GARNET LESTRANGE ★ CAPITOL

She sucks in her stomach to fit into a corset. It constricts her lungs, crushes her ribs into her- beauty is pain. A bloody sunset drips down her back from her scalp- it was once a dull mousy brown color before she flooded the strands with dye.

Entire towers of makeup bags and carriers have piled up on her dresser and her closet is chock full of high heeled shoes ad short satin dresses. She likes to dress herself up like a fairy princess and curl her hair into soft ringlets and paint her face with makeup. It isn't insecurity, it isn't a desperate reach to the high standards of Capitol society. It is just a matter of a confidence boost.

She has always like her face, how it is fox-like (especially with her red locks) and elegant. She has always liked how unique her features are, how there are few who resemble her- she is not one to hope that they blend into a crowd like a shadow. She liked many elements of her appearance- the curves of her body, the coppery color and fire of her eyes- but never her hair. She found it plain, so she drowned out the color with a red that burns brighter than even fire. When she stood out like a beacon against darkness, then, and only then, was she satisfied.

She has always valued beauty over many things- such as morals.

Her gaze will reach out to the ends of the range of her vision, watching the city lights shine against the darkness of the night. The stars cannot be seen through the blanket of clouds that hug the sky, so she made the city her stars- she found a placebo. She will watch, from a pair of great windows that consume two entire walls, from her high-rise apartment, and connect the dots to the form constellations of her own.

She likes to shroud herself in a robe of black silk and leave the rest of her bare, and let the silence take her as she savors the sharp taste of red wine with a pair of pursed lips, still stained with old lipstick.

The sun does not suit her. The sun is garish and intruding, the way it pokes its over curious head into her bedroom window. She prefers the lights of the city and Burlesque and the darkness- never glaring, never unwelcome or uninvited. To shield herself from the caustic glare of morning, she will draw thick velvet curtains over the gargantuan windows in her apartment. The sun bleeds, but it cannot bleed through fabric so thick.

She's practically taken the sleeping schedule of a vampire- dead all day, living all night. She will be steady in slumber for the duration of daylight's reign and rise at the sunset, the dawn of night. When dusk bears down on the skyline, she leaves for the night for her work at Burlesque.

It was never what she envisioned as a child, never her dream profession. She was raised a fairy princess, a little queen, in a big house not far from the City Circle. When she was a young girl, she would dance until her feet were red and battered, and she would sing until her throat was clawed and worn- perhaps it was destiny.

She is an heiress from a family of old money, with no need for a job- the thought of working did not often surface in her mind often during her youth. The idea of lounging around the house in silk and satin, wasting away into boredom did not sound all that appealing to her, but it sounded like paradise compared to sitting in an office, sweating in a pencil shirt and button up shirt.

But she found the night to be welcoming, once she knew what it held. She had a taste, just a few droplets on her tongue, but it was enough to breed an addiction.

Hitting her teen years was like falling smack on the concrete- but she found that her bones did not break. She spent her nights in other people's beds or at parties or both (because why the hell not?). There was something about the heat, like a raging sun, between touching flesh that enticed her, captivated her as a whole.

Perhaps it was destiny.

Garnet Lestrange. Dancer. Singer. Stripper. Prostitute. It was never what she envisioned as a child.

When the spotlights shower the walkway like the stage, the stage becomes hers. Her movements are grace and poise- when she dances, it is like her body is made of water. The lights and the roar of the crowd make her heartbeat double in speed. It thump thump thump thumpthumpthumpthumps in her chest like a hammer in the hands of a maniac. It is a wild feeling, especially alongside the adrenaline, like fire, pulsing vigorously through her veins.

She loves every sweet second of it.

Sometimes she will watch their eyes follow her and make bets in her head on which men and women will order the special. She has made it into her own private game, and the tension of just guessing who she will meet in the sheets that night is a thrill.

She loves every sweet second of it.