tulip [ 🌷 ] capitol; fin

fox Graphics 1,362 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:51:58 GMT -5 but a butt ?	tulip [ 🌷 ] capitol; fin Sept 28, 2020 20:36:42 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by fox on Sept 28, 2020 20:36:42 GMT -5 not me taking another 5 months to write TULIP ARSENAULT Capitol 18
	Last Edit: Jan 4, 2021 17:30:00 GMT -5 by fox

fox
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tulip [ 🌷 ] capitol; fin Jan 2, 2021 21:44:48 GMT -5

Post by fox on Jan 2, 2021 21:44:48 GMT -5

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I think it’s interesting how –
a person can splatter like a peach on hot pavement, fruit guts leaking sugar wounds – flies and stray dogs lapping up the hurt.

People with their silly ambitions – what's mine, what's yours, their pains and moments of brief elation, like a sigh of relief from the effort of existence.

I have lost count of how many times I've spilled a person like this, read the misery that pooled and made rivers in the lines of my palm.

There are flecks of blood on my sleeve. Ew.

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tulip [ 🌷 ] capitol; fin Jan 2, 2021 21:56:58 GMT -5

Post by fox on Jan 2, 2021 21:56:58 GMT -5

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A few avoxes mop up the limbs, my guards dragging a glittering trail through the manor. Fresh footsteps gleam off the gold-veined marble floors.

I could appreciate my father's taste – the botanical motifs and the vintage splendor in baroque-style architecture that was restored from the pre-war days. Too many homes in the upper echelons of the Capitol were amalgamations of seasons of trends, confused and tasteless.

We had the same intuition for things like this.

Since I was little, I was allowed to play with the parts of my dad's empire. He'd let me melt the wax for his seals, holding my hand on the lighter underneath the brass spoon until I was old enough to do it myself. The red liquid would bubble up – I'd pour it onto the envelope, press the intricate stamp into the wax, and count ten seconds until I could see the ACE monogram my dad promised I would inherit.

I knew he knew my brother was an idiot. Our father found him a wife when he turned eighteen, told Cypress he could marry this girl or get the fuck out.

So he did. They got wed over the course of a three-day affair, an extravagant hoax – pious and dripping in diamonds, lace, and champagne. Cypress made family ties with the Castellans and all the generational wealth that came with it. That would be the only profit he'd ever herald.

That's the life he was meant for in the cogs of this enterprise, a bolt in the ever-moving, complicated organ that is ACE Entertainment. My dad had it all figured out in his head, every silver detail. He was a prophet of a profit, a proclaimer to the omnipotent, holy, godly will of the

Money.

But then, he died.

His will was never found.

Last Edit: Jan 4, 2021 16:43:45 GMT -5 by fox

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tulip [ 🌷 ] capitol; fin Jan 2, 2021 22:11:22 GMT -5

Post by fox on Jan 2, 2021 22:11:22 GMT -5

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What are families but little messes, accidents, and deaths.

My father's ex-wife likes to remind me that my mother was, like, a peasant, in her words – a pretty girl who married rich and that's all I would be good for too.

Yeah, whatever you old bitch.

Before my mother, there were others. Before my mother, colloquially speaking, my dad had fuckboy energy.

I remember all the articles written about him in the months after his funeral – the great Mr. Aleksander Arsenault – some sympathetic, some scathing, incidences of his infidelity splashed across sensational headlines, details of his interesting business model on the verge of being exposed, but dad was always good at killing the little birds even from his grave.

At the news of his death, I realized brothers and sisters I'd never known, both apparitions and live in the flesh – filled with their ambitions, Money-fearing, devout to those that glittered. They crawled out of the darkness like gold cockroaches, indestructible and hungry. Out from the cracks of the wall poured secrets darker than tar.

And goddamn, dad fucked a lot of powerful families.

Last Edit: Jan 3, 2021 18:31:39 GMT -5 by fox

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tulip [ 🌷 ] capitol; fin Jan 3, 2021 0:10:12 GMT -5

Post by fox on Jan 3, 2021 0:10:12 GMT -5

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I do not believe my father loved me – maybe he had an affection for me. I reminded him of my mother, my face round, sweet, and sensitive.

But he didn't mistake my averted eyes for shyness. I mirrored his gaze, dark and relentless, like the Black Kite he kept perched in his office, tamed by only his touch. To my father, everything was transactional. He was not lawless or deranged. Maybe, he seemed cruel. Maybe, he seemed inhumane.

No one laments the viciousness of a bird of prey when it picks open the body of a rat.

That's life.

When my father died, I could appreciate his view of the world. There were people who emerged from their dormancy to kill me, business partners – legitimate and unsanctioned – who attempted to worm themselves into the golden apple, and his children bred as bargains, each thinking they had enough holy blood to gain this immortality.

But my father never thought about what was deserved, what was his, what he had to prove. He simply was.

He breathed and so he was.

I had nothing. I came from no one. But he raised me. But I am me.

Last Edit: Jan 4, 2021 17:06:30 GMT -5 by fox

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tulip [ 🌷 ] capitol; fin Jan 4, 2021 15:04:07 GMT -5

Post by fox on Jan 4, 2021 15:04:07 GMT -5

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I feel as if this is somehow all very inconsequential now that I have it.

Life loses its shape in a monotonous way. Everything tends to chaos. Milk only spills, dust only ever settles. Every once in awhile, something interesting will happen. Something seemingly law-defying, and life coagulates into a shape less abstract in accidental motion. Perhaps for a minute it looks like something familiar – a bird, a flower – before it spills and splatters and falls apart in its chaos.

I tell this to the pest. I ask him to rethink the results of the audit. Did he think he was righteous? Did he think he was any better, that he was free from greed, that he wasn't tamed by money?

I open a case of cash for him.

When he reaches his hand towards the green, the case snaps shut on his fingers.

He screams as his bones snap, the trap biting as if it were a beast.

"You fucking crazy bitch –"

The blood spills and spreads as it always will, the ordinary workings of the world as dull as him. People are all the same, with their vices and virtues. Maybe, they struggle with their own selfishness in brief moments, wonder about the morality of everything, contemplate the natural order. My guards hold him back as I walk towards the door.

I turn to look at him, his figure shaking as he sobs on the floor.

"Well, I may be a bitch, but I'm not crazy."

Last Edit: Jan 4, 2021 17:29:27 GMT -5 by fox

fox Graphics 1,362 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Apr 25, 2024 0:51:58 GMT -5 but a butt ?	tulip [ 🌷 ] capitol; fin Jan 4, 2021 17:30:42 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by fox on Jan 4, 2021 17:30:42 GMT -5 ayy ripred_bot

Tom Moderator 5,143 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him last seen Apr 24, 2024 12:02:18 GMT -5 OowoO	tulip [ 🌷 ] capitol; fin Jan 5, 2021 21:03:44 GMT -5 Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Tom on Jan 5, 2021 21:03:44 GMT -5 Fox, I love your writing. This is gorgeous!
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