Warnings: please don't run off with my work and break my heart, especially without asking first; I don't give any kind of consent or permission for anyone to repost or recreate this on this platform or any other. . .also nudity, blatant sexism
Summary: I don't believe in them
Author's Note: I don't have a proof reader yet, I'm sorry
Masterlist
I stand upon the edge of the world, leaning over to flick the butts of my cigarette into the fog below. The fog itself is thick and billowing, endless and consuming, separating me from everything but the pure morning around and above. The world, my world, is impossibly quiet and still up here. There is no polite and contrived chatter, no accidental run-ins or flagrant solicitors, not even an annoying but well-understood neighbor to bother me. . . There are no lovers exchanging vows or kisses; not even a slightly ugly but mostly cute dog to beg for scraps of food. There is only me, myself, and I; my own fair breaths wafting around me, dancing from my cigarette. This world, this silent bliss, is mine and mine alone.
I take a long drag of my cigarette and sigh; tufts of smoke flow from my nostrils.
There are storm clouds brewing, creating an analogous haze of blue-grays and gray-blues. A cool breeze runs over me and washes across the balcony, warning me of what’s to come. It had rained all night, and I’d hoped the weather would be different by morning. My wishes had only been halfway granted, as I could see a sunrise building beyond the clouds doing all it could to creep through, but ultimately failing in the end. I don’t particularly mind the rain, as it is cleansing both literally and figuratively. The sores on my knuckles and cheek had welcomed the rain, having been washed of blood and excess by it. My eyes once puffy were now soothed because of it, only left bothered by the cigarette smoke. And the strange oily material on my hands, caked and crimson underneath my nails had also been washed away. I’d discovered the lovely color a little after midnight when inspiration had hit, a few sips of brandy and an old record a friend had given me shook a few things loose. I couldn’t rest after that. If I’d had, that would be forsaking my gift, which is utter blasphemy. My gift is all I am: my ability to see and go and give like no other can. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason I’d been incapacitated and in great need of rain. The last reason remains to be fully understood, but I'm sure when they're ready, the police will fill me in.
I’m hovering over the world below again, biting my cigarette to the point where ash and butt slip off. The fog almost swallows it immediately and another cool breeze washes over me, bringing a heavier scent of petrichor.
I can’t help but be reminded of those silly books I used to read when I was young; the ones that gave me nightmares. Horror .
The sky is ominous, vast and almost black; and the stars are faint and few. Light pollution, I think. Fog represents ambiguity, hiding monsters and criminals and even the true nature of men. My apartment is immaculate, made of marble and stone, set apart from the world below. Sound doesn't carry very well up here, one could scream for hours and the sound is isolated and unknown. One could be almost empowered by the circumstance: the sky above, the fog below; the peace in this world of mine. I ponder this for a moment, but realize how quickly I could fall from my perch—how quickly I could be undone, be consumed just as my cigarette is consumed. But then if I needed it to, what could the fog hide for me?
Warmth suddenly hits my cheek and I notice the sun finally peeking out, shy and the clouds dissipating. It creates a surge of disharmony. The orange-reds slowly bleed across the sky, moving in a deliciously violent manner. It’s fully dawn now, the beginning of a new day. The cleansing rain has ended and I am renewed.
The familiar sounds of a stiletto suddenly clack behind me; it’s the sound of a woman who, in spite of her best interest, refuses to go barefoot. And while I appreciate my assistant as she has been providing me with all creature comforts, understanding that for me my work takes total priority--today, she is early and she should know better than to be early. I feel an irritating twinge in my jaw as I bite around my cigarette. Yet before words can even hit the air, there is a squeak and a swivel.
"Er--Mister Lark--no Jac--Lar," She blithered. "It's me Margot."
Oh Margot, I internally sigh before taking a long drag of my cigarette. When will you stop being such a prude? It's a rhetorical question, but still very much warranted.
Margot Malloy is a tedious and mousy woman, who has somehow become my right arm. She's understanding of my temperament, unparalleled when it comes to keeping my schedule, and she's ruthless. But I can already feel her making that face, the one that’s a cross between “I smell something terrible” and “bless his heart! That’s only a face a mother could love” and I know it's because she hasn't yet learned to fully appreciate my creative processes. Margot considers my bedroom to be a heaping cluttered mess; and in fact, she finds most of my apartment to be a heaping cluttered mess. I find that be to be contradictory as I am a minimalist, one with a dedicated maid. What I do with my things, including where I put them, including where I put my “garbage” is all a part of the creative process. What clutters my home is what clutters my mind.
"Margot,” I muse and sigh around the cigarette, “Your shoes.”
I feel Margot halt and awkwardly remove her shoes. She isn’t in the bedroom anymore, still shivering in the hallway traumatized. She's beating herself up over the faux pas, as usual. I quietly admonish her devotion, but I wish she would remember my devotion to my home interior. I puff my cigarette and make it known that I have no intentions to be further bothered. The bleeding orange sky is overtaking the gorgeous blue-gray and I won’t miss a moment of what’s left; I get few moments like this in my day. Few.
"Mr Larkin," I hear the small voice behind me, and I can't help but grind my teeth. My cigarette is ruined, I spit it out and move to light another. I smoke for my nerves, doctors orders--I gave up drinking on those same orders and switched to other things, none of which have helped. I still have blackouts and they've only gotten worse. The carton is laying half haphazardly on the balcony, lit up by the sun like the holy grail and I reach for it as such.
"Mr Larkin." The voice pipes up before I can brace myself.
I swivel around on my heels, cigarette between my lips and try as I might, I refrain from baring down on Margot. She's brandishing my robe like a shield and awkwardly slinking towards me like I'm some kind of dragon. I tower over her, nearly engulf her and cut my eyes. I'm stung by both her action and presentation. She has this odd obsession with something that I've been referring to as her "banana suits" Because of her, my life has been filled with the particularity of varying shades of yellow and few different styles of power-suits—all draped upon the frumpy body that is my mouse, Margot. And I will admit that I cannot recall my first encounters with Margot and therefore her other clothes— I haven’t had time to set Margot down and give her a full dress code—but either way, her neon get up is blinding and my eyes sting worse than before.
"Margot, please," I say, tufts of smoke spilling from my lips and nostrils, "Call me Jacob."
My words and tone wash over the robe down onto Margot, and she peaks out from it still traumatized but now apologetic. She looks at me like I’m her God and treats me as such: meaning I have never had reason to doubt her. And I realize she has no life outside of work because of me; and I should be apologetic but I’m not, as she knew what she was getting herself into before I hired her.
Margot straightens herself out, banana suit and all, and in a shrill voice begins to divulge my calendar. As it turns out, today is not the sixteenth but instead, the twelfth and I am very late for an appointment across town. I close my eyes, another deep intake of my cigarette, and I'm gone. When I reopen them. . . I'm gone.
Edit: If you realllllly wanna be on the nose, then listen to this instead of either of those two songs above
