Hourglass
Red Carpets and Mirrors
My world has collapsed into a small, unfriendly cul-de-sac with nowhere to run but forward to a dead end.
I will not acknowledge my downfall.
I will not acknowledge my existence.
I haven’t left the apartment in two weeks. The floor is barely visible beneath layers and layers of bloodstained Kleenex. The air stinks of vomit and unwashed sheets. The trees outside the floor length windows have long lost their leaves; their bare branches scrape against the glass, leaving thick trails of sap and dirt.
My broken lungs ache and burn with every movement. I lie in fetal position, curled up on the couch. My seemingly endless supply of Codeine syrup is long gone. I cough, hollow and empty, every hour, every minute, every second.
Blood and smoke and wasted time.
The world is at a stand still.
*******
I sit up, the room a wash of movement and color. The walk to the bathroom itself is strenuous, each step a conscious effort. The porcelain greets me, an old friend in a strange world. The checkered tile spins under my tired gaze, sending waves of nausea up and down my spine.
On the way back to the couch, I catch a glimpse of myself in a cracked makeup mirror. A sallow, ghost of a face stares back, eyes empty, lips parted in apathy. A pang of remembrance hits me, remembering another mirror in another apartment a few streets away and hundreds and hundreds of years ago.
I ran the lipstick over my lips one last time, smoothing my foundation, evening out my eyeliner. The face stared back. Beautiful. Complete.
My gown shone iridescent, turquoise and lavender beneath the streetlight. I fingered the diamonds around my neck, giddy with excitement. A familiar black car pulled up to the sidewalk. “Bon soir,” the chauffeur smiled, his kind face crinkling. I smiled back, flashing perfectly sculpted teeth, barely containing my excitement.
I was to meet Andrew at the charity ball for the first time since his month long trip to Ukraine. My nerves tingled with anticipation, my fists clenched like a lovesick schoolgirl.
The car pulled up to the curb, stirring up puddles of leftover rain. I jumped out, racing down the red carpet, dismissing photographers and reporters all screaming questions in badly accented French. Camera flashes and crowds of people fell away, carving a tunnel, a path to him.
He stood in the center of the entryway, his dark hair catching the crystal light of the large chandelier. I could hear his voice, his crisp English accent cutting through the lull of voices. My smile spread, ear to ear, my feet moving faster and faster.
He turned.
I stopped short, my hands falling to my sides.
A giggle.
A cascade of blonde hair.
A flash of black silk.
A woman stood there, to his left, her arm in his, her perfect frame pressed up against him.
“Natasha!” Andrew’s voice had an awkward, uneasy edge. I could feel myself sinking, retreating backwards, and catching myself just before tripping on the edge of the carpet. He took a deep breath, looking at the woman beside him. She giggled, running a thin, perfectly manicured finger down the bridge of his nose, across his broad soldiers. He brushed her fingers away, taking her hand instead.
“Natasha,” he glanced at her, “this is Svetlana Volenskii. I discovered her in Ukraine.” Svetlana shot me a sickening look wrought with pity, triumph, and sugarcoated sincerity.
“Ello,” she said, disdainfully, tearing herself away from Andrew. She didn’t look a day over sixteen; her backless dress showed over her perfect, stick-like figure, her blonde hair falling in voluptuous waves around her striking face. Andrew was talking again, his words distant.
“Svetlana’s an aspiring model. A worthy investment if you ask me.”
He brought her hand to his lips, caressing it gently. She giggled again, drunkenly, obviously not understanding a word of the conversation. Andrew’s eyes ran over her body, stopping to take in every curve, every perfect arc of skin.
I took a deep breath, smoothing my hair and dress, forcing my shoulders into as dignified a position as I could muster. My chest ached, my stomach caving inwards, tearing itself to pieces.
Svetlana smiled, leaning in to press her lips against Andrew’s cheek, running her hand through his glossy hair. He shrugged at me, his expression of mock confusion distorted by lust.
This was too much.
“Some business trip,” I retorted, my words icy, cutting the evening to pieces.
I was gone, my new dress swishing behind me.
The chauffeur was waiting in his reliable black sedan, immersed in last Sunday’s crossword puzzle. I threw the door open and clamored inside, cracking my head on the doorframe.
Through my blurred vision, I could just make out Andrew stumbling down the red carpet towards the car, Svetlana laughing in his wake.
“Natasha, wait!”
I slammed the door. “Home,” I told the chauffeur, my icy voice breaking. He nodded and drove off over the stone streets of Paris, a cool rain pounding down on us.
“Gone,” it seemed to beat.
“Everything is gone.”
I sigh, a deep painful sigh, steadying myself. The ashen face frowns back at me.
Cold.
Dead.
Alone.
I will not acknowledge my downfall.
I will not acknowledge my existence.
I haven’t left the apartment in two weeks. The floor is barely visible beneath layers and layers of bloodstained Kleenex. The air stinks of vomit and unwashed sheets. The trees outside the floor length windows have long lost their leaves; their bare branches scrape against the glass, leaving thick trails of sap and dirt.
My broken lungs ache and burn with every movement. I lie in fetal position, curled up on the couch. My seemingly endless supply of Codeine syrup is long gone. I cough, hollow and empty, every hour, every minute, every second.
Blood and smoke and wasted time.
The world is at a stand still.
*******
I sit up, the room a wash of movement and color. The walk to the bathroom itself is strenuous, each step a conscious effort. The porcelain greets me, an old friend in a strange world. The checkered tile spins under my tired gaze, sending waves of nausea up and down my spine.
On the way back to the couch, I catch a glimpse of myself in a cracked makeup mirror. A sallow, ghost of a face stares back, eyes empty, lips parted in apathy. A pang of remembrance hits me, remembering another mirror in another apartment a few streets away and hundreds and hundreds of years ago.
I ran the lipstick over my lips one last time, smoothing my foundation, evening out my eyeliner. The face stared back. Beautiful. Complete.
My gown shone iridescent, turquoise and lavender beneath the streetlight. I fingered the diamonds around my neck, giddy with excitement. A familiar black car pulled up to the sidewalk. “Bon soir,” the chauffeur smiled, his kind face crinkling. I smiled back, flashing perfectly sculpted teeth, barely containing my excitement.
I was to meet Andrew at the charity ball for the first time since his month long trip to Ukraine. My nerves tingled with anticipation, my fists clenched like a lovesick schoolgirl.
The car pulled up to the curb, stirring up puddles of leftover rain. I jumped out, racing down the red carpet, dismissing photographers and reporters all screaming questions in badly accented French. Camera flashes and crowds of people fell away, carving a tunnel, a path to him.
He stood in the center of the entryway, his dark hair catching the crystal light of the large chandelier. I could hear his voice, his crisp English accent cutting through the lull of voices. My smile spread, ear to ear, my feet moving faster and faster.
He turned.
I stopped short, my hands falling to my sides.
A giggle.
A cascade of blonde hair.
A flash of black silk.
A woman stood there, to his left, her arm in his, her perfect frame pressed up against him.
“Natasha!” Andrew’s voice had an awkward, uneasy edge. I could feel myself sinking, retreating backwards, and catching myself just before tripping on the edge of the carpet. He took a deep breath, looking at the woman beside him. She giggled, running a thin, perfectly manicured finger down the bridge of his nose, across his broad soldiers. He brushed her fingers away, taking her hand instead.
“Natasha,” he glanced at her, “this is Svetlana Volenskii. I discovered her in Ukraine.” Svetlana shot me a sickening look wrought with pity, triumph, and sugarcoated sincerity.
“Ello,” she said, disdainfully, tearing herself away from Andrew. She didn’t look a day over sixteen; her backless dress showed over her perfect, stick-like figure, her blonde hair falling in voluptuous waves around her striking face. Andrew was talking again, his words distant.
“Svetlana’s an aspiring model. A worthy investment if you ask me.”
He brought her hand to his lips, caressing it gently. She giggled again, drunkenly, obviously not understanding a word of the conversation. Andrew’s eyes ran over her body, stopping to take in every curve, every perfect arc of skin.
I took a deep breath, smoothing my hair and dress, forcing my shoulders into as dignified a position as I could muster. My chest ached, my stomach caving inwards, tearing itself to pieces.
Svetlana smiled, leaning in to press her lips against Andrew’s cheek, running her hand through his glossy hair. He shrugged at me, his expression of mock confusion distorted by lust.
This was too much.
“Some business trip,” I retorted, my words icy, cutting the evening to pieces.
I was gone, my new dress swishing behind me.
The chauffeur was waiting in his reliable black sedan, immersed in last Sunday’s crossword puzzle. I threw the door open and clamored inside, cracking my head on the doorframe.
Through my blurred vision, I could just make out Andrew stumbling down the red carpet towards the car, Svetlana laughing in his wake.
“Natasha, wait!”
I slammed the door. “Home,” I told the chauffeur, my icy voice breaking. He nodded and drove off over the stone streets of Paris, a cool rain pounding down on us.
“Gone,” it seemed to beat.
“Everything is gone.”
I sigh, a deep painful sigh, steadying myself. The ashen face frowns back at me.
Cold.
Dead.
Alone.