Rumi

Twenty minutes later both women were in a heated argument, a practical screaming match as Bridget listed off the things Rumi has been doing.

noticeable drug use - easy, drugs helped her destress

sleeping around - what was wrong with that? Guys did it.

unexplained expenses - Rumi assumed she meant the abortion, that would always be a secret.

disappearing in the dead of night and being pictured on walks of shame - once again, something that shouldn’t matter so much. Bootycalls were essential with her lifestyle.

She tried to explain everything the best she could, but it only turned into more yelling. Bridget didn’t get it, nobody got it. The last few months had been something that Rumi refused to talk about, and because of that she had become a shell of the person she used to be.

“I’m SORRY that I clearly lead a fun life and you go home to your cats at night and make sure the stick is placed correctly up your ass!” Rumi yelled as she stood from the couch she had been seated on. Never in her life had she been disciplined for anything that she had ever done. She didn’t take criticism very well if it revolved around her life choices. She knew that she was acting out - and maybe it was for attention or maybe it was a cry for help.

I was asked by MTV to give a journal entry on how I planned to survive this week. I feel like I’m being rushed in college or something but on a bigger scale. This is why I didn’t bother with college, or sororities or anything of the sort. Sitting here in Moscow makes me realize that I need to travel more, it’s not like I don’t have the means to do so. Back on topic. I’m not sure what my strategy is, I’m not much of a planner and that’s always got me through life just fine. I guess I’m just going to keep my cool and roll with the punches. It’s gotten me through my first twenty three years of life.

Health - I’m not going to eat anything my body isn’t used to - being sick isn’t cute especially when everything is being filmed. I’d rather not blow chunks for millions of people to see.

Sleep - I’m going to try to rest as much as I can in the planes, with coffee pick me ups. I get bitchy when I’m tired, and as hilarious as it’d be to have a melt down, once again - not cute.

Stress - I’m not going to let things get to me, and I’m going to put up as much of an emotional block that I can when things go wrong. No tears for this Instababe.

Teen Vogue, 2012

You know her as Rumi Winslow, and there’s no doubt that you’re following her on Instagram. She’s a self made social media star, and people seem to be going crazy for her. What brought her fame was her freedom in her clothing design, using elements of Los Angeles, music and  her youth to fuel the pieces that people are practically knocking her door down for. She seems to be the perfect weapon in the fashion industry with an inside into the mind of teenagers, influence from her friends and creative expression that seems unmatched. With  this newfound fame, she has kick started a fashion blog, where she also sells her clothing along with a lifestyle vlog on YouTube. With her follower and subscriber count growing day to day, we can’t wait to see what this newfound social media star will do next. We were lucky enough to get a short interview with her, and here’s what she said:

“Fashion has always been something that has interested me, taking control of something that “brands” you and making it your own. I want girls and guys younger and  women  and men older than me to feel empowered when they wear my clothes, and when they wear any clothes. They own the clothes, the clothes do not own them. In a few years when I’m older I plan on having my own line and use a certain percentage of the money to give to charities around the world.

 As someone who was given a good life, it’s always struck a chord when seeing people not as fortunate as I am, it’s difficult to wrap my head around.”

Not only is Ms. Winslow extremely young, but she’s very wise for her age and aware of what’s going on around her. We hope to see this teenager, that you may even go to school with make waves in the fashion industry and in the lives of people that she touches in her donations and open mind. We’re all about  #peoplepower, and we hope everyone can get on board with the Rumi Winslow Movement.

It was amazing how daunting a little plastic stick could be. A stick that told you your life hung in the balance, that everything could - and would change for you. This plastic stick had been a recurring object in her life. Once when she was fifteen, and two little lines appeared on the stick. Then once when she was nineteen - luckily she was not pregnant that time. With stress and the way she treated her body, she was worried when she was late and thought she would have to live through another pregnancy.

Her aversion to pregnancy was only because the last time she had been pregnant, she had nothing to show for it. No baby, not even much weight gain, it only looked like she had devoured a huge meal. She got back into shape within a few weeks and it was like the whole pregnancy had disappeared. It was after she had given birth to her daughter that she promised herself that she would not have another child. If her whole family couldn’t be together, she didn’t want a family. She had truly been traumatized.

At twenty three, she was in the same situation. Most people would say, why sleep around when you know the possible outcome. It was an issue that she had always had, she needed to make people love her and one way was getting them to fuck her. She wasn’t delusional enough to think that they actually loved her - but the closeness felt right. She thought back onto who would have been the father of this child. Would she say anything, if she was pregnant? Absolutely not. He would never know.

She stood up from the edge of her bathtub and walked over to the pregnancy test. She felt sick to her stomach when she saw two pink lines. She looked at the time, and she knew what she needed to do. After a few calls, and scheduling - she was on her way to the nearest abortion clinic. She had a flask and syringe in her purse, to numb herself as soon as she was done. She got in, they made sure she was actually pregnant. She was, but it was too early to hear the heartbeat. Thank god, that would only make the process harder.

Once the procedure was done, she went into the restroom. She leaned against the wall, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Things were fucked, and Rumi knew that. She prepared her syringe, shot up, and by the time she exited the bathroom, she was a ghost of herself. She stayed silent, paid the fee and left through the back entrance. She got home, and she started the day again.

She took a nap, then she did her makeup and went to her filming area. Nothing in her life had changed, and the silence of it all was weirdly calming. She was the only human that knew aside from her doctor. She was sworn to doctor patient confidentiality. Everything had changed, yet it was all the same. Nothing had truly changed in Rumi’s life aside from a knowledge that no one else knew.

July, 2017.

Rumi laid in a pile of pillows, within the silk walls of a cabana on the beaches of Mykonos Greece. Music from her phone hummed quietly along with the sound of the roaring waves. She watched her man of the day walk back from the water, and she smirked to herself . He was tall, dark and handsome. Not always Rumi’s type, but he would do for the days to come. When he finally made it into the shelter that she had claimed she pulled him onto the comfort of the pillows and took a good look at the man she had been spending her time with. She noted his green eyes and how they contrasted against his tanned skin. She only smiled, and pointed to her bag, where a plastic bag was located, with drugs - of course.

The language barrier between them was killer, but she had picked up a few things in the time she had spent in Greece. A girl needed to, with her lifestyle. Rumi learned languages easily when she was thrown into the culture. She paid attention.

“Drogarsi.” She nodded, which translated to “to do drugs. He picked out a few of the pills and motioned for her to open her mouth. When she did he dropped a tab of ecstasy on her tongue and smirked.

Rumi couldn’t remember much of that day afterwards, or that summer in general. The glimpses the she got was that day, in the sun and sand. She and green eyes parted ways a few days after that, and for the life of her - she couldn’t even remember his name. All she could remember was the way his eyes looked that afternoon, as they fooled around in the sand together. A textbook Summer love, she supposed.

To say her life was any different from that summer would be a lie. She still had many of the same habits, and if it meant meeting more Grecian gods and goddesses then she wouldn’t be complaining by any means. When she thought about it too much, it only made her long for the days when she laid naked in the beach, with a beautiful man or woman to give her the company she so desired. Then the time spent away from the beaches, taking in the culture, watching little kids play. Not to mention the inspiration it’s gave her for her clothing line. She was getting closer and closer to finally getting her line started.

It was two days after Rumi’s sixteenth birthday. Normally, a sixteen year old would be on the high of their life. Rumi’s parents did get her a car and ate cake with her and as much as she appreciated the gesture, she had been in the deepest depression that she had ever faced. In Rumi’s lifetime, she believed that she had always been depressed. At least in any relevant memories she had been.

Now she was sixteen, and it had been five months since she had given birth to her beautiful daughter-only to have that dream ripped away from her. Her parents had demanded that she either get an abortion, give the child up for adoption or she'd be kicked to the curb. With not having the mentality to have an abortion, she decided to carry until full term and then give the child up. What a mistake.

The post-partum depression had only added on to what she already felt. And two days after her sixteen birthday - was the first time she tried to commit suicide. The memories still plague her thoughts. Not because she wants to succeed at it, but because she can remember the way she felt.

It was like she was stopped in the middle of a busy road. Like the 405, but instead of cars whizzing past her - it was her life. The parties blurred together, the one night stands didn't make her feel anything. School was a drag as per usual, and she was just.. not involved. So uninvolved that even her parents took notice - she wasn't up to her usual antics.

It was a typical day for Rumi. She went to school.Troy High School was mundane when it came to Rumi Winslow. She made the grades she needed to, but couldn't care less about schooling at all. In fact, she didn't even make it to her first block. She dipped out twenty minutes after the bell rang. She said goodbye to her friends. She doubted they knew it would be the last time. Or so she thought. She walked out with a cigarette between her fingers, for in her car and headed to her boyfriends.

The reason behind their relationship was because she wanted and needed drugs. He sold them, and it worked out perfectly. She fucked him, one for the road she guessed and then picked drugs from his stash when he was showering. She was supposed to join him, but she took the drugs and went back to her home. And then it was a waiting game. She paced through her room. The drugs in her pocket still.

“Come on Rumi. Get it together.” She whispered to herself, and made her way to her bathroom. She started the tub, and dumped the pills in her hand. She popped them into her mouth and downed them with tequila she had stored under her sink. Then she shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on the ground. She wouldn't be naked when they found her. She wanted that one piece of dignity that she still had.

She stopped the water, she got into the tub. She took a deep breath before reaching for a razor that she had taken from her father's shaving kit.

After she had done the deed, she rested in the tub. Finally at rest. The world went black. She was no longer seeing herself stuck in the standstill. It was all dark. She was happy. Or at least she thought she was.

They say when you die you see a bright light. Rumi saw that bright light as her blue eyes opened. Much to her dismay, her bright light was the fluorescent light of a hospital room. Apparently when coming into her home, she forgot to close the door. Her neighbors called, worried of a break in. They found her bleeding out in the tub, and brought her to the nearest hospital. Subsequently it was the hospital that her father worked in.

Her stomach had been pumped and she had been bandaged up. She could hear her mother talking outside of her room, about a rehabilitation center. Her eyes found her father, who saw her looking through the blinds. He lead her mother into the room. They went on and on about how they loved her. Bullshit. They wanted her to get better, and clean up her act. Whatever.

“Rumi, we’re sending you to rehab.”

That's all she heard. A drug rehabilitation center, that would help her work out everything going on her mind. They would help her. She couldn't believe the bullshit that spewed from them. It didn't matter though. Three days later, she was being welcomed into her room for the next few months. Concrete floors and concrete walls. Home sweet home.

Fame, Celebrity, Stardom.

Rumi knew exactly what she was getting into when she became famous. She knew that people would love her. They would want to meet her, and in turn she wanted to meet them as well. She didn’t want to seem completely unapproachable if her fans saw her out. Maybe that was her first mistake.

It had started nearly a year ago. She would get small gifts dropped off at her door, harmless things like notes and small trinkets. Rumi wasn’t worried, it’s not like her fans were beating down her door. Then it started getting more intense. Pictures of her from outside her apartment, phone calls where no one would answer her. Then came the knocking on the door. It would always happen when she was busy, and couldn’t answer the door. Then it would happen early in the morning after she had gotten home from the clubs, and in the clubs she’d get random drinks bought for her, from “her biggest fan.”

Of course she would never drink them too scared that they would be laced with something. She upped her security, and tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. Until things in her home would start changing. Sunflowers would be changed to roses, things would be missing from her fridge and polaroids started showing up, of her sleeping. Them, in her bed, taking pictures of her. Most nights she slept hardly clothed, if clothed at all. What if…? She couldn’t think about that. It made her sick to even imagine the possibilities.

She had seen his face a few times, hiding in the crowds or on security tapes. She knew who he was, and if she ever caught him she would not hold back on charging him with anything. Stalking, breaking and entering. And then this week made all of that come to a screeching halt.

Monday, seven am. Rumi rode in the backseat of a black escalade. The windows were tinted, and her three bodyguards were trailing behind her in a black Mercedes. They were headed to a shoot, for a brand deal when a red truck came speeding behind them.  They were recklessly driving, swerving in and out of the lane. The Escalade sped up some, and in due time. The truck rammed into the Mercedes and sent it flying into the air, flipping it onto it’s hood. The truck was still going but not being controlled due to the driver being dead from the impact. It swerved off the road as well  and Rumi’s car stopped, the police were called, and she waited. She saw the driver of the truck as he was peeled out of his vehicle and put into the ambulance. It was him. It was her stalker.

She was shaken up to say the least, but worried for her bodyguards. She put each of them on her hospital tab and was all too willing to pay for them. She knew that fans were sometimes a little too obsessed, but this man wanted to kill her. This man was willing to die himself as long as she was going too, like some fucked up suicide pact that he made on his own.

 AUSTRALIA TRIP!!!

*tw: drug use and suicide*

Read the title of the vlog, the footage was beautiful, me smiling and happy. Scuba diving to see the beautiful world under the water. Truly, it was a dream vacation to an onlooker who didn’t see behind the scenes.I made the thumbnail look fun, beachy and a little bit sexy, what my viewers want. I wish they would see through it all. Not that I let them into that much of my life, just what I want them to see. That’s for the best, isn’t it?

There was an Australia trip, but it came after I pulled out if the rehab center. I got the photos I wanted, saw a few of the animals and then booked the next flight I had to London to go home. People on Instagram ate it up. People who lived in Australia begged for a meetup. I should have tried at least that, shouldn’t I have? I could blame my gauntness on jet lag, or food poisoning, even. They would have sympathized with me. They wouldn’t have even thought that I was in rehab.

You might be wondering, why were you in a rehab center? Well, that’s easy. It was nearing the date of my daughters birth and I snapped. I missed her so much even though I had only spent a few hours with her. Seven years of pain and suffering and I thought that I had my fame, and if I died at least I wouldn’t be forgotten. Right?

My sponsor said she did not want me to wrote this, but I feel like I have to so I could get my mind around it all. Why did I think that it would be okay to plunge a needle into my arm, filled with heroin, and why did I think that the similar cuts I had made years ago to my wrist would have helped anyone? Laying in a warm tub, with my favorite music. I was a public figure. Little girls looked up to me, how was that fair? Just because I can’t seem to get my shit together. I could have caused something massively devastating.

The elevator ride seemed to take decades, and when the doors opened there were cops crawling all over her house, along with the building manager. “Oh Rumi!” He exclaimed and she only gave him a glare as she walked further into her ransacked apartment. “Where the fuck was the security?” She asked, and the male stammered as her tried to make up some bullshit response to her. She looked up and down the apartment, through all six rooms. She noted missing items.

Vlog Camera: $700

Caresse D’OrchIdées par Cartier Earrings: $11,100

Giuseppe Zanotti; Cruel Sparkle: $1,285

PR Items: $800

Dolce and Gabbana dress $6,995

Twenty thousand dollars was stolen from her, in worldly price. Things that they could sell, and make money off of. That’s not what Rumi was worried about. Among the missing things, she was missing a lock box that contained pills, syringes, cocaine, anything you could imagine. She didn’t tell the police that she was missing at least 900 dollars worth of drugs, because that would get her put in jail.

“Okay, Ms. Winslow. We need a police report from you.” The man’s heavy british accent almost made her roll her eyes. “Can you tell us where you were last night?”

“I was out clubbing, the I went home with a friend to have sex.” She spoke, nonchalantly, and he cleared his throat.

“Do you have any enemies that would want to steal from you, or spook you?” He asked, and she let out a dry chuckle.

“Sir, I have people who hate me.” She responded. “For one reason or another, it comes with the job.” She murmured, then sighed.

“I just want to get this over with, do you need anything else?” She asked him, and he looked through his notes. “I think that’s all, so long as you’ve listed everything that’s missing.” He spoke and she nodded. “That’s everything.” She lied through her teeth.

Once the police left, she went to her office. They might have stolen her vlog camera, but they didn’t take the one she kept in her office, which was strange because it was more expensive. She turned on her ring light, turned on the camera, and said her intro.

Two hours later, after talking and crying about the fact she was safe, she uploaded the video.

“MY HOUSE WAS BROKEN INTO!?! (not clickbait)”

And there she was, nearly emotionless. How could she care about material objects getting stolen? That was shallow. She lost money that she would make back in a few days - and could only up the security in her penthouse with camera’s and maybe invest in a trained dog to keep the place safe. Now all she was worried about was the drugs that had been taken. Who took them, and would they rat her out?

All of that was foreign to Rumi Winslow. She had never been shown love as a child, and maybe that’s what fucked her up the most. At thirteen years old, she was sleeping with older guys and doing drugs with them. At fifteen she was pregnant, and giving her daughter up for adoption because her parents knew that she couldn’t take care of her daughter, as much as she may have wanted to. By seventeen, she had been put in the psychiatric ward twice for attempting suicide on multiple occasions, and by eighteen years old she was on the trending page of Instagram with millions of followers and money coming in from left and right.

To say that she had never been in love was a lie. The first few hours of her daughters life that Rumi got to spend with her, she fell in deep, unconditional love. The father of her child, she had also been in love with regardless of what he may think. Her endlessly lavish life had given her something to love, but there was one thing that she’d never be able to love and maybe that was the biggest heartbreak of them all and that was herself. Her daughter was living a happy life with her parents and Andres was doing his best to keep himself busy, but Rumi spent long nights wondering what could have been. Maybe with her family, maybe if her parents hadn’t been such horrible at nurturing a child. What if she wasn’t addicted to drugs, or what if she hadn’t slept with this person or that person? She had many of those what if moments in her life, but only a few actually put her on this path to destruction.