ivory auclair ; cbday 2 fin | capitol

I haven't slept in three days. I think. I've lost hours in between drinks, lost my lipstick on a stranger's skin. Most of it, anyhow, there's still some stuck between my teeth. Don't remember how I got here, draped across my brother's couch but mostly on his floor because I haven't moved since I stumbled in a few minutes (hours?) ago.

The apartment's cold, too, 'cause heat costs extra in the winter time. I can feel the cool air stagnating on sweat-slick skin, just enough to be agony instead of repose. The corners of my lips curl up at their ends, breaths coming shallow - "Ruby fucked up the fourth set." I can't see Indy, but there's no place to hide here. It's small, cluttered with crumpled sheet music and broken instruments - there's even a bow sticking out of the shutters and as far as I'm aware, neither of us own a violin. "Like I said he would."

I'm used to being the smartest person in the room. More a fact than an ego trip, but a little ambition looks good on everybody. Modesty is better wasted on those pretending to be great. Our parents damn near bankrupt themselves sending me to that stuffy academy for prodigal daughters, I probably would have seen it through if it hadn't been so damn boring.

I don't have the body for ballgowns anyway.

Instead I've torn holes in all my blue jeans, left the dark stains where I pricked my fingers sewing in patches. Never purchased a pack of cigarettes but one sits my back pocket, along with more spoils from last night's show. Even if we're just another excuse to get wasted on cheap booze, the crowds have been growing slow and steady.

I don't have faith in us, that's a lazy kind of hope.

I'm building legends with my bare fucking hands.