that day in the Podunk town... I grew better... I honed my talents past greatness and beyond perfection. In time, the world loved me! I was on every street corner in Manehattan; from bay to bay. As I recall, it was my one woman show of "Les Miserables" that truly skyrocketed me to stardom. Oh, yes... Every role played by Trixie and Trixie alone. True, I had to expend a large quantity of magic to create astral projections of myself en masse... And the ordeal had me held up in a hospital for a few days after... But, the fruits of my labor bore right away.

Job offers came flowing in like water from a broken dam. Contract after contract. Day after day, I grew my fame until I reached the point I reside at now. Absolute fame and recognition. I can not be denied by anyone; I am truly the greatest and most divine creature in the world. This I have no doubt about... No doubt at all.

In my mind, I have no qualms. I mean... What would Trixie have to be irked over? She's rich, she lives in a high-rise abode, has adoring fans, boasts the most beautiful body nature could ever provide... Trixie's life is all but perfect. What could be wrong?

...I hate her. She ruins all of this for me! I cannot enjoy any of this because of her! All Trixie can see is her smug, holier-than-thou face whenever she closes her eyes! She shamed me! Whenever I sleep, I hear that-that-that... That voice! HER voice. Her condescending, self-important voice! The Great and Powerful Trixie has made many an enemy in her time here in Manehattan; competitive performers, uppity executives, slandering writers, creeping fans... But none of them I could ever bring myself to hate. I pity them because they will never measure up to the glory that is I; Trixie Lulamoon.

But her... That purple haired... Cretin. With her... Ugh. I hate her! I can only bring myself to hate her! I hate her! I hate everything about her! How her hair's so flat that it captures moonlight in it like the stream's surface. How she holds herself up as if she were so important; always so modest and picturesque. The way her nose wrinkles around the nostrils when she has something to say that she thinks is so obvious. She... Disgusts me... I hate her. I hate her with all of my being.

As much as Trixie had hoped for the day of filming not to go to waste, the cast and crew were only able to film the first full musical number and a handful of establishing shots for filler. By the time the shoot had wrapped up, the sun had barely moved noticeably in the sky. The day was still young, beating down on the set and crew like the sweltering summer it was. Distressed, confused, and lost with his own work, the director called for everyone to vacate the shooting until tomorrow; when he would hopefully have the rewrites to the script. Most if not all the crew besides Trixie remained on set. Most of the costumes were cut to resemble shabby prisoner clothes, so the sea air brushing against their naked legs and open pockets in their clothes felt better then just returning to some stuffy craft hall or trailer. Trixie on the other hand dismissed herself quietly from the relaxing cast and adjourned herself to her private trailer.

From the outside, one could tell the extensive differences Trixie had done to her trailer when making her order for one. The coloring of the trailer was a bright yellow only broken up by purple-ish hearts and crescent moons; while the roof was an apple red coating. When some asked about why she wanted it to look that way, Trixie would only tell them it was a symbol to her. The interior was nothing to scoff at, however. Fur carpeting dyed a misty blue with accents of white and purple, a leather love seat Trixie was known to 'drama-zone' on, a glass coffee table adorned with a fishbowl absent of fish but filled with cut gems, and a sixty-inch curved television built into the wall; just to name the basic essentials of her traveling home-away-from-home.

A small click came to the inside of the trailer as its owner turned her key to the door. Though the door slid open without a sound, it closed with a bang behind Trixie when she slammed it shut. Not a word was said -but who would a word be given to anyway?- and Trixie flopped down onto her couch. Right at the moment her head fell back and her silver hair draped over the lip of her love seat, a cooling sensation touched to the back of her neck and an ease filled her. A breathy sigh parted from her curled lips and she stretched out her long legs until they draped over the other end of the couch. Oh, yes... That child was right about keeping the ice-pack inside my pillow. So soothing after a long day of dealing with incompetence. Trixie's thoughts drifted inside her head.

A look of peace came to her and she could feel the twisted knots in her breast sooth themselves away. Her chest was finally able to breath; but only just as she felt the constricting feeling of her costume against it when she tried to take a deep breath in. Quickly but calmly so as not to rouse her own temper, Trixie allowed her fingers to glide up her form and undo each button of her petticoat until finally all the air in the world filled her lungs. Two perfect globes only made more alluring by the white undershirt she wore were finally able to spring to their full, unrestrained freedom. Trixie's fingers fell to her midriff, running small circles against her flat belly while she thought. Many thoughts filled her head when she would lay down in her trailer.

Jobs, her next public appearance, who was creeping up on the list of hottest hotties list, what her friends were up to, if she needed to exercise at all -not a chance-, who was the biggest power couple right now and how could she one-up them... All very important to her and took some time to consider. But, lately, another thought was corrupting her mind. Something was pushing its way more and more into her subconscious... And it sickened her.

Behind her on the armrest where her hair had draped over was a red cellular phone. It would never ring, nor did it ever buzz with reminder for her. Then again, Trixie never used reminders since her memory was already beyond photographic. But this phone never rang because it was her personal line; a line only her closest and most beloved people had access to. It was her phone to the outside world that was never tied up with pointless job requests and callbacks. Lazily, her freehand combed the arm of the chair to grab it. Yet, the moment her fingers touched against the cool plastic of it, she froze and a look came about her. Gone was the look of release and relaxation. Now she looked tentative... Unsure.

Just... Tap one, and let the phone ring, Trixie. Simple as that... But it wasn't that simple. Even when she lifted the phone, flipped it open and looked at the cold reflection of herself in the dark screen, she felt uncertain. She shut her eyes tight, thinking it might make the task easier. Her thumb went against the keypad and a low beep came from the phone. The speed-dial booted in and a series of beeps followed as the phone punched in the number for Trixie. The only real conformation Trixie received to tell her she called the right number was the robotic voice of her phone telling her the name of the one in her contacts. Trixie brought the phone to her ear as the tone started to sound...

Beeeeeeeeeeep...

Beeeeeeeeeeep...

Beeee--

A ruffle of sound came over the line and Trixie immediately felt better. Even when an awkward snort and grumble came in the background of the other line while the person fumbled with the phone, Trixie felt all the better from it. "Hrm... H-Hello?"

"Am I a good person?"

"...Trixie, it's three in the morning here..."