eat your heart | genevieve and heather
Perhaps Heather’s anxiety about the evening ahead put her in fight-or-flight mode. Perhaps she’d just had too much excitement for one day, or perhaps she just hadn’t eaten enough that evening. Whatever the cause, Heather felt jittery and unsettled, and considering present company, decided that having a drink wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world. As the date auction itself grew closer Heather could feel herself filling with dread, and a strong drink seemed like the perfect thing to calm her nerves. Not more than one - she knew getting drunk could probably be the worst move she’d make all evening - just enough to relax a little bit. The society people she’d never truly felt comfortable with were intimidating for her on a good day - they were downright formidable tonight.
As she moved to the bar, Heather’s attention was caught, much like everyone else’s in the room, by the mysterious woman in the floor-length gown who made Heather look at her own dress with dismay. To Heather, she seemed to walk in with an air of importance mixed with apathy and she couldn’t help but feel her interest pique by the woman she’d never seen in Tartarus before. There was no way she was a town native, Heather was willing to bet money on it. When the woman took a seat at the bar, Heather immediately second-guessed her own decision to get a drink.
After a few moments of deliberation, Heather decided to go ahead and order the damn drink, and quickly approached the remaining empty seat, ironically right next to the woman who had just walked in. She settled on the seat as quietly as she could, and waited for a bartender to take her order. “Gin and tonic, please,” she ordered quietly, so much so that the bartender asked her to repeat her order. “Sorry. Gin and tonic,” she clarified, her cheeks coloring in embarrassment. Heather quickly looked over to the woman seated next to her. “Sorry about that,” she said, although she wasn’t sure why she was apologizing. “I just …” she trailed off, waving a hand awkwardly.
The glass of dark mauve clinked at the gold band on her ring finger as she lifted it off of the bar top. She swirled around the liquid, watching the magenta-tinged rims fade off into the clear glass. She picked up the blackberry scent, savoring the sweetness upon her first taste. With the slightest tilt of her chin, she ran her dark eyes along the girl beside her - whose fidgety posture, and attempt to bring as little attention to herself as she could, spoke volumes. Except, her identity was no secret to Genevieve, who returned to her wine, ruby red nails glinting in the bar’s light as she raised her glass and this time allowed more than a sip to run down her throat, welcoming the warmth it brought.
9.30PM, she noted the time and watched the scene as a ghost hovering, she too wishing to melt into the background and study those around her. Her ears peeked, listening in on two hushed tones behind her, whispering their affections. Unlike the man to her right, speaking with a sinister tone into his phone, all the while gesturing wildly. Yet again, her neck burned, inaudible words carving into her skin. As if to itch the seering away, she ran her hand across the side of her neck, nails digging into her scalp, fingertips running along the scar there.
Heavy, rough rocks pushed at her chest from the inside, wanting to burrow through the ribs and flesh. Control. You are more than your instincts, as overpowering as they may be. You want bloodied hands and ripped clothes because that is you. You are chaos. Be control.
Her eyes found focus on a dark figure in front of her, the bartender stood with his back against Genevieve, wide shoulders hunkered down over a the counter, arm pumping up and down as he sliced lemons at high speed. Her breath hitched when the man turned suddenly, face washed out, his mouth a black mass screaming out, “Control!”
“Sorry about that,” the soft voice penetrated the hallucination. 9.32PM, the clock eased her tense posture, proving her sanity for the time being. “I just …” She offered a tilt of her head, even a smile disguised as genuine to earn her a moment of trust from the girl- Heather, auction item #4. By force was how she pulled back the dark from clouding her eyes, wanting not to provoke but to bond. “No reason for an apology,” she paused and feigned a furrow of her brow for effect, “Who is he? You are waiting for someone, aren’t you?”
