Maybe she should have spent money on something better. The New Year’s Eve party was a glamorous event. There was no arguing against the objective fact.
She was a nerdy novelist. No one cared how novelists dressed. No one asks what Murakami or Tolkien wore, and usually, when authors did make a thing about what they wore — it was a point to uniqueness, like Tom Wolfe in white suits.
Spencer was right — as usual.
She should have made more of an effort.
Her gloves came off and were shoved momentarily into her purse. Maybe it was a bad idea to have gloves. She couldn’t send stupid text messages to her only current chance at romance.
Elly tapped on her screen:
Billy Rifo is here!
You mean, Bobby Rifo? Spencer replied.
God, why was she so bad at referencing pop culture? It caused her paranoia and angst when dealing with outsiders, but inside her literary club, she felt like a mermaid swimming amongst the fish. She had accolades under her belt — not just as a “female author,” but as a writer.
She made Kate Chopin eat her feet with some of her subtle prose. So, she could be subtle in her little black dress? She was a thoroughly honest person.
If she were a cocktail, she’d be like the vodka on the rocks. She was that transparent and hard to break.
Well, not according to Spencer. He said she needed to break more, and all she felt was like a broken vessel, and because of the cracks, she was unable to hold anything but liquor.
Water was too pure and delicate…
A psalm made a gentle ballet through her head. The words strummed gracefully.
“A broken and contrite heart, God will not despise.”
Her teeth bit on her lower lip.
Spencer was right, again — for the second time since arriving at the party. She was not broken enough. God would value her more. Instead, she battled to refrain from sex with Spencer so she could take Communion every Sunday.
That’s when Daisy Black walked by.
It was as if the party opened up a makeshift catwalk for her. There she was. As if a Disney Princess had been a porn star. The music was made just for her.
Daisy was one lady who made the Orthrobros vomit more than Elly did. Like Belle Delphine but more mature and less geeky. Therefore, that much more top-notch in how memes of her were generated.
Through Spencer, Elly had read something about Daisy being surface-level that women like Elly were more of a nuisance because they worked on the intellectual subconscious.
As far as Elly was concerned, men were probably not masturbating to her books.
Yeah, so, she personally fantasized with Alysha from The Brother’s Karamazov and Phineas from A Separate Peace. But, she knew better.
The Trads were critiquing her writing, sticking their nose up at girls who didn’t bother to wear ankle length skirts to Liturgy, and then going and going home to women like Daisy.
Spencer agreed and then said he got off to her book characters.
God. He was the worst.
And, he enjoyed toying with other people’s sins.
“A glass of the prosecco,” she tapped her finger lightly on the bar counter. Her eyes moved to one of the white wine bottles on display and back to the barman. A small smile, quaint and perky moved her lips.
Something about all of this felt like an elaborate college party, and she was just a yuppie freshman. At least, there was a line to follow, and she had made it through orientation.
Her innocence was no longer intact, as it had been when she was a small college freshman. There were so many young girls behind her, now. Looking up to her. And Spencer was right there, in her phone, taunting her.
An explosion waiting to happen.
A corrosion of her spiritual life was going to make headlines.
The Bros will have a field day, and those women will need somewhere better to look. Elly was determined to write the woman they would need. The woman she needed, since all the others were failing. Including the unreproachable saints.
Somehow, she knew they needed or she needed someone closer to the flame. She wasn’t talking about Saint Mary of Egypt, who God only knows went above and beyond while struggling with beastiality.
They needed something not so theatrical.
More modern and contemporary.
The woman who would never be innocent enough no matter how much she tried. A dying nun reminiscing on her life prior to the monastery.
She had been married with two daughters. Every turn they would remind her why her husband chose them over her.
Whenever he gave them the talk.
“Your mother lost it with some guy in high school.”
“I saved myself for your mother.”
“Eve caused man to embrace the Fall.”
And yet, the woman would have no objection. She would quietly accept her fate. As the Liturgy prays for those who suffer in silence.
She would embody the silent character as a character who is a nun, remembering even in her life and even in monasticism was too reproached with silence to fit the mold.
A touching line; “You compare married and monastic life too much…”
A trial of comparison. And the protagonist must walk the middle. Choose alienation for salvation. Accept an unfair trial for peace. And ultimately, lose her identity.
The protagonist will have one thought to console her, “God knows the truth and proving herself to anyone but Him was fruitless.”
Then she saw Charles. The glass tipped between her lips. A sip of the sweet liquid gently nestled against the tip of her tongue. It lingered before she swallowed.
He was an American God.
The thoughts toyed with her as the count down, of course, began.
Why had she arrived so late?
A giggle smiled on her. The feeling of drinking with Charles Aponte was akin to that schoolgirl crush in Professor Cormack but more so.
Oh no…
What had Spencer said about how she looked? God, she was debating whether she looked good or not. Sexy. Professional. Worth it.
The likelihood of someone like Aponte knowing his designers like Spencer were higher than one in ten.
And she was fantasizing about him.
Part of her felt despair. Why hadn’t she slept with Spencer before the party? I mean, he was her guy, but she also saw them as so fake. Not that cheating on him in the unofficial relationship was morally outstanding for press reasons.
Did she really have a chance with Charles? Who was she kidding? The drinks made her believe things. And God, why was he so much more attractive in-person? Like, the newspapers picked the worst photographs of everyone.
She so should have spent money on a new dress.
She was forgetting she was —
Suddenly, a blood-curling scream interrupted the party. It came from one of the restrooms. One that belonged to females, specifically.
(At least, the party had gender differences. In case of not, Elly had brought pepper spray, which was somehow not confiscated at the door.)
No one was allowed to leave.
Her face turned white.
She immediately messaged Spencer.
No reply.
No message read.
This was turning into a Sarah Pearse novel. Except, Elly was no detective — at least, not for cold-blooded crimes. She could find moral and philosophical crimes of the psyche.
Physical crimes were beyond her pay grade, especially when she was now a suspect and the killer was still inside the party.
How the fuck are they not letting us leave?
Her message remained unanswered. Unread even.
The Beauty and the Beast purse tightened in her hand. The glass went to her lips.
She took another sip.
The divine sense of theater was turning dramatic.
TokyoPewPew,
N3v3rM0r3,
Angelique,
Iracebeth,
Gurkenkrater,
xVampire3go,
lustrousfox,
Silly,
Deadline,
DarkStar
