ʜᴏᴘᴇʟᴇss ғᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴ ᴋɪɴɢᴅᴏᴍ — { fox. }
Jun 24, 2018 7:37:22 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jun 24, 2018 7:37:22 GMT -5
Evening shadows—
weighted down by stagnancy.
It’s only 4 o’clock and our maid’s already sprawled over the disgraced carpet of our floor, drunk, adorned by soot and cobwebs and other substances I dare not fathom about.
A cursory scrutinizing says she’s been out for long: a weak pulse, flaccid and whited-out eyes. This is what happens to anyone that’s given a key to the St. Claires’ gilded liquor cabinet. Instead of housework, they have a revelry to themselves, go through euphoria, and pass out.
My tongue hasn’t tastes ecstasy or euphoria but it reeks of resentment, a childhood in shambles, my childhood.
This means no evening, store-bought canapés; my stomach churns at the thought. I am ravenous and restless and there's nothing but a passed out maid.
The St. Claires’ aren’t bordered by poverty, the opposite actually. Great-great grandfather was given an opportunity in his factory, which came with a dark mansion, a trainload of coins, and a chronic addiction of shots, shots, a mountain of shots—tattooed to our genetics, courses in my veins, ( I don’t want to be an addict ), permanent.
And, you can’t make a snack here, in this heap of decay. The ingredients’ been gnawed at by mouse fangs, the oven’s rusting, a rickety architecture.
We can’t move out because there’s so much roots of history to incinerate we’ll catch flare too; we can’t move in because most rooms’ air of dust suffocates. I make an effort to keep mine pristine, books lined in symmetry.
ᴛʜᴇ sᴛ. ᴄʟᴀɪʀᴇ ᴍᴀɴᴏʀ,
it’s just a counterfeit name, iconoclastic, something to polish our reputations, to save its dying luster.
I sigh over her drunken corpse, steering feet elsewhere. The day’s glow hasn’t faded; it’s nice out if you could exempt the emaciated plants in cracked pots, dying, wilting. No one’s bothered to water them, not even Spencer St. Claire who’s strongly refused carry a ruined dynasty on his shoulders.
( This is our dynasty )
Cobbled streets, huts that appears to be sewed ineptly; Five’s a sea of the broken I’m shipwrecked in. Pedestrians rush past, yet my steps are glacial, stripped of any velocity, wading somewhere
—anywhere.
This appetite can be slaked with a sugarcoated pretzel, for all I care.
Ahead is a quaint café and somehow-exhausted bones make their stop there, tucked in to a lonely booth by a waitress. She briefly notes down my order of damp fries, burgers, and a milkshake before proceeding to scream at pigeons on the windowsills.
Outside, the darkening sky’s inevitable, drowning out lilac clouds for the stars’ arrival. Mother loved this hour, called it serene—“It’s a recess for everyone, Spencer dear.” But, like the evening, things change, mothers grow callous, flowers wilt.
I try to hide from this metamorphosis by burying this skull in a patch of arms,
but there is no hiding.
Otherwise, boys and girls wouldn’t have to be sacrificed every year in a ritualistic carnage.
A pull of a chair— and there’s skin and a face to one of my imaginary friends, right ahead, seated, taking a fry out of the assorted, junk food platter I didn’t know was there. “Um, hello?” I greet, though it’s more of an unspoken question: who are you.
“I like you.” The face says,
I could feel my heart, somersaulting.
What.
“What?”
