Queen of the World
Whiskey, please
Elle believed she was wasting away. Not in the sense that she wasn’t eating. She wasn’t physically wasting away, although ask anyone who had met her and they may tell you otherwise.
No. Elle believed that as a person you’re only full in childhood. You’re content. She read once that little girls think they’re beautiful until they learn otherwise, and her theory grew from that. The older you are, the less of you there is.
“Humans are just like light bulbs,” she told me once, “you shine the brightest when you’re new, and then the rest of your life is just you fading.”
She readjusted herself on the grass and took another drag before handing the cigarette back to me. It was late, but we were out anyway. This was before she moved out for good. Her mother never minded her being out late if it was with me.
“What if I don’t want to fade?” she asked.
I knew I was just filling out her quota, and I was okay with that. More than anything else, she was my friend. We hadn’t always been fucking, but like she said, maybe we were fading and just trying to stay bright.
She’d stare across at me with those clear blue eyes and laugh if I ever tried to say something positive. She had this look that she gave people, not to get her way. She’d just fill you with this emptiness, all the way up from the pit of your stomach. Because no matter how much we try to pretend, we’re all just as hopeless as she is.
I suppose I had sex with her because I felt sorry for her, and that’s horrible. It makes me an awful person. I also suppose that if you’re reading this you’ve already made a hundred assumptions about her, and probably a hundred about me too.
But if you’re reading this, I want you to know that Elle wasn’t, isn’t, just the people she had sex with. She isn’t the cigarettes she smoked, or the rumours you’ve heard. People aren’t just the image you perceive them as.
Elle is smart, and funny. She’s kind, and she always treated me well. She’s not my muse, or the woman that destroyed my life. Elle left after a while. She stayed until she was seventeen and then she went, just like I knew she would.
But she’s not a memory, or the feeling when the nicotine kicks in. She’s a person, just like the rest of us.
No. Elle believed that as a person you’re only full in childhood. You’re content. She read once that little girls think they’re beautiful until they learn otherwise, and her theory grew from that. The older you are, the less of you there is.
“Humans are just like light bulbs,” she told me once, “you shine the brightest when you’re new, and then the rest of your life is just you fading.”
She readjusted herself on the grass and took another drag before handing the cigarette back to me. It was late, but we were out anyway. This was before she moved out for good. Her mother never minded her being out late if it was with me.
“What if I don’t want to fade?” she asked.
I knew I was just filling out her quota, and I was okay with that. More than anything else, she was my friend. We hadn’t always been fucking, but like she said, maybe we were fading and just trying to stay bright.
She’d stare across at me with those clear blue eyes and laugh if I ever tried to say something positive. She had this look that she gave people, not to get her way. She’d just fill you with this emptiness, all the way up from the pit of your stomach. Because no matter how much we try to pretend, we’re all just as hopeless as she is.
I suppose I had sex with her because I felt sorry for her, and that’s horrible. It makes me an awful person. I also suppose that if you’re reading this you’ve already made a hundred assumptions about her, and probably a hundred about me too.
But if you’re reading this, I want you to know that Elle wasn’t, isn’t, just the people she had sex with. She isn’t the cigarettes she smoked, or the rumours you’ve heard. People aren’t just the image you perceive them as.
Elle is smart, and funny. She’s kind, and she always treated me well. She’s not my muse, or the woman that destroyed my life. Elle left after a while. She stayed until she was seventeen and then she went, just like I knew she would.
But she’s not a memory, or the feeling when the nicotine kicks in. She’s a person, just like the rest of us.
♠ ♠ ♠
Ahhh! This will be my last entry for that contest, as this is #5. I've enjoyed taking part in the contest, and hopefully it's helped my writing improve. The lyrics in the title, summary, and chapter title are from Ida Maria's Queen of the World. ^_^If you like the character of Elle, I've written another (longer) short story about her, Sugar Pink.