The shower runs inside the bathroom. Droplets from the water hit the door as Carrie Underwood, wearing a red tank tunic dress.
Fans scream for her as she walks on the charcoal lit stage. Stepping up to the microphone, lit in lemonade pink she begins to sing with glittering tears underneath her eyes.
She walks to her vanity in her dressing room and dabs her face. She puts her hands over her temples and closes her eyes. In bed, she rests her elbow on the sheet and frowns.
On stage, she pulls the microphone stand back as the lemonade pink lights go off.
At her vanity, she takes off her diamond encrusted choker and plays with a strand of her hair.
Wearing sunglasses, she sits inside a SUV and watches people exit a restaurant at night. People fade as they walk on the sidewalk.
She begins to cry silver tears while sitting at her vanity. She leaves the venue, wearing a sequined minidress and sunglasses.
After closing the door on the SUV, she walks on the sidewalk, wearing her sunglasses.
On stage, her guitarist plays next to her as she sings. She puts her hand on his shoulder.
People fade as they rush past her on the sidewalk.
In bed, she moves the glass of wine across her cheek.
On stage, the lemonade pink light shines back on her as she finishes the song. At home, she continues to stand in the shower.
Carrie Underwood lies in bed, a glass of wine beside her. She gulps it down and fills another glass. A rapping on the bedroom door startles her. Her husband opens it and asks her if she’s okay. He sits on the bed and puts his arms around her but she shakes him off. “Everything is going to be okay,” he tells her.
He puts his hand on her wrist and she flinches. “It’s still sore,” she says, rubbing it, “Just please go.” He kisses her on the forehead and leaves the door ajar. She shakes her head and thinks of names she would be called, the domestic violence rumors written in the tabloids and the dismayed faces from her record label once they saw her face.
She reads the celebrity gossip sites online. No pictures of her injuries. She lets out a sigh of relief. On the way to the emergency room, she had shouted at her husband to call her publicist. She didn’t want anyone to know. The next morning, while she sits in the hospital bed, her doctor tells her she’s going to need extensive surgery.
“Oh god,” she says, biting on the gauze in her mouth, “Am I going to be okay? What kind of surgery?” She starts to cry and says that her career is over. Her husband sits next to her and tells her that right now, singing isn’t what important. “The doctor said you were lucky. A couple more steps and it could’ve been your brain,” He kisses her on the forehead and says he’s glad she’s all right. She had given everyone a huge scare. “My heart jumped in my throat as you fell,” he said to her, “but now you can heal.”
Tomorrow is the third surgery involved. She is so sick of going to the doctors and avoiding the public. Her husband tries to get her to go outside and walk in the backyard. However, she thinks of the paparazzi hiding somewhere and the steps to get onto the grass. She prefers to stay inside.
Director: N/A Year: 2018
This post contains affiliate links, which means I will receive a small commission from items purchased through them