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Rosalie Belvedere (beaute_endormie) wrote in bellumlogs,
@ 2010-01-15 07:20:00

Entry tags:

plot: memories, sleeping beauty

Who: Rosalie
What: Memory log
Where: Penthouse floor
When: Before her daily babysitting shift
Warnings: Not currently

Rosalie was ambling slowly up the stairs for her shift at Daniel's, hand dragging the rail, thinking about death. She had seen people die. Some abstractly, gone up in smoke and screams, lost to a shadowy power that had just wanted to see the world burn. Most deaths were closer though, twisted into a long dark night that she could barely remember. Sometimes she would wake up crying, with nothing but a vague face in a dim room (or rarely, an emergency room) that was much too still. Occasionally, she remembered things about the people: their names, or how long she had known them, or what exactly did them in. But the memories were always shrouded in a think grey haze, an impassible veil that kept her from remembering.

The frigid sister. She hadn't liked Theresa. Ever. Theresa had had structured morals and an attitude towards Rosalie that reminded her of Grand-mère. And there was the shared history with Luca, which she really didn't want to remember. Rosalie recalled hearing that the man who had committed suicide had been living in 1006. So all of that heartbreak over a pretty boy in self denial who vanished when anyone got close enough to touch.

Moving down the hall with the penthouses, Rosalie didn’t turn up the stairs to the roof, but instead approached the window at the end and looking out at the steel expanse of the city. Leaning her forehead against the cold glass, she didn't think, and she didn't cry, and she didn't remember.

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ex_sanguine300
2010-01-15 07:39 pm UTC (link)

You see him across the crowded ballroom. It's a party; the sort that only the very wealthy or very beautiful can attend. The kind with red velvet ropes and invitation lists.

To say he's handsome would be an understatement. Blond hair, light eyes and a smile that can light up the darkest of rooms. He has this constant look of being entertained, of having a secret, inside joke he isn't sharing. And his shoulders are broad and he looks gorgeous in his tux, without even trying.

His name is Luca, your escort tells you; very rich, very dangerous and very popular with the ladies. You have no trouble figuring out why.

When he slips out, a blonde on his arm, you follow and you lurk in the hallway where he presses her against the wall and sucks a path down the front of her throat. She's as beautiful as he is; all pale blonde and elegance. You wish you were her, and you wish you were in his arms. You're hopelessly red and freckled and too young for him to ever notice, but she isn't, and you wish you were her. You wish you were with him. He pulls back, and he tips his fingers under her chin and then touches one fingertip to her perfect nose.

You wander back to your escort a few minutes later, but you look over your shoulder as he leads you toward the exit. You think you catch prince charming's gaze, and you smile as you look away. You bounce on your heels a little, and you look up at your escort. "Where does he live?" you ask, smile innocent and sweet.

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beaute_endormie
2010-01-16 06:46 pm UTC (link)

When the memory faded and she opened her eyes against the window, Rosalie thought it had been a dream and she tried to catch it before it disappeared. Then the familiarity of the scene began to sink in, and she realized that she remembered that party. The two perspectives blended together, and even as she found herself wishing to be the one in his arms, she could feel the separate memory of kisses on her throat and pleasure.

Rosalie knew what had happened next. Her and Luca had found an empty room and had giggly sex that tasted like champagne and bliss.

But the not-dream had instead ended with a strange escort and the giddy excitement of a schoolgirl crush. Not her emotions. Rosalie frowned in puzzlement and moved away from the glass.

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labete
2010-01-16 12:04 am UTC (link)

It's a bar, and it's German, so the whole place is so soaked in beer that the wood is practically preserved in it. You're fighting a blond man who is not pleased you made his girlfriend so happy last night, and you know you're probably going to lose, but you're not very concerned about it. There's a babble of voices around you, and you speak the language so well that you only register that it's a foreign language when you think about it too hard.

You've already taken a couple punches to the mouth--because in barfights people don't fight effectively, that's not the point. The point is just to beat on someone else until you feel better, and accompanied by your pleasant three beer buzz, you're all for it. You duck under a fist the size of a ham hock and drive your shoulder into the big stupid blond guy's stomach, knocking him back over the bar in a shower of shattering glass, clattering tankards, and cheers.

Well, what do you know? You won. Das Leben ist schön.

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beaute_endormie
2010-01-17 02:20 am UTC (link)

This one came as she was almost up the stairs, and it caused her to stumble. Her foot missed the next step and she fell, grabbing the rail after only a couple steps to catch herself. Except for the alcohol induced buzz, this one was entirely unfamiliar. She understood German about twice as well as she spoke it, but in this thing, she actually could tell everything that was being said. Mostly drunken yelling. But even though it was loud and violent, it wasn't an unpleasant memory. It had a certain raucous, do whatever seems like a good idea at the time recklessness that she almost didn't recognize. When she did though, it made her laugh.

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ex_sepulchre370
2010-01-16 03:37 am UTC (link)

It's late night, and you're at a Waffle House. The smell of grease is thick on your skin and hair and in the air around you, but not as thick as the smell of vodka or the lines of white powder on the yellow particleboard table in front of you.

You're not alone; there are three men with you, all from your set, all as high and drunk as you are. The upstairs maid works nights here on weekends, and she's eyeing you disapprovingly. She's the reason you came here, so she could carry the tale back to your mother and because you know she won't call the authorities. You moved out of the house a few weeks ago, and you want her to know what you're doing, what her passiveness created.

You lean over the table, and you messily snort a line. The man across from you snorts his own line, and you sit back and yell for a fresh cup of coffee.

When the maid brings the coffee, you smile smugly at her, even as the man across from you begins to convulse, white frothing from his lips.

Mother will love this.

You smile.

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beaute_endormie
2010-01-17 03:43 pm UTC (link)

This one left her reeling. Rosalie tried to get away from the feeling of being so inebriated, but she couldn't escape from the scene. Even worse, she couldn't escape the smug indifference to the whole scene: the cheap greasy environment, the drugs on the table, the man overdosing in front of her. There was no panic, or concern, just an underlying anger towards a parent, which Rosalie recognized. This came from someone rich and rebellious.

Shaken, she turned away from Daniel's door. Whatever this was, Rosalie didn't want to give him an excuse to kick her out, or to say that his detox was getting to her. She went up to the East balcony instead, looking out over the city, trying to collect herself and trying to forget the image of the cocaine and the man who had been across from her.

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bookshelved
2010-01-16 05:29 am UTC (link)

The memory is strong and persistent.

A turn of pages, notations on paper, scribbled out, notations again. Your hair is long and dark brown, and it falls into the inkpot, leaving a trail of stains on the paper that mingle with tears for a person you've never even met. You look up, and you see yourself in the mirror. Your nose is red, and you look a mess, and Home is peeking out from under your hair, and you laugh at the sight you make.

The laugh is a short thing made of quickness, and you pull out a fresh piece of paper, and you start again. Beside you, a bottle sits with a perfectly dried flower and moss and lavender, and you eventually roll the note up and slip it into the bottle's neck and place the stopper in the top.

You're wearing a vintage nightgown, a butter yellow thing with an empire waist, and you wonder if the man who died liked butter yellow things and empire waists. You wonder when you became such a romantic, and your fingers skim the cool glass of the bottle.

It's easy to be a romantic when the person is dead, you reason, because they can't hurt you. You really need to call your dad, and the thought seems disjointed and unrelated, but it isn't at all.

You pick up the phone, and you dial. When the slurred voice greets you on the other end, you close your eyes.

The memory fades.

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beaute_endormie
2010-01-17 06:50 pm UTC (link)

Rosalie was ready for this one when it came. The memory was lovely, but tragic, and tears slid down her face for whoever the woman in the memory was mourning. She looked back out at the New York skyline, which didn't help.

The memory turned sour at the end, with the phone call. Rosalie thought of Daniel. She thought of other alcoholics she'd known, their problems swept aside to preserve an image of class and perfection. It was a while before her tears subsided.

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ex_traceur61
2010-01-16 06:59 pm UTC (link)

Hunger is all you feel right now. Every step, every movement, every blink of your eyes sends signals down to your stomach and reminds you that it’s been forever since you’ve eaten. You look around and see homeless men begging and you wish you could too, but a twelve year old boy is going to get a call to social services, not a handout, and that’s the last thing you want.

You think you’re being really sly. You hope you’re being really sly. As soon as the guy with the cart isn’t looking you reach up with two greedy and dirty hands and grab hotdogs in your little fists. Just as quickly you turn and run, feeling the seller’s hand try and miss the cuff of your jacket, the motion sending a breeze across your neck before you're gone. You hear yelling and angry footfalls but you just keep moving faster and faster. Your legs burn and you want to stop and eat your food but you have to keep going. You push and push until the sounds no longer follow you and you’re blocks away from that first park.

You duck into an alley and you’re exhausted but excited. You chow down on one hot dog, then the other, barely remembering to chew. You’re eating too fast and you’re gulping too much air and for a split second you feel like you might just get sick and spoil everything. You just might. But you bite it back, push it down, and it’s gone. Your throat burns, your legs tremble and ache, but your stomach is happy and that’s all that matters.

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shebringscurses
2010-01-17 06:22 pm UTC (link)

Well, that was a fucking disaster.

If you'd known he was gay, you wouldn't have pulled out your tits and frightened the poor boy away. But it was too late for all that now, and the two of your are pegged into amateurish silence.

You walk him awkwardly back to his apartment -- no, his boyfriend's apartment. He's far too paranoid to wander the tenth floor alone, and you don't mind walking him back to 1006. You watch him disappear behind the locks, and turn back.

Maybe you should have put it together sooner, but you can't feel too bad. Sexuality is a difficult thing to diagnose. You light a cigarette, smiling with the knowledge that nobody even knows that the man in 1006 is gay. Shit, wouldn't that be a bombshell?

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