Elijah Beaumont ☆ stylist ☆ done

I was not exactly from the capitol. Not in the way I would assume most of the districts thought of the capitol. Where I grew up, there were no lavish parties, none of that fancy food that came from the stomach lining of cattle, and most definitely nothing close to the glimmering lights of Saturn City.

Nope. I had non of that growing up.

Mom worked her regular office job, and dad seemed to be something of an artist…not like he actually sold any of his work. Still mom always supported him, and she showed me the same kind of love.

“Dream for the stars Elijah”

So, I did. Guess that’s happens with young boys who think they are the sun. By the time we realize our mistake, we had already caught fire. There was nothing left to do other than watch as we plummet towards irrelevancy.

What I would give to feel invincible once more.

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Mother had caught me in her closet more than once, even worse she had caught me with a pair of scissors and the brand-new curtains she had been saving up for. Father argued his only son had inherited his creativity, constantly encouraging me to express myself. Mother was more than supportive of my creative vision as long as it did not include her household items, or her newest pair of shoes. That is when she introduced me to pageantry, something she saw the other moms at the school bringing their little girls to after class. She had asked one of them if they could bring me along one day.

I wouldn’t say I exactly like pageants. Oh, but I did adore the attention and the applause.

There was nothing like the feeling of the limelight illuminating against my skin, I did not care if I had to be someone’s dance monkey in order to get it. There is no more destructive addiction than fame. So, what I sold my soul? I am sure you would have done the exact same.

The circuits itself were not all that big, and they were even smaller for men. There was one title that everyone had wanted, and I got it at 21. All the years I spent practicing speeches, coming up with new talents to wow the entirely over enthusiastic judges, sleepless nights of practice to be perfect. It was all over the year they placed the Mr. Capitol crown on my head.

Congrats Elijah…now what?

Become a model that’s what!

The crown of Mr. Capitol came with an apartment in Saturn City, at least for the year I held the title. The lights at night urging me to stay awake and explore the bars, the clubs and had I mentioned the men? I made myself an attraction, always on the search for somebody to give the attention I craved deserved. A month into the lavish lifestyle, I had met someone. Another person in the long chain of people who would promise me the world. In a weeks’ time, my life had taken another turn. I had begun booking modeling gigs. At first small campaigns, but what can I say? The camera loved me. Soon enough my new boyfriend/agent had me walking runways, posing with only the best of photographers, and launching campaigns that would make even the lesbians (At least that is what I believed) drool.

I should have known better than to be too greedy. It doesn’t matter, I married that asshole anyway. Some would say it was the daddy issues that had led me to marrying my agent 15 years my senior. My psychologist would argue otherwise, in her incredibly professional opinion it was mommy issues. Okay…Okay…she never said those words exactly, but she implied the way my mother fueled my career was exactly what my husband did now.

The one difference?

My mother would have never stopped pushing me to be the best I could be. Adrian wanted me to settle down, he wanted me to give up the career we both had worked so hard to build. He argued we had more than enough to retire to a suburb, the kind couples went to when their sex life died. Still, he begged like a sorry little dog, and I agreed. There came a time for me to take a step away from the camera and the limelight (I heard they could be cancerous…can you believe it?).

Fucking regret that decision.

Adrian kept on working. I got bored. So damn bored. Then I started drinking, took a few bad nights to learn that gin was not for me, tequila was for girls with no moral compass, vodka gave me the worst of hangovers, whisky seemed to work its magic. Fire water as Adrian had begun to call it, and fire it was. Whiskey breathed life into me that I did not know existed. It was warm, the way Adrian’s embrace once was. It burned bright when I thought every last bit of my flame had been stomped out.

Adrian said I needed a hobby and whiskey did not count.

There just wasn’t a thing I could think of that made me want to get out of bed in the morning. Whiskey did but that apparently still did not count . So that’s when Adrian decided to evoke mommy dearest, ah yes, he made my mother drag her grown up son kicking and screaming out of bed…can’t say that was exactly my best moment. What did mommy do when she didn’t know what else to do with her son?

If you guessed pageants, you would be correct. Only this time I was supposed to coach whatever demon spawn children Adrian would find for me in his agent business. I could sense everyone holding their breath when I had my first client, both of them watching to see if I would traumatize a kid…or worse…make it cry. I would be lying if I said there were no tears along the way, but one Pageant season later and little miss Adalynn Clementine was your new Miss Junior West Side. I would take all the credit if I could, but I guess she did bring some talent along with her.

The one thing I had that most of the other coaches didn’t. A sewing machine apparently because my lord did some of those girls look like they went shopping in those donation boxes for the financially unfortunate (now that site could give you cancer).

All the candidates that walked threw my doors had the advantage of wearing one in a kind clothing designed and made by non-other than myself. I should have known that if you dressed up enough kids that made adults want to spend money, someone from the hunger games would eventually come knocking.

The whole ordeal was a pageant after all. Do those little slaughter-ready cattle have what it would take? Or would I end up drinking myself to death trying to make a cow bark?