She sits perched on the edge of the mattress, back straight and hands resting on her thighs. Her eyes are fixed on the space in front of her, mesmerized by flickering images from some imaginary projector. Finally, the chance to be heard in a world where the legacies rule. Her joints are stiff from a night of stillness and there's an annoying itch in the crook of her neck, but she knows that if she moves, the glorious visions will slide like sand through her fingers. A layer of excited, slippery sweat has formed between her thighs and palms. Today, she'll make her own legacy.
The alarm clock beeps in the distance and she's jolted, breathless, out of her reverie. For the first time, she notices the beams of early morning light filtering through her windows. She stretches her stiff muscles, scratches the crook of her neck. Soft carpet tickles her feet as she slides off of the bed. Slowly, she strolls to the full-length mirror opposite the bed and makes a face as she examines herself. It looks like she's been choked on and spit out. She hasn't eaten or slept in twenty-four hours. Her bun, which she had twisted and secured so carefully, now resembles a matted pile of auburn shrapnel. The remains of yesterday's mascara bleed into the dark circles under her eyes.
And yet, she has never looked more alive.
His alarm rings slowly and painfully today, like there's a broken, warbling amp in his ears. Something is pushing at the inside of his skull. He wonders if it would be possible to acquire a hangover without being drunk the light before. Moaning, he throws an arm clumsily at the alarm clock and is only half surprised when his knuckles ram into the edge of his nightstand. A searing pain shoots up his forearm and he winces. Coupled with the throbbing pressure inside his head, it's enough to make him want to strangle something. Rolling over to glare at the glowing numbers, he grabs the clock with heavy fingers and throws it weakly against the wall. It shuts off, thankfully, but the numbers still taunt him with mirth in their glow.
He sighs and sits up in his sheets. His head feels wobbly on his shoulders so he lets it loll to the side. Today is the day. The pressing urge to vomit coming from deep in his abdomen keeps him from being as excited as he should be. In his mind, what they're doing is easy to grasp, but his body is rebelling against the idea. Stumbling out of bed, he makes his way to the bathroom and leans the door shut behind him. School starts in a little less than an hour, and he really doesn't have the time to entertain his body's newfound independence.
With his back still pressed against the mahogany door, he turns his head to look at himself in the mirror. All night he had hovered in a limbo between asleep and awake, thoughts and nightmares spinning around and around until one was the other and he was left with a dizzy headache. It shows on his face, which seems to have aged since he last saw it. His cheeks are hollow, and his eyes have sunken into their sockets. Even his signature curly hair seems a little less bouncy and a little grayer. When he squints, he can see the wrinkles forming just beneath the surface of his skin.
He stares into the mirror, and death stares back at him.
She thinks she's curling her fingers around the gun, but when she closes her eyes she swears she feels the slick, metal goo engulfing her palm. It's warm and comfortable there, almost as if the gun's been molded especially for her. A foreign urge zigzags down her spine, and she no longer feels the difference between warm flesh and cool steel as she raises the weapon and aims at an invisible bull's-eye on the wall. Her finger twitches on the syrupy trigger, pressing cautiously, but she catches herself. She might be going crazy. In fact, she's almost sure she has. Insanity is sour and numbing in her chest but she finds that with the way today excites her, she just doesn't care.
Her phone vibrates and her purse trembles beside her. It yanks her out of herself so quickly that she gets whiplash. With the faint sensation of ripping off a limb, she pries her fingers away from the handgun and drops it in her bag. In a moment her phone replaces the weapon in her hand, and she doesn't need to look to see who's calling. There's only one person who would even consider disturbing her so early in the morning. Grinning at the caller ID, she waits several rings before flipping the phone open. She can imagine him on the other end, clenching and unclenching his loose fist like he always does when he's agitated. He knows that she doesn't pick up right away just to annoy him. He knows a lot of things about her.
"What do you want?" It's her fake irritated voice, but he's sure she's been expecting his call.
"Good morning."
She snorts, still somehow managing to seem ladylike. Her voice sounds casual, but he sees the excitement oozing through his phone's speakers.
"Morning. Big day, right?"
The cell phone trembles as his hand hardens around it and the grin fades from his lips.
"We're really doing this." He says the question instead of asking it because he already knows the answer.
"No, Will. We've only been planning this for, what, eight months? Let's just forget about it, okay?"
"What the hell?" Shaking his head, he slips out of his monogrammed pajama bottoms and into a fresh pair of St. Jude's slacks. Of course she's just kidding with him, but God help this girl's sense of humor.
Giggles flutter against his ear, and he fights his own urge to chuckle.
"Sorry," she says, even though she probably isn't. "My sarcasm is kind of off right now. I didn't get any sleep last night."
He raises an eyebrow, cradling the phone between the side of his face and his shoulder as he fiddles with the buttons on his yellow shirt. "Why's that? Was there a party I wasn't invited to?"
Another laugh, but this one is bitter and scratches rather than tickles. "We don't get invited to parties."
"This is true." Now he's running clumsy fingers through the school necktie, trying and somewhat failing at the sophisticated windsor knot his father had taught him when he was a preteen. After a few tugs and pinches, he decides it looks decent enough and takes his phone off his shoulder. The tension must be apparent in his voice, because she sighs. He pictures her, all stick-straight auburn hair and rolling green eyes.
"I'll redo the tie for you before school today."
"No, it looks fine," he lies, frowning at the lopsided knot in his collar. "But I think it's good that we're never invited to parties. We don't get caught up in all that stuff. We're excellent kids."
He only says it to make her laugh again, for real this time. She gives him what he wants, and he's relieved.
"We are pretty great, aren't we? Until today, anyway."
Again, he feels his smile immediately falling slack. Maybe if he lies hard enough he can convince himself that the nausea and the second pulse inside his skull are symptoms of his excitement. Maybe she can even help him. They've always been great liars, especially to themselves. It's part of the Upper East Side job description.
"Well, I'm straightening my hair." Her voice is suddenly soft and distant, and he realizes that she's put him on speakerphone. "It's been a bitch lately, and I want it to look good today. I'll never get a chance to fix it if it doesn't."
"Oh. You're right."
Strange, he hasn't thought of that. Gazing at his worn reflection in the mirror, he wishes there was a way to twist a lid on the life that has floated out of his body like steam. He considers swiping his sister's makeup for half a second but decides that he'd rather die like a man. There's a bottle of gel next to his mouthwash courtesy of the maid, so he squeezes a dollop onto his fingers and runs them through his brown curls like he does before formal events. His hair actually does look better that way. Regretfully, he wonders why he didn't do it more often.
"I have to go," he says, trying to mask his frustration. She sees right through him as always, even over the miles and cell phone towers between them.
"I'm sure you look fine. I'll meet you on the steps before school to fix your stupid tie."
"Hey, I don't know what you're talking about," he scoffs, walking out of the bathroom and feeling a little better now that he can no longer see himself. "I look hot."
She laughs yet again, harder this time, and he knows it's because she loves it when he makes himself look stupid. "Whatever you say. Bye, sexy."
Then she hangs up, because she always needs to have the last word.
He should let her fix his tie today.
The sky is a cloudy gray, the usual blue frosted with winter and topped with exhaust from the never-ending game of tag that cars and taxis play around the city. In their neighborhood, several limousines join the chase, parting the crowds with their auras of wealth and sophistication. One of these is parked, as usual, just beyond the gates outside her house. She shuts the gate behind her with the heel of her designer boot and opens the door of the limo, sliding in seamlessly without missing a beat in the rhythm of her steps. It's a new world of plush leather and tinted windows when she closes the door.
"Where to, Miss Sophia?" the driver inquires, lowering the partition in the limo. The answer's been the same for the past three years, but he always asks anyway. He flashes his almost perfect teeth at her. They look exactly like the pamphlets she's seen in the dentist's office except for one treacherous canine that leans backward as if scared of the tooth in front of it. On several occasions she's considered buying him a pair of braces. Today, she's feeling particularly generous.
"Constance Billard, please," she says, then reaches into her purse and pulls out her wallet. A thick wad of bills meant for emergency shopping is between her fingers before she can think about it, and she shoves it at him through the wall-shaped space between them. "Here, take this. I don't need it. Maybe you could fix that tooth or something."
He hesitates, genuinely concerned blue eyes extending to her like a stethoscope, trying to diagnose her. She wishes the sky was that blue. After an eternity, he pinches the money between his own fingers and tucks it lovingly into his wallet, smoothing the corners like he's reassuring himself that it's real. She's glad for him. Driving limousines can't pay very much.
The blue eyes reach for her again, this time x-raying her to see what she wants him to do. They crave to thank her, but they're smart and understand that she won't accept it. With a confused blink, they dart back to the street in front of the limo.
"You're in a good mood today," the driver says finally, a smile in his voice. He doesn't seem to care for a response because the partition rolls up and he disappears from view before any sound can bubble out of her throat. Beaming, she rests her forehead on the dark glass window and watches the pedestrians blur together on the sidewalk.
"Yeah, I really am," she murmurs.
They both know that he won't use the money for braces, but she tried.
The limousine on the street is like one of his expensive silver watches on his wrist; awkward and out of place, yet he can't imagine it not being there. Every morning, the limo is in the same place on the grainy asphalt, like someone's flattened the streets and drawn an outline for it. When he tries to picture the sidewalk behind it, all he sees is a vehicle-shaped cutout. The driver holds the door open for him in that practiced stiff way as he ducks into the familiar smell of leather and pretentiousness in the air. As always, the ceiling is less than an inch from the top of his head. Slouching in his seat to ease the feeling of walls closing in around him, he waits for the driver to slide behind the wheel.
"St. Jude's, sir?"
He considers. He shakes his head before realizing that the driver isn't looking at him. If he's late, he'll just bring his teacher a French vanilla in exchange for questions left unasked and some tweaking to the roster.
"Actually, would you mind stopping at the café first?" He'll need it. It's been a full half hour since he woke up, and already there are weights swinging like pendulums from his struggling eyelids.
Before the vehicle picks up speed, he makes it a point to peer out the window opposite him and finally see what's behind the limo. It's nothing special, just more tree-lined sidewalks and rich elderly bundled in cashmere on their early-morning walks.
He's satisfied even through the anticlimax, because now at least he knows.
Bam, bitch.
Ahaha. Tell me what you think? I realize that this is kind of a boring introductory chapter, but I promise there will be action coming soon. I hope you like my shooters. ;)
reviewpleasethanksIloveyoubye.