InsaneJournal

Who: Trenton. A narrative.
What: A phone call from his mother.
Where: Penthouse 4.
When: A couple days after the Masquerade.
Warnings: Drugs, drama.



"You should call Mariette."

"That's not going to happen, mother." Cold black cellphone wedged proudly between an ear and shoulder bone, Trenton leaned forward to roll something sticky and herbal into a veil-thin cigarette paper. The phone was state of the art, but had already incurred a series of deep gashes from drops of various heights.

"I'll give her your number!" The mother promised, and it was a serious threat.

With a distinct smile that went unseen, Trenton returned to rolling. Licking his thumb to wet the paper and make it stick. "I can't believe you keep up with the girlfriends I had when I was.. what, seventeen? How do you find them? When was the last time you even talked to her?"

"Why? What's wrong with her?" The mother's voice was jarring with hurt and accusation.

Trenton gave a sigh of resolution. "Nothing."

"Good, then it's settled. I already told her to expect you in town for January."

"Oh.." Trenton hesitated, already feeling the backlash of fury from six timezones away.

"What the hell does that mean?!" The mother screeched with alarm on the other end. "You're not coming for Christmas and now you're not coming for your birthday!?"

"You don't even celebrate Christmas anymore, Mom." Trenton bit into the ass end of his joint and was disturbed when he heard his mother lighting a cigarette in the same moment. He could see it perfectly; the image of a neglected socialite swathed in Parisian sunlight and stale smoke.

"What are you talking about? You were here for Christmas dinner last year!" The mother sounded crucified.

"Yeah, in March. When we finally got around to it." Defensive, he backed himself into a corner of the couch, smoking furiously.

"You break my heart, just like your brother."

"Oh, please." Gravity worked in reverse, his heart was in his throat.

"You do this all the time!"

"Mom." Exhausted, Trenton closed his eyes.

"I ask you to come visit me, meet a nice girl, enjoy Christmas in Paris, and you're busy. Always so busy... What is it that you're doing, Trenton? Do I even want to know? ... I swear, sometimes I think God took the wrong son... At least your father isn't around to see the way you treat me. What do you think he'd say, Trent? ....Trenton? ...Are you still there?"