A Golden Memory

“The feelings you had about your life and dreams aren’t collapsing but evolving into a product that better aligns with you”

Path of Exidus - Chapter 2: A Golden Memory

It was Midnight. The apartment was hot as hell, the living room lit by one flickering ceiling light and the glow of Eli’s cracked iPhone screen.

We didn’t have a tripod, so we stacked ramen boxes and duct-taped the phone to the wall. High budget. Real professional stuff.

I had eyeliner under one eye, glitter on one cheek, and a makeshift cloak made out of our bedsheet.

Eli sat cross-legged on the floor, holding a bag of popcorn in one hand and my dignity in the other.

“You kinda look like Jojo Siwa with all that glitter.”

“Silence.” I spout, trying to get some glitter out my nails.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, giving me the kind of look people usually reserve for a squirrel trying to cross the freeway on stilts.

“This,” I said, swishing my cloak dramatically, “is not just an audition. It’s a declaration of war. On mediocrity.”

“It’s for a background voice role in a fantasy anime,” he deadpanned. “The guy dies in episode one.”

“Exactly,” I replied. “That means I have less than 30 seconds to make the world fall in love with me. Now hit record, Spielberg.”

He didn’t even argue this time. He just sighed and mumbled, “Recording…”

And I went off.

“You think the shadows fear you?” I growled, pointing a spatula like it was a cursed blade.

“I was born in them. Raised by silence. Trained by assassins who spoke only in riddles.”

Eli choked on his popcorn midline. “That’s literally from Shadow Reign: Crimson Tide.”

“Borrowed,” I snapped. “It’s called homage. Quentin Tarantino made a career out of it.”

“You’re not Tarantino.”

“Not yet.”

I spun dramatically, too dramatically, and knocked over our only lamp. It hit the floor with the grace of a dying fish.

Eli stared at me. “That was Mom’s only working lamp.”

“Correction: was. Now it’s a prop that died for art.”

He was going to kill me. But also… he was laughing. I could hear it, even through the judgment.

I kept going.

Voice shaking. Eyes wide. Knees slightly bent like I was about to drop the greatest line in cinematic history.

“I am the storm,” I whispered.

Then added, “Also, the umbrella.”

Because why not? It sounded cool in my head.

And when I collapsed to the floor in a final, overly dramatic death pose, spatula outstretched like it was the sword of a fallen hero, I looked up and said, dead serious:

“If this doesn’t book me the gig, they don’t deserve me.”

Eli threw popcorn at me.

“You’re insane,” he said.

I grinned. “No. I’m committed.”

He shook his head, but I saw it, the smile. He thought I was an idiot. But a lovable one.

“You always talk like you’re already famous,” he mumbled, shutting the camera off.

“I’m just preparing the world for the inevitable,” I told him.

“You’re delusional.”

“Delusion is just early success,” I said, smirking like I believed it.

And for a second, maybe I did.