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His Liberating Flame

By Ashley Thompson

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Cold sweat broke out on Noble’s skin, and nausea churned his insides until he felt sick enough to vomit. He sat up in bed. A long groan carried through his exhale. The fine silk sheets slowly fell from his bare, muscular torso and gathered around his washboard abs. Luminous moonlight streamed in from the tall-as-doors windows, brightening the master bedroom of his Tuscan mansion.

Beside him in his king-sized bed was his tempestuous girlfriend, Alyssa, an up-and-coming actress. Her luxurious strawberry-blonde hair was spread across the fluffy pillows, and she slept deeply. Not wishing to wake her, he carefully placed his legs over the side until his feet touched the carpet, his motions a little unsteady.

What time is it?

The slate light glowed on mahogany and oakwood furniture, detailed with brass knobs.

Where am I? Noble examined the immaculate room.

The stained-glass panel depicting the starry sky over a rolling ocean glowed with glimmers of cyan and cobalt blue. The pearly walls were like desert sand, picking up and reflecting the silvery light.

Out of the window, the familiar hills twinkling with the emanating lights of other mansions brought recognition.

Home.

A sudden swell of pain erupted in his stomach, and he convulsed. He slid a shaky hand through his enviable summer-brown hair, digging his fingers unnaturally hard against his scalp. He grunted and swore.

Alyssa made a soft stirring noise, and Noble looked over his shoulder at her. She blinked, her green eyes shrouded with the glaze of narcotics.

“Noble?” she whispered and then murmured something incoherent.

“Shhh, go back to sleep,” Noble said and then assured, “I’m here.”

She reached for him, lightly brushing her fingers against his side. He caught her hand and placed it gently back on the mattress. She shut her eyes again, seemingly satisfied once she touched his skin. He wondered if she thought her sudden reappearance in his life would amend their last breakup. He hoped not.

A sickening feeling ascended and then ebbed in his stomach again like the rhythmic movements of waves lapping against a shore. He clutched his stomach responsively.

What did she give me last night?

He couldn’t remember. His mind reverberated with rapid thoughts like a hollow ball ping-ponging, causing vibrational pain near his temples. He had been stoned out of his mind the night before. Whatever concoction Alyssa had mustered was “new” and supposed to help ease his tension.

It did much more than promised. The drugs had knocked him out cold!
One minute they were deliriously wrapped up in each other’s arms in his bed, and the next minute, he had been sucked into the twilight zone.

As he fought another oncoming wave of nausea, he wondered if Alyssa’s addiction would eventually become fatal.

He had lost a coworker, Nick, earlier in the year to an overdose on sedatives. Nick had drowned in his sauna tub. He was only twenty-two. Attending Nick’s funeral was a sobering affair. After the funeral, Noble spoke with Alyssa about seeking help for her addiction. He was worried for her physical safety and mental sanity, but she saw his suggestion as a condescending accusation. She never sought aid.

For a few months he and Alyssa had lived it up, going to every party, making social appearances, being interviewed in gossip-riddled tabloids, and even doing some television commercials together. Alyssa was invited to join some of the female models who were paired with him for a runway, and she soaked it up. She enjoyed the wardrobe changes, the constant flashing lights, and the googling eyes of onlookers. It was fun. It was wild. It was hot. They were both on fire, but it was becoming painfully obvious to Noble they would burn each other to the ground if they stayed together.

Their disagreements started off innocent enough, like most couples, but Alyssa became obsessive and tried to govern things she had no business controlling. During their social exposure, she would occasionally interrupt him while he was speaking on camera to answer a question that was directed at him. She began imputing her opinion on his wardrobe, especially when they went to gatherings as a couple—she wanted them to match or for him to wear a specific outfit. At first it was cute, then it was permissible, finally, it became annoying. She started critiquing his diet, although hers was erratic and included much intermittent fasting and downloads of drugs that helped her to curb her appetite and keep her lithe figure.

She was quickly becoming like an invasive moss over his life, spreading her opinions. She would stay at his place for days before going home. She began rearranging his furniture to please her own tastes. They had never agreed to live together, so Noble wasn’t sure why she thought this was acceptable. Eventually, she even began giving suggestions on what contracts and offers he should enter as if she were his wife.

He hated feeling controlled—his agent had enough control of his life, and he certainly didn’t want it from his girlfriend. Since adolescence it had been a sore spot for him and the source of uncharacteristic rage. It began with his father, whom he hadn’t spoken to in years. Noble accused Alyssa of being controlling and she accused him of being proud.

As their relationship progressed, so did the aggression between them. They would fight and break up and then get back together again. It was a vicious cycle. Although they were terrible for each other, Alyssa always became desperate when Noble brought out obvious discrepancies in their relationship and asked for distance.

Noble pressed his fists against his temple and tried to shake off the dense fog that clouded his thoughts.

He had come home under a lot of stress from his shrewd agent who had booked him out for the next month. The agenda was filled with five or more jobs a day, from sunrise to sunset with no weekends off. It was so overwhelmingly busy, Noble felt it was more like slave labor than a career.

The minute Noble had walked into Anthony’s office after reviewing his schedule, the agent had slickly risen from his lacquered redwood table and offered him a glass of scotch. Classic move—liquor and a smile before the kill.

His olive tanned skin, and black pepper hair with salty grays at the temples gave him a sophisticated, wolverine appearance.

"You can't be serious about this schedule," Noble had said, throwing the paper onto Anthony's pristine desk.

"Noble." Anthony's voice had that practiced paternal warmth that had once fooled him. "This is the opportunity we've been waiting for. Paris, Spain, Greece—"
A trace of a knowing smug lifted the corner of his thin lips. Noble had come to know this was Anthony’s non-verbal way of telling him that he was the one really in charge of his life, and Noble had no real ultimate say in matters—regardless of how advantageous Anthony painted his decisions. Yet, Anthony’s smiles never reached his eyes.

They had gotten into a huge quarrel full of explicit cussing until Noble finally stormed out of the room breathing threats that he wouldn’t put up with Anthony for much longer. Noble could still hear Anthony’s parting words, “One day you’ll wake up and thank me for everything you’ve become.”

Noble gritted his teeth thinking of all the international traveling that would be his life for the next four weeks.

How did Anthony expect him to work multiple shows a day for weeks, with no weekend breaks? All the international travel, time changes, jet lag and his long overdue, unspent vacation hours weren’t adding up to a pleasant trip. He imagined all the alcohol he would surely gulp down, and the pills he would pop, just to keep from imploding.

Noble swore again under his breath.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

He wouldn’t do this anymore!

Noble hated what he had become.

He dreaded the ceaseless crowds full of screaming women that pierced his eardrums until he felt like sirens were going off in his brain. He was gorged on self-indulgence, materialism, and fame. It had rotted in his gut. He loathed the pretense that his life as a wealthy top model, with a gorgeous actress girlfriend, was a golden pedestal to be praised, when inside of him there slowly formed an insatiable hunger like a black hole longing for something he couldn’t identify—something that was existentially good and fulfilling, but unattainable as far as he was concerned.

He thought this life of stardom and copious self-pleasing would fulfill him. It was what he had passionately wanted. Well, for several years it had been, but now it was rapidly losing its appeal.

But what else was there?

This was the life he had broken with his past for. He had given up everything he’d known for this.

He stood, feeling wobbly at first, and made his way to the bathroom just in time for the drugs he had swallowed to come out in violent heaves. After it was over, the acidic taste of bile burned in the back of his throat. Sickened and feeling emptied, he slumped by the commode and didn’t rise until he felt strong enough.
Here he was, the fantasy of thousands of women and the state’s upcoming “most sexy man alive,” slumping by a commode after an ugly vomit.

A wry smile twisted his desired lips as he gave a self-deprecating chuckle.

If only my fans could see me now.

Eventually, he moseyed his way into the master kitchen, passing three of his redwood butler pantries and the opal and lapis lazuli stone bar counters that he had meticulously searched for and eventually had specially designed. The counters always reminded him of the starry constellations or reflective sunlight on the Pacific Ocean. Few people understood his inspiration for this particular design, even as they gaped at it in admiration. Unfortunately, his counters were cluttered with Alyssa’s things, so he could barely see the royal blue colors mingled with the flecks of white rainbow colors that shimmered in the opal.
He grabbed a glass of mineral water from his stainless-steel refrigerator and downed it. He turned on his coffee maker and stood by the tall glass-paneled windows facing east to catch the sunrise. They were twelve feet high and easily showed him the heavens as well as the earth below.

A rubicund dipping canyon was before him, but above him was the night sky. He looked up, hoping to see starlight, and a strange longing from his childhood rapped at his conscience.

The snowy mountains.

Wildlife under the aurora lights.

A deep sadness that had been building in him for nearly eighteen months resurfaced. He missed the way things were before his fame. He could barely see any stars due to the smog in Lost Angels and the eyesore city lights that never went out. He sighed and made some salted coffee. Suddenly cold, he turned on the heated flooring and slumped onto one of his many white, faux leather couches.
He couldn’t go through with this. Not this time. He couldn’t imagine doing a month’s worth of international runways, gigs, and parties in Europe. After six years of living at a rat-race pace with Anthony at the wheel, and no vacations, he felt on the edge of a mental breakdown.

The stardom and licentious living that he once craved so mightily, that he had torn away from his parents for, now left him wanting.

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