sunday_reveries: Locked Up
After this; emerald_ollie used with permission and in fact by request...but this is not exactly the story requested, so, grain of salt.
prompt: 2. "I have been alone for a very long time. I'm locked up in a room and I can't get out. Because I've been locked up in this room so long whatever desires are arising in me are rampaging around everywhere as wild and fierce and monstrous as gigantic starving jungle beasts."
-Kathy Acker
Two hours is more than enough time to get from L.A. to Las Vegas the way the crow flies. At top speed she can do it in fifteen minutes.
Vegas is a good metaphor for her. Similie. Analogy. Whatever it is, it's a good one. Bright. Seedy. Flashy. Trashy. Overdone. Sinful. Entertaining. Driven. Angry. Cheap. Drunk. Shallow. Self-centered.
Well-meaning.
She's an original. She means to be.
Self-destructive.
She said 'I love you' once. She was twenty-three. He died. Only not really. Really he just pretended to be dead for fifteen years. Never mind she blamed herself. Never mind she refused to let anyone in that close ever again. Never mind.
The only people who think she might be dead are the people who want her dead.
She's never thought bunnies are cute. Especially Playboy Bunnies. Not that that has anything to do with anything.
Sometimes she looks in the mirror and she doesn't know how she became this person. And now she's acting like a girl. Worse. She's acting like a girlfriend.
She's never cared if people like her. Sure she cares that people -- collective plural -- like her. But not individual people. Persons.
Except Tony.
Why don't your girlfriends ever like me, Tony?
Because they come and go. And you don't.
Fifteen years is a long time. But sometimes fifteen minutes is longer.
She doesn't bring anything with her, not even a toothbrush. The hotel will have one. Or wherever. Whatever. Isn't that the point of Vegas? It provides whatever you need. As long as you are there. And then you leave it behind.
See? Excellent metaphor.
She doesn't talk, she knocks him down, clothes melting away to something she saw on a billboard flying in. It's a neat trick, she could have her own act. America's Got Talent. Even neater when it melts to nothing. She knows why people -- collective plural -- 'like' her. She's aggressive, she's fun, she's talented. And she doesn't 'talk'. Or act like a girl. Girlfriend.
She acts like a Bunny.
Hours later, when she thinks maybe he's asleep, she asks one question. "Did you love her?"
He knows, but asks anyway. "Who?"
"Dinah."
Sometimes fifteen seconds is longest.
"Yeah."
She closes her eyes, her head on his chest, her body tucked against his, and sleeps until sunrise.
prompt: 2. "I have been alone for a very long time. I'm locked up in a room and I can't get out. Because I've been locked up in this room so long whatever desires are arising in me are rampaging around everywhere as wild and fierce and monstrous as gigantic starving jungle beasts."
-Kathy Acker
Two hours is more than enough time to get from L.A. to Las Vegas the way the crow flies. At top speed she can do it in fifteen minutes.
Vegas is a good metaphor for her. Similie. Analogy. Whatever it is, it's a good one. Bright. Seedy. Flashy. Trashy. Overdone. Sinful. Entertaining. Driven. Angry. Cheap. Drunk. Shallow. Self-centered.
Well-meaning.
She's an original. She means to be.
Self-destructive.
She said 'I love you' once. She was twenty-three. He died. Only not really. Really he just pretended to be dead for fifteen years. Never mind she blamed herself. Never mind she refused to let anyone in that close ever again. Never mind.
The only people who think she might be dead are the people who want her dead.
She's never thought bunnies are cute. Especially Playboy Bunnies. Not that that has anything to do with anything.
Sometimes she looks in the mirror and she doesn't know how she became this person. And now she's acting like a girl. Worse. She's acting like a girlfriend.
She's never cared if people like her. Sure she cares that people -- collective plural -- like her. But not individual people. Persons.
Except Tony.
Why don't your girlfriends ever like me, Tony?
Because they come and go. And you don't.
Fifteen years is a long time. But sometimes fifteen minutes is longer.
She doesn't bring anything with her, not even a toothbrush. The hotel will have one. Or wherever. Whatever. Isn't that the point of Vegas? It provides whatever you need. As long as you are there. And then you leave it behind.
See? Excellent metaphor.
She doesn't talk, she knocks him down, clothes melting away to something she saw on a billboard flying in. It's a neat trick, she could have her own act. America's Got Talent. Even neater when it melts to nothing. She knows why people -- collective plural -- 'like' her. She's aggressive, she's fun, she's talented. And she doesn't 'talk'. Or act like a girl. Girlfriend.
She acts like a Bunny.
Hours later, when she thinks maybe he's asleep, she asks one question. "Did you love her?"
He knows, but asks anyway. "Who?"
"Dinah."
Sometimes fifteen seconds is longest.
"Yeah."
She closes her eyes, her head on his chest, her body tucked against his, and sleeps until sunrise.