Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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******

Watching Gordon’s red taillights disappear down the dark street, Marvin turned to the girls. ”Alright, ladies,” he said. He stepped out of the car and held the door open for them. ”Lead the way into the fortress.”

Lindsay’s home was a beautiful, Spanish-style villa. It sat in a manicured environment surrounded by wealthy, quiet families. But Marvin knew the dark truth behind the stucco walls: the rent money for this villa was earned by a twelve-year-old from grueling advertising shoots. Her blood paid for the roof, the cars, and her own private school fees. Her parents contributed nothing but chaos, abuse, and debt.

”Come on, guys! Please come in!” Lindsay chirped. She bounded up the stone steps with frantic energy.

She unlocked and pushed open the front door, flipping on the entryway light switch.

The horrific reality of her life bathed in harsh light.

Chaotic piles of empty green and brown alcohol bottles littered the corners of the expensive living room. Past the archway into the kitchen, the reality grew worse. Empty vodka and gin bottles cluttered the granite countertops. Some still held an inch of amber liquor. The stale, sour stench of cheap wine and old cigarettes choked the entire first floor.

Living daily in such a depressive environment, it was obvious to Marvin why Lindsay would become addicted to alcohol and drugs. Her nervous system marinated in chaos and substance abuse; self-medication offered the only logical escape from this hell.

Lindsay, however, showed no surprise. It was her daily normal.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t break down. Instead, her broken psychology deployed its primary defense mechanism: severe dissociation wrapped in a people-pleasing performance.

After leading everyone into the foyer, Lindsay forced a smile onto her face.

”Please, totally ignore the first floor! This is not my turf. My parents had a... party,” she lied smoothly, her voice too loud and bright. ”Make yourselves at home! I’ll run to the kitchen and grab sodas and junk food from the pantry.”

Her demeanor frantically inflated the energy in the room. She feared if her friends saw how ugly her reality was, they would walk out the door, abandoning her to the silence.

Lindsay scurried away to the kitchen. She carefully and habitually stepped over an empty wine bottle on the carpet. Marvin walked into the dead center of the living room.

The super sense and magic flared, reading the stagnant, toxic emotional energy clinging to the imported wallpaper. The house smelled of stale cigarette smoke and the manic energy of expensive vodka. Underneath that, Marvin sensed and saw the drugs hidden throughout the master bedroom.

Beyoncé walked up and stood beside him. She crossed her arms over her chest. Her sharp brown eyes scanned the messy room with burning disapproval.

”This house feels... suffocatingly cold, Marvin,” Beyoncé whispered. She ensured her voice didn’t carry into the kitchen, where Lindsay banged cabinet doors. ”And I don’t mean the air conditioning. It feels completely empty. Even when people are obviously living and drinking in it.”

”It is a fragile house built on shifting, toxic sand, B,” Marvin replied. His voice hummed, dark and omniscient, vibrating deep in her chest. ”Her parents are greedy parasites. They feed off her childhood success to fund this lifestyle. She is the only thing holding the roof up from collapsing on all of them.”

Beyoncé’s jaw tightened. Protective fury ignited in her eyes.

Her own trauma triggered, but it didn’t incapacitate her; it made her angry. Beyoncé’s father operated as a ruthless taskmaster who ran her career like a boot camp. He demanded perfection and tied his affection to her vocal performances. But as flawed as Mathew was, he built an empire *for* her. He very least protected her from the outside world, even as he exhausted her on the inside.

Looking at this squalor, Beyoncé realized Lindsay’s parents weren’t building an empire for their daughter. They bled her dry to buy liquor. The blatant exploitation sickened Beyoncé to her core.

While Beyoncé and Marvin analyzed the room, Jessica and Dorothy provided the psychological counter-weight Lindsay needed.

They walked in behind them, deliberately ignoring the mess. They didn’t gasp. They didn’t look at each other with pity. They walked past the bottles and collapsed onto the white sectional sofa, bringing a sense of casual normalcy to the abnormal space.

”So,” Jessica smirked. She kicked her shoes off and tucked her bare legs under her, completely at ease. ”What is the official ruling on the blonde New York girl from the red carpet, Marvin? Are we officially accepting this Scarlett girl into the group, or do I need to prepare for a turf war?”

Marvin chuckled, appreciating Jessica’s tactic to change the emotional gravity of the room. He turned to face the three girls gathered on the couch.

”Scarlett is a talented, ambitious actress,” Marvin stated diplomatically. He kept his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed. ”She is a friend. And she is irrelevant to the dynamic that exists in this room tonight.”

Beyoncé raised a skeptical, arched eyebrow. She leaned against the doorframe, slipping perfectly into the banter. ”You walked a global red carpet with her, Shakespeare. The entire planet saw the flashbulbs. You don’t just casually do that for a ’friend’ unless you are deliberately signaling something.”

Before Marvin could dismantle Beyoncé’s accurate accusation, Lindsay bounded back into the living room.

Her thin arms carried two-liter soda bottles, crinkling bags of potato chips, and a glass bowl of pretzels. She dumped the hoard of sugar and salt onto the coffee table with a triumphant grin.

Seeing Jessica and Dorothy lounging comfortably on her couch, treating her toxic house like normal, offered a psychological relief for Lindsay. Her plastic smile melted into something genuine.

”Let’s go straight up to my room!” Lindsay ordered. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the first floor. ”It smells stale down here.”

With that, she dragged the laughing group up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. It was cleaner and smelled of sweet vanilla perfume.

The quiet second floor held three rooms, including a shared room for Lindsay’s siblings, and her own private bedroom. Her toxic parents lived in the master bedroom downstairs, physically and emotionally segregating themselves from the children they exploited.

”Ta-da! This is my room, please come in!” Lindsay sang out happily. She kicked the door open and carried the snacks over to a small wooden table.

Lindsay’s bedroom was small, but the messy decoration inside felt warm, personal, and unapologetically teenage. A wooden desk, a twin bed covered in a mountain of blankets, a white cabinet, a rolling chair, and stuffed dolls filled the space. It functioned as a sanctuary—the only space in the world that belonged to her.

On Lindsay’s bed, a plush *Po* the Kung Fu Panda doll rested proudly on the pillows.

Ever since his debut novel became a cultural phenomenon, the officially licensed *Kung Fu Panda* merchandise had sold well across America. Licensing the cheap merchandise alone—the plushies, lunchboxes, and plastic action figures—generated hundreds of thousands of dollars in passive royalty income for Marvin and the Zenith Trust.

But looking at the plushie now, Marvin didn’t see a royalty check. He saw a frightened child clutching his art for psychological safety. ”I sleep with Po in my arms every day,” Lindsay declared proudly, noticing his gaze.

She threw herself onto the messy bed, picked up the fat Po plushy, and rolled around on the mattress. She hugged it tight to her chest like a shield.

”Ahem!”

Dorothy coughed. Trying to remind the hyperactive Lindsay she was acting slightly unhinged in front of a boy. But when Dorothy saw Marvin turning his attention to the wooden desk on the other side of the room, she stopped coughing. She didn’t say a warning word.

Marvin studied a thick, open spiral notebook resting on the desk. Dense, handwritten text filled the pages, bordered by detailed pencil illustrations in the margins. It was written in Lindsay’s messy, looping handwriting.

”Lindsay,” Marvin purred, pointing a finger to the desk. ”Are you secretly writing a novel as well? Can I have a look at your manuscript?”

Lindsay froze on the bed.

Her psychological reaction flared immediately and violently. She let out a panicked scream, jumped up from the mattress, and rushed across the room to the desk. She slammed the notebook shut and hid it behind her back.

”No! No, you cannot read it!” Lindsay panted, her face burning red, her breathing shallow. ”This is not a novel! It is just... it is just something stupid I wrote in my free time!”

Her panic stemmed from trauma. Her parents constantly violated her boundaries, eventually going so far as to sell her private rehab diaries to the press in the original timeline. The notebook served as her innermost sanctuary.

The thought of it being exposed terrified her.

Lindsay’s defensive movements proved fast for a twelve-year-old. But tragically for her, she harbored spies in her ranks.

Jessica, operating entirely on playful instinct, had stealthily walked behind Lindsay during the commotion. With a lightning-fast motion, she snatched the notebook right out from behind Lindsay’s back.

”Ah——! Give it back!” Lindsay screamed in horror. She lunged forward, trying to grab it back.

”Dorothy! Beyoncé! Come and help me restrain the target!” Jessica yelled. She laughed and held the notebook high above her head, easily dodging Lindsay’s grasping hands.

Jessica wasn’t being cruel; she pulled Lindsay out of her trauma response by turning the violation into a game. She treated Lindsay like a normal twelve-year-old sister, not a fragile glass doll.

”I’m coming in hot!” Beyoncé laughed, catching onto Jessica’s strategy instantly. She tackled Lindsay safely onto the soft mattress.

The four girls started to wrestle on the bed.

Flying pillows and tangled limbs created a chaotic scene. Marvin crossed his arms, leaned against the doorframe, and watched with relish. It was an aesthetically beautiful moment, but more importantly, it was healing.

A few minutes later, Lindsay surrendered.

The taller, much stronger, long-legged Dorothy pinned her down. Lindsay’s face flushed bright red, and she panted heavily, unable to break the hold. The terrified panic vanished, replaced by breathless laughter.

Jessica, looking triumphant, walked back to the bedside. She opened the notebook, cleared her throat, and offered a wicked smile.

”Alright, everyone settle down. Let’s read the great American novel written by Miss Lindsay Lohan.”

Ignoring Lindsay’s muffled screams of protest, Jessica began to read aloud: ”In 1992, the United States Navy’s classified sonar system detected a lone whale with a strange sound in the freezing northern waters of the Pacific Ocean.”

Jessica paused. Her playful smirk faded, intrigued by the melancholic prose. She continued reading, her voice softening.

”Some romantic people poetically call the deep sounds made by whales ’whale songs,’ which is how whales communicate with each other across the dark ocean. The vocal frequency of ordinary whales is generally between 15 Hertz and 40 Hertz. But the vocal frequency of this lone whale is exactly 52 Hertz. Hence the scientific name: The 52-Hertz Whale.”

Beyoncé stopped wrestling Lindsay and sat up slowly. Her brown eyes widened as she listened to the sad, beautiful words. She recognized the ache underneath the ink.

”The 52-Hertz whale is only over twenty years old,” Jessica read softly, the room growing quiet. ”For more than twenty agonizing years, the 52-Hertz whale has never been seen swimming with other whales. It swims alone in the endless ocean.”

”Because it is the only whale in the world that sings at this frequency, the other normal whales cannot understand or even hear the desperate sound it makes.”

”It is, scientifically, the loneliest whale in the world.”

Jessica swallowed hard. The chaotic atmosphere in the bedroom shifted. She turned the page, her eyes scanning the next paragraph before she spoke.

”My name is Catherine. I am 11 years old.”

”Sometimes, I sit in my big, empty house and I feel like my entire life is like that 52-Hertz whale. I am swimming alone in a dark sea. No one wants to listen to what I am saying. No one wants to know what I need to survive...”

”Until one day... I accidentally met a boy named Marr...”

Jessica’s voice hitched. She looked up from the notebook. Her dark eyes locked onto Marvin, who stood perfectly still by the door. She looked back down at the page.

”He is very good at telling stories. And they are original, magical stories. They are exciting, even more exciting than those best-selling books sold in the big bookstores...”

”He is willing to sit down and listen to me. Even if what I say are just things that only naive, stupid kids like to hear, and are very stupid... he is still willing to listen to me speak... nonstop...”

”The day he admitted out loud that we were good friends... I was truly happy for the first time in my life...”

The messy bedroom fell quiet. Dorothy and Lindsay stopped wrestling. Dorothy released her hold, and the two girls hugged each other, lying still on the bed. Jessica and Beyoncé leaned against the wooden headboard, reading the rest of the page slowly together.

*****

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So if you’ve been thinking about joining, now’s the perfect time. Jump in, invite your friends, and help unlock those extra Chapters faster!

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