She looked glamorous with a capital G, darling. Cough. Tickle at the back of the throat. Playing 4st 7lbs by The Manic Street Preachers to make it an ironic act – whatever you can use to distance yourself from the act; it was an old device but it worked really well. Well, it did, except for the fact that you forged certain associations between an act and a piece of music that you couldn’t shake for the life of you. She couldn’t listen to Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Heart anymore because of certain associations.
She should have a soundtrack for every moment of her life – it was one of the few pieces of advice that she had ever listened to. Most of the other things that she had done with herself had been as a fuck you to people she perceived as trying to control her. She sensed that if she didn’t control of herself soon then all of the good things that were currently in her life were going to evaporate.
She was lucky. She had been lucky to get picked out of a crowd by that photographer and she had been lucky to get a contract from one of the leading fashion houses. Now she was lucky that the things which she had been doing in her time weren’t impacting upon the thing which helped her get her money – her beauty. Or rather the things that she was doing hadn’t affected her to degree that was detrimental as yet. He health was suffering and it wouldn’t be very long before what festered beneath the surface broke out and scarred her.
A tear escaped the corner of her eye. A rare show of genuine emotion and it was in private. Part of her wished that there had been an audience there for that teardrop and she knew at that thought the emotion shifted and became a forgery. She always did that to herself – self sabotage; stripping out of the essentials and embracing of the transitory and worthless. Wasn’t that what fashion was all about? Fuck. Would these clothes look as good on her when they found passed out from an OD in a puddle of her own puke? She smiled a bitter smile – someone would think it was cool; that it gave their clothes a certain cache to have a dead starlet in them.
Filed under: 5th Floor, Part 1, fifth floor, room 54, update, waresa | Tagged: 16 Flaws, 5th Floor, Depth Heights, f-f-f-fashion, fiction, fifth floor, literature, paul grimsley, room 54, serial, sixteen flaws, skull cull, story, tale, update, waresa, writing
