The morning after the night before...
Aug. 25th, 2009 05:00 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
annwfyn.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadowsIt was midday on a Tuesday, and Venice Fortescue had come to the conclusion that, glamorous as it sounded, she would really have preferred her day hadn't started with an agitated and very naked Italian.
For a start, she really was beginning to sincerely regret a number of things that she had done the night before. She presumed that it was the alcohol that was making her head throb, to a slow and steady rhythm that you could set a funeral dirge to. There had almost definitely been cocaine, because her nose and throat felt ripped raw, as if she was getting over a particularly lousy cold. Then there had probably been another of really interesting choices on her part, which had left her with an aching jaw, a series of shallow knife cuts across her body, and a whole load of bruising in a variety of areas she didn't want to name before she was properly awake.
The Italian really was very loud. Admittedly, everything felt loud this morning. The clock on the wall was much quieter normally, surely?
Venice tried to hide beneath her duvet. There was a brief and blissful moment of silence, and then the Italian started up again. He seemed worried by something. God knows what. Venice didn't speak Italian. She had this sneaking suspicion that this had contributed to his charm last night.
Slowly she pushed her head out from underneath the duvet. He was still there, looking as gorgeously chiselled as he had done at Ivan Mogilevich's party last night. Somehow it mattered slightly less in the cold light of day.
"What?" she said, blinking in a pained fashion.
The Italian gestured at his chest. He appeared to have a fine trace of white powder across it, and a couple of scratches. Venice frowned. As he was in her flat, the white powder was almost certainly cocaine, but why would a random Italian have cocaine across his pectorals?
She frowned.
A faint memory was coming back. The clock striking 5 am. A man in a black suit. The Italian sprawled out naked and unconscious. Her gesturing towards his unconscious body and raising an eyebrow at her companion.
"¿Qué pasó?" said the Italian.
Venice sighed.
"A crazy man who thinks he used to be a Fairy Queen's love slave used your chest to snort coke from," she said, and glanced across at the bedside table. A promising looking envelope sat there.
"I think he took the rest of the coke as well," she said, and reached out for the envelope. It crackled enticingly in her hand, and she pressed her face into it, wallowing in the glorious scent of money. Screw coffee. This was the best cure for a hangover.
The Italian seemed to have worked out that he wasn't going to get a clear answer out of Venice, for he had stomped out of the bedroom now. Venice exhaled in relief and then winced at how much that hurt. Damnit. What the hell had she done last night?
She clambered slowly out of bed, and stood naked in front of the mirror. This was, in itself, a slightly unsettling sight. No one but her seemed to see it, but she couldn't see the whites of her eyes anymore. She hadn't been able to for over a year now. Instead she just saw her irises, bright and amber (although they had been brown once) and her pupils, which seemed to sometimes roam about crazily, spinning to the opposite corners of her eyes. She blinked and shook her head. She didn't like to think about her weird eyes. It was just a leftover from the dream time - the lost time - the other time. Best not to think about it too much. Instead she focussed on her body.
Her skin was smooth and hairless, her belly curved a little, but enticingly, and her breasts were soft and rounded. She disliked her body, nevertheless. Still, she did her best to care for it, albeit with diet pills and laxatives. This morning, however, it looked more beaten up than normal. There were a score of bruises about her neck and wrists, and then a dozen shallow cuts. One ran down her chest bone, just between her breasts.
Venice swore.
At least there were no cuts on her face. She had a faint memory of her late night visitor giving her some advice on how to clean them up and stop them from scarring, in brisk but not unaffectionate tones.
Her dressing gown had gone missing, so she wrapped herself up in a bedsheet to walk to the shower, where she winced as she stood beneath the scalding water. It stung as it hit the cuts, but it felt strangely better for it. At least she'd be sure they were clean. She was not going to let herself be scarred. She was enough of a freak as it was. The handful of feathers that she had to pull out from her hair before she added the shampoo was testament to that.
Venice closed her eyes and slowly let the hot steamy air fill up her sore and aching lungs. Had she been smoking something the night before? It felt like it.
"You're not meant to mix," she said to herself, but it didn't really matter what she said. She knew that when she was in a certain kind of mood, she'd still take anything going.
"Mi vida..." someone said, as they opened the shower door.
Venice spun around to find the Italian there, leaning against the shower frame. His expression, which had been one of mild arousal, turned rapidly to horror as he saw the knife marks. One of them seemed to have started bleeding again, beneath the pressure of the water, leaving a little pink pool in the bottom of the shower.
"¿Qué...?" he said and then in broken English "Me?"
He looked again at the cuts, including one that ran exactly parallel to the jugular, just missing it. It had been, Venice had to admit, skilfully done, even if her memories were quite fuzzy as to how. She had a suspicion it might tie in to the carpet burns on her knees.
The Italian, however, gestured to himself and then the marks across his companion's body. "Lo hice?"
The Italian hadn't done that. She was entirely certain of that. In fact, if she was being strictly honest and her memories correct, the Italian hadn't done much to her at all before he'd collapsed unconscious on the living floor, looking like a magnificently sexy piece of furnishing. However, his look of horror was too much to resist.
"Yes," she said, and opened her eyes very wide, in what she hoped was an expression of hurt and bewilderment. "You. You were a demon. It was like you were possessed."
Surprisingly, the Italian seemed to understand this, because he said in slightly broken tones "diablo?"
Venice nodded and climbed out of the shower, wrapping a towel around herself firmly.
"A demon," she said. She even managed a small catch in her voice. "You...you hurt me."
The reality was, her slowly returning memories told her, somewhat different, but this story was much better. Saying "a dangerous psychotic decided to cut me up with knives as a consolation prize for refusing to sodomize you in front of me" would have an impact, admittedly, but she was beginning to suspect it wouldn't get him out of her house any faster and might lead to more shouting.
And frankly, she had no desire for any more of her day to be taken up by someone shouting. She had to clean, pack and she was meant to be getting picked up by her father's chauffeur so he could take her to rehab for the afternoon. She wasn't really looking forward to it.
The Italian was saying something she suspected was a vow to never take drugs again.
"You do that," Venice said, absent mindedly, as she picked her way between the odd piles of clothes on the floor. "Become a better person. Have you ever considered church?"
Because, really, she was considering it right now. The thought of an empty and quiet building, with no sound but some distant chanting sounded, quite frankly, amazing. And, you know, might as well build up some good karma whilst you're at it.
"There's a church down the street," she said helpfully, whilst she handed the Italian his trousers. "I hear confession is very good for the soul."
And she had begun to count her money by the time she showed him to the door.
For a start, she really was beginning to sincerely regret a number of things that she had done the night before. She presumed that it was the alcohol that was making her head throb, to a slow and steady rhythm that you could set a funeral dirge to. There had almost definitely been cocaine, because her nose and throat felt ripped raw, as if she was getting over a particularly lousy cold. Then there had probably been another of really interesting choices on her part, which had left her with an aching jaw, a series of shallow knife cuts across her body, and a whole load of bruising in a variety of areas she didn't want to name before she was properly awake.
The Italian really was very loud. Admittedly, everything felt loud this morning. The clock on the wall was much quieter normally, surely?
Venice tried to hide beneath her duvet. There was a brief and blissful moment of silence, and then the Italian started up again. He seemed worried by something. God knows what. Venice didn't speak Italian. She had this sneaking suspicion that this had contributed to his charm last night.
Slowly she pushed her head out from underneath the duvet. He was still there, looking as gorgeously chiselled as he had done at Ivan Mogilevich's party last night. Somehow it mattered slightly less in the cold light of day.
"What?" she said, blinking in a pained fashion.
The Italian gestured at his chest. He appeared to have a fine trace of white powder across it, and a couple of scratches. Venice frowned. As he was in her flat, the white powder was almost certainly cocaine, but why would a random Italian have cocaine across his pectorals?
She frowned.
A faint memory was coming back. The clock striking 5 am. A man in a black suit. The Italian sprawled out naked and unconscious. Her gesturing towards his unconscious body and raising an eyebrow at her companion.
"¿Qué pasó?" said the Italian.
Venice sighed.
"A crazy man who thinks he used to be a Fairy Queen's love slave used your chest to snort coke from," she said, and glanced across at the bedside table. A promising looking envelope sat there.
"I think he took the rest of the coke as well," she said, and reached out for the envelope. It crackled enticingly in her hand, and she pressed her face into it, wallowing in the glorious scent of money. Screw coffee. This was the best cure for a hangover.
The Italian seemed to have worked out that he wasn't going to get a clear answer out of Venice, for he had stomped out of the bedroom now. Venice exhaled in relief and then winced at how much that hurt. Damnit. What the hell had she done last night?
She clambered slowly out of bed, and stood naked in front of the mirror. This was, in itself, a slightly unsettling sight. No one but her seemed to see it, but she couldn't see the whites of her eyes anymore. She hadn't been able to for over a year now. Instead she just saw her irises, bright and amber (although they had been brown once) and her pupils, which seemed to sometimes roam about crazily, spinning to the opposite corners of her eyes. She blinked and shook her head. She didn't like to think about her weird eyes. It was just a leftover from the dream time - the lost time - the other time. Best not to think about it too much. Instead she focussed on her body.
Her skin was smooth and hairless, her belly curved a little, but enticingly, and her breasts were soft and rounded. She disliked her body, nevertheless. Still, she did her best to care for it, albeit with diet pills and laxatives. This morning, however, it looked more beaten up than normal. There were a score of bruises about her neck and wrists, and then a dozen shallow cuts. One ran down her chest bone, just between her breasts.
Venice swore.
At least there were no cuts on her face. She had a faint memory of her late night visitor giving her some advice on how to clean them up and stop them from scarring, in brisk but not unaffectionate tones.
Her dressing gown had gone missing, so she wrapped herself up in a bedsheet to walk to the shower, where she winced as she stood beneath the scalding water. It stung as it hit the cuts, but it felt strangely better for it. At least she'd be sure they were clean. She was not going to let herself be scarred. She was enough of a freak as it was. The handful of feathers that she had to pull out from her hair before she added the shampoo was testament to that.
Venice closed her eyes and slowly let the hot steamy air fill up her sore and aching lungs. Had she been smoking something the night before? It felt like it.
"You're not meant to mix," she said to herself, but it didn't really matter what she said. She knew that when she was in a certain kind of mood, she'd still take anything going.
"Mi vida..." someone said, as they opened the shower door.
Venice spun around to find the Italian there, leaning against the shower frame. His expression, which had been one of mild arousal, turned rapidly to horror as he saw the knife marks. One of them seemed to have started bleeding again, beneath the pressure of the water, leaving a little pink pool in the bottom of the shower.
"¿Qué...?" he said and then in broken English "Me?"
He looked again at the cuts, including one that ran exactly parallel to the jugular, just missing it. It had been, Venice had to admit, skilfully done, even if her memories were quite fuzzy as to how. She had a suspicion it might tie in to the carpet burns on her knees.
The Italian, however, gestured to himself and then the marks across his companion's body. "Lo hice?"
The Italian hadn't done that. She was entirely certain of that. In fact, if she was being strictly honest and her memories correct, the Italian hadn't done much to her at all before he'd collapsed unconscious on the living floor, looking like a magnificently sexy piece of furnishing. However, his look of horror was too much to resist.
"Yes," she said, and opened her eyes very wide, in what she hoped was an expression of hurt and bewilderment. "You. You were a demon. It was like you were possessed."
Surprisingly, the Italian seemed to understand this, because he said in slightly broken tones "diablo?"
Venice nodded and climbed out of the shower, wrapping a towel around herself firmly.
"A demon," she said. She even managed a small catch in her voice. "You...you hurt me."
The reality was, her slowly returning memories told her, somewhat different, but this story was much better. Saying "a dangerous psychotic decided to cut me up with knives as a consolation prize for refusing to sodomize you in front of me" would have an impact, admittedly, but she was beginning to suspect it wouldn't get him out of her house any faster and might lead to more shouting.
And frankly, she had no desire for any more of her day to be taken up by someone shouting. She had to clean, pack and she was meant to be getting picked up by her father's chauffeur so he could take her to rehab for the afternoon. She wasn't really looking forward to it.
The Italian was saying something she suspected was a vow to never take drugs again.
"You do that," Venice said, absent mindedly, as she picked her way between the odd piles of clothes on the floor. "Become a better person. Have you ever considered church?"
Because, really, she was considering it right now. The thought of an empty and quiet building, with no sound but some distant chanting sounded, quite frankly, amazing. And, you know, might as well build up some good karma whilst you're at it.
"There's a church down the street," she said helpfully, whilst she handed the Italian his trousers. "I hear confession is very good for the soul."
And she had begun to count her money by the time she showed him to the door.
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no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 04:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 04:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 04:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 04:18 pm (UTC)Nice piece though.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 05:01 pm (UTC)Mind you his outlook has changed somewhat since they last met.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 05:03 pm (UTC)Is he reconsidering her offer of hookers on mastercard?
no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 05:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 05:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 04:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 04:59 pm (UTC)There's an argument that there are many other things about Rex which don't offer the best sign of being well adjusted, but I'm prepared to concede that as I'm writing from a Parrotical point of view, I'm not best places to push that line of argument.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-25 05:23 pm (UTC)