[right] [sup][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019c49c3-37fa-731f-a86b-aed292314184.webp[/img] [img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019c49c9-d379-7439-abef-80ab5ac9d584.webp[/img] [color=black]eleanor hill • the author[/color][color=808080][color=2e2c2c].....[/color]| [color=2e2c2c].....[/color][color=daa520][b]#daa520[/b][/color] [color=black].015[/color] nye party > The afterparty • skydeck marquee[/color] [img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019c49c3-37fa-731f-a86b-aed292314184.webp[/img][/sup][/right] [indent][indent][indent][indent][indent] [justify] [color=silver] [color=gray]Elly[/color] second guessed herself and looked around the room, again. The "afterparty" was buzzing with a gross electric gossip. The lights were hanging like flies, listening and speaking to everyone about everything. There was a tap in her kitten heels, some nervous rhythm making out a secret S.O.S. And then, there was Ewan. He was asking if she could FaceTime. And then, a new message—from [I]Spencer.[/I] The glow of the screen seemed miles away as she stared at it. Her eyes were vacant and glossed with alcohol. For a brief moment, a memory fluttered by her. Its wings cascade dust of frost on cracking glass. Her fingers, trembled into doing nothing but hover, afraid to land on any response. [center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019c49c3-37fa-731f-a86b-aed292314184.webp[/img][/center] [indent][indent] [color=gray] [color=955461]“He’s going for it.”[/color] [color=daa520]“Who?”[/color] Elly replied, half-bored. [color=955461]“Adam Johnson. I wish you wrote more like him.”[/color] He spoke of authors the way other men spoke of football games. It made her sick, and other times, it made her swoon. Until the icons on the wall interceded. [color=daa520]“Like what?”[/color] She asked, taking another sip of wine from her glass. [color=955461]“Heavier. Deeper.”[/color] He took another huff from the paper, not bothering to even look at her. His body was stretched out on the navy sofa, taking more space than necessary. [color=955461]“Reading your work is like reading Eowyn Ivey or worse Kate Quinn. You keep trying to expand your emotional depth, but honestly, it’s stuck in shallow water.”[/color] His tone was dry and accompanied by a shrug of constant disapproval. He didn’t stop even when her body shifted nervously and the seat dipped next to him. Elly’s voice was too loud, too concrete, too her. She needed to unlearn this voice and use the next one waiting. She needed more patience. [color=daa520]“Kate Quinn? Come on, I’m not that bad.”[/color] Elly took another sip. The glass was draining quicker than she had expected. Her eyes glanced at the bottle. It was almost empty. [color=955461]“Let’s take [i]The Bluest Eye[/i] by Toni Morrison. Incest. Rape. Pedophilia. And that’s only surface level pain.”[/color] He blew smoke from his lips and added one more comment about war and women’s suffering refined into a laureate’s work. The conversation died with the smoke. It lingered in the air and slowly faded. Elly watched the smoke. The ceiling fan spun circles. It was making a numb noise that reminded her of childhood. A nervous hand ran through her dark hair, and she took the final sip from her glass. The empty glass stared at her, and Laszlo Krasnahorkai knocked on her mind. A barbed loneliness entered. It reintroduced her to names and faces she could never ignore. Tears began blurring her focus. Her lips pressed together, and she dabbed her eyes. He sat up, unzipping his pants. [color=955461]“I don’t have much time, Elly.”[/color] [color=daa520]“I really shouldn’t.”[/color] She hadn’t received Communion for a month, and her apartment was starting to feel muted. She was no longer present. [color=955461]“It doesn’t matter. Elder Thaddeus said I can’t have Communion until Pascha.”[/color] Elder Thaddeus. His Spiritual Father, who lived on Mount Athos — the holiest place on Earth. Elly couldn’t imagine having a monastic as a Spiritual Father. Let alone one on Mount Athos. Their penances were stricter. All she had to do was tell him, no, and on Sunday, the veil would be lifted. [color=daa520][I]Don’t you think my writing would be better with Communion?[/I][/color] She wanted to ask. But, she never did. And when she woke up in the morning, she was still on the couch. Curled into a ball. He was gone. Morning light peeked through the window. It cast shadows on the floor and couch. There were two text messages on her phone, [I][b]Don’t worry. Nothing happened last night. You passed out on me. You’re welcome[/b][/I] and, [I][b]“Tell Father Thomas hi for me. Thanks”[/b][/I] The phone’s cracked screen went dark. She closed her eyes and listened to the room breathe. There was a relief in her soul, but her heart ached. Was she Natasha, with a candle burning at her window? Waiting for patience to finally make an announcement? The thought haunted her before evaporating. It’s not as if her dad rescued her mother. Books rescued her mother. Elly had to write her own.[/color][/indent][/indent] [center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019c49c3-37fa-731f-a86b-aed292314184.webp[/img][/center] Her phone buzzed in her hand. It startled her nerves out of her daydream, and her palm clenched tightly around the metal, warm from her tiring grip. It was late, much later than she wished. She wanted to go home; get out of this stupid fashion show; pretend it never happened; and go to bed. It was Ewan being ever-ready and reassuring. [I][b]It's OK if you can't FT rn. I'll stay with you as long as you need me.[/b][/I] A small smile struggled to make its appearance. She wasn't sure if she was going to cry, but she was trying hard to hide the fact. Her eyes were watering, and she was holding breaths in between quickly thumping heartbeats. And something, if she could imagine it, like a black fog with fangs, was gnawing on her chest. It was the alcohol, clearly... [I]not[/I] Ewan's sentimental but creepishly caring response, nor Spencer's shallow, way-out-of-context, Happy NYE text. It was the haze of ethanol stirring her emotions. It was the night telling her to go to sleep when she couldn't. But, it was too late for her to go to sleep. She was trapped. Trapped as the person she has always been and always will be. There was no new year and no new her. It was all the same. It was always the same. And then, she would be writing a new book. Spencer would read it. Ewan would read it. And, she would be left asking herself, did she really write a new book? Or have all her books been about the same subject merely worded differently? She slipped her phone back in her purse and took one more look around the room. Her vision was a bit blurred with tears. Her lips parted and hopeful. Her posture, tall and confident, and slowly blending into the scenery. Reality was hitting: she never stood out for wearing the least fashionable thing at the party. No, she had always blended in, simply by being at the party. And there had been a murder. If there was one thing she learned in life: everyone was fighting a war of their own. And, if Tolstoy hadn't taught her anything about struggling through unhappiness, it was that Time and Patience were the two warriors are the two most powerful warriors. All she had to do, was wait and be patient... ... And be glad she was still alive. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]