quite excited.”
Docile and gentle. Meek and soft and quietly feminine. That was the way to deal with these kind of leery-eyed suits.
I pulled myself away when Vivian entered with a tray of new liquid concoctions, and made for a quick excursion into the elevator. I didn't dare take the steps and risk a run-in with anyone else that would feel like carrying a conversation.
In the library, Marius was sprawled out on a chaise lounge, scribbling in his journal and surrounded by stone statues of angels in various positions. Prayer, pensive, empty-eyes without any pupils. The walls were painted with a dark gold that glimmered when the sun hit in such a way that made the room seem like a particularly special place. Heavy paintings depicted Michael the Archangel, Adam and Eve, and the Virgin Mary. There was one of Christ on the cross, too, but Marius took it down each time he went in to write. It was one of the few things that he struggled to look at.
“Fuck him yet?” Marius called, slamming the book shut. I flipped him off.
“I'm enraged that you failed to tell me about your little decision to audition for the play,” I told him. “Just leave me alone.”
In my room, I slammed the door shut and threw my uniform jacket on the dresser. I yanked the tie from over my head, unbuttoned my blouse, and stepped out of my skirt. The folds crumpled at my feet, and I was left standing in only my underwear and a pair of knee-high socks.
I was thin, arguably too thin, and the full-length mirror that I stood in front of only served to elongate my limbs and torso, making me look like a doll. Hungry, starved.
Grabbing a bathrobe, I wrapped myself up and sat down at my desk, which was in a small side-room away from the actual sleeping area. I shut the door and turned the light on, blinking and rubbing my eyes and skimming over the pale pink walls; glossy and splattered with a pastiche of various magazine cutouts. Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean. Models with red-lipped smiles and full bodies and even fuller eyes. Pop Culture contemporary things; blown up and over-airbrushed photographs of stick-skinny models in lingerie and dark-stained mouths, sprawled out on white linens that only made their white skin seem so deathly pale. The small crystal chandelier made the lights dance in orbs over the eyes and silicone smiles.
I sat down at my desk, bag in tow, and pulled out my copy of Lolita , staring at the cover until I set it aside. Fingers tracing over my laptop keyboard, I punched in the first thing that came to mind: nymphet .
A list of sites pertaining to Nabokov's controversial masterpiece popped up, with nymphet being the coined term for Humbert Humbert's insatiable obsession. There was a slew of differing opinions, calling him a lover and a monster and ultimately, just a man. Seduced and sick and at the core of all things simply flesh and bone and blood like the rest of us.
There was a music video for some dark, throaty band that consisted of men with long black hair and heavy guitars. It started with a pale-eyed woman on a swing, swinging back and forth on this wooden plank suspended by a rope crawling with white roses. Her hair, too, was white. In a dark forest-esque sort of setting, a couple, two women - one with dark hair while the other's was fair - gazed at each other with an expression of lust and languish. The dark-haired woman wore a mask that was nearly identical to the one Mr. Tennant had been wearing at the masquerade, her upper lip lined with a faux-mustache.
It was both bizarre and disturbingly beautiful, and I imagined myself as the girl with fair hair, wearing gossamer clothes and angel wings; Mr. Tennant kneeling down on one knee, kissing my hand and looking up at me as if I was the only girl in the world with a beating heart. The rest of the Earth barren and lifeless.
I slammed my laptop shut, and after a brief pause, leaned down and withdrew a hidden box that I kept in the bottom drawer of my desk. An old
Docile and gentle. Meek and soft and quietly feminine. That was the way to deal with these kind of leery-eyed suits.
I pulled myself away when Vivian entered with a tray of new liquid concoctions, and made for a quick excursion into the elevator. I didn't dare take the steps and risk a run-in with anyone else that would feel like carrying a conversation.
In the library, Marius was sprawled out on a chaise lounge, scribbling in his journal and surrounded by stone statues of angels in various positions. Prayer, pensive, empty-eyes without any pupils. The walls were painted with a dark gold that glimmered when the sun hit in such a way that made the room seem like a particularly special place. Heavy paintings depicted Michael the Archangel, Adam and Eve, and the Virgin Mary. There was one of Christ on the cross, too, but Marius took it down each time he went in to write. It was one of the few things that he struggled to look at.
“Fuck him yet?” Marius called, slamming the book shut. I flipped him off.
“I'm enraged that you failed to tell me about your little decision to audition for the play,” I told him. “Just leave me alone.”
In my room, I slammed the door shut and threw my uniform jacket on the dresser. I yanked the tie from over my head, unbuttoned my blouse, and stepped out of my skirt. The folds crumpled at my feet, and I was left standing in only my underwear and a pair of knee-high socks.
I was thin, arguably too thin, and the full-length mirror that I stood in front of only served to elongate my limbs and torso, making me look like a doll. Hungry, starved.
Grabbing a bathrobe, I wrapped myself up and sat down at my desk, which was in a small side-room away from the actual sleeping area. I shut the door and turned the light on, blinking and rubbing my eyes and skimming over the pale pink walls; glossy and splattered with a pastiche of various magazine cutouts. Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean. Models with red-lipped smiles and full bodies and even fuller eyes. Pop Culture contemporary things; blown up and over-airbrushed photographs of stick-skinny models in lingerie and dark-stained mouths, sprawled out on white linens that only made their white skin seem so deathly pale. The small crystal chandelier made the lights dance in orbs over the eyes and silicone smiles.
I sat down at my desk, bag in tow, and pulled out my copy of Lolita , staring at the cover until I set it aside. Fingers tracing over my laptop keyboard, I punched in the first thing that came to mind: nymphet .
A list of sites pertaining to Nabokov's controversial masterpiece popped up, with nymphet being the coined term for Humbert Humbert's insatiable obsession. There was a slew of differing opinions, calling him a lover and a monster and ultimately, just a man. Seduced and sick and at the core of all things simply flesh and bone and blood like the rest of us.
There was a music video for some dark, throaty band that consisted of men with long black hair and heavy guitars. It started with a pale-eyed woman on a swing, swinging back and forth on this wooden plank suspended by a rope crawling with white roses. Her hair, too, was white. In a dark forest-esque sort of setting, a couple, two women - one with dark hair while the other's was fair - gazed at each other with an expression of lust and languish. The dark-haired woman wore a mask that was nearly identical to the one Mr. Tennant had been wearing at the masquerade, her upper lip lined with a faux-mustache.
It was both bizarre and disturbingly beautiful, and I imagined myself as the girl with fair hair, wearing gossamer clothes and angel wings; Mr. Tennant kneeling down on one knee, kissing my hand and looking up at me as if I was the only girl in the world with a beating heart. The rest of the Earth barren and lifeless.
I slammed my laptop shut, and after a brief pause, leaned down and withdrew a hidden box that I kept in the bottom drawer of my desk. An old
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