Lia reckons the milky-white crinkled patch of bare skin must be the size of her thumb by now.

She feels the familiar twitch as she rests neatly manicured hands on her one good set of audition clothes. She resists, knows she needs to kick the habit, especially in this line of work.

When are they going to call her in? Screams can be heard through the flimsy door, the girl before her clearly giving everything she’s got for the role. Lia can never know whether an excess of emotion pushes casting away or lures them in, like blood scented on the wind by a pack of predators.

_Shit!_

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She jerks her hand away from her scalp, clamping it firmly down with the other hand. When had she reached up and started picking away at it again? Must have been when she heard casting laugh at something the other girl must have said. How do other people make such good impressions on casting? Maybe, Lia thinks, you have to be born with kindness built into you, and all the other suckers who were loved less get really good at sad roles and don’t generate any laughter from casting, and we all know that laughter is the way to an audience’s heart, so even if I make it big as an actor the only legacy I’ll leave behind is that of sadness and-

A slim strip of skin rips free from her scalp.

Lia exhales sharply. She trains her eyes on the “Auditions in Progress” sign hung on the door as she rubs the newly torn sliver of herself between thumb and forefinger, feeling its creases and cracks. She brings it, breath held, in front of her face. Studies it. Paper-thin, translucent, and free. Free from her. Free to start anew, to dream big, to detach from the endless waiting and auditioning and wondering when it will be your turn, at last.

She raises her hand up to her scalp and searches for the all too familiar bald spot to assess the situation. Just making sure it hasn’t gotten bigger, she thinks.

It takes some weaving through and moving aside of hair, but recently it’s been getting easier to locate. Ah, there it is. Where the new strip of skin has been torn off there is a tenderness on the surface, its soft and pink underbelly now exposed. She gently dabs at it, feeling her way around its edges to find a lose seam and- there. Another corner, dried skin curling in on itself and just _asking _to be peeled.

She pulls out her phone and opens Instagram for something to do. Thumb scrolling, she lands on a younger actor announcing a job that she had also auditioned for.

She attacks. Thumb and forefinger swiftly picking, picking, picking. She readjusts her arm just so to find the optimum angle for the cleanest rip. She knows when to alternate between small flicks (to tease the edge) and firm plucking (to stress the sides). Always when she does this a searing sensation spreads across the patch, like an infernal itch in some unreachable place that is finally scratched. Behind the door she can hear the muffled sounds of approval from casting, laughter from the girl who came before. How long has she been in there, Lia thinks. Does that mean they’re really keen on her, Lia thinks. When will it be my turn when will someone finally see me, really, truly, see me and what I can-

_Lia, casting will see you now._

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No! Lia thinks. She runs her fingers through her hair, scattering bouncy locks across the bald patch. She’d managed to peel the new patch halfway off. She’ll have to come back for it after the audition is over, she thinks. But she knows exactly where it is, and she won’t leave it hanging there, suspended in limbo. No, she’ll give it the attention it deserves, even if it damages her. Even if it leaves a hideous gap for all to see, because maybe if she looks hard enough she’ll find the part of her that’s worthy of booking the role, and it would have been there all along trapped just under the skin, this stunning secret that will dazzle and entertain and find acceptance.

Or maybe, Lia thinks as she walks up to the door, this self-cannibalising needs to end, and something’s got to give.

She opens the door and steps inside.