THE MODEL

Excerpt:

waying down the catwalk like she’s done so many times before in her young life, the photographers’ flashes this time rain down on her like lethal, venomously spitting sniper fire. zoe’s currently presenting the fifth outfit of alexander mcQueens’ superb spring / summer 2006 collection when it all of a sudden dawns on her, that she isn’t at all ready to die. her long stunning legs bend and everything turns black, as she tumbles down the platform she’s thus far walked herself to stardom on. a unified gasp runs through the audience. the soundtrack of mcQueens’ show, a bizarre techno-punk number by one of his latest lovers, abruptly cuts off as if backstage somebody’s head has just been smashed up against the mixing table’s volume control. people are rushing round all over the place. another storm of lightning radiates from the surrounding cameras and strikes even the remotest corners of the chic parisian art deco venue, the proud host of tonight’s show. behind zoe’s closed eyelids it all starts to slowly fade away. “where’s the fucking ambulance?”, she hears somebody screaming. the voice is distorted and hardly distinguishable from the white noise which seems to be increasingly coming from miles away from her, perhaps even centuries. she grasps some last traces of panic until there’s only just absolute silence. has this been it?

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