golden [kaylor]

( three. )

Once again, thank you all for your feedback. You're wonderful sweet baby angels. This one hurt to write, though.

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You close the shop early, because you can't stand being there, in that place.  Not with the scent of Karlie's perfume lingering.  Not when you can still feel those eyes.  You seal the shelves so the cookies and cupcakes won't spoil overnight, turn off the lights, and lock the doors.

You debate just going home, curling up in bed and watching Karlie's old interviews on youtube while you cry.  But now that her real voice, that strange little accent, it's so real in your head and you know it'll claw at you if you go home.  It'll rip tears from your eyes and bring fists to your lips until they're dark purple and swollen.

So you do go home, but it's a brief venture.  You nearly trip over Monica sleeping in the living room, and she swats at your calf in retort.  You don't even flinch when kitten claws break skin, drawing blood to the surface.  You're used to little cat scratches by now.  

Your feet carry you to your closet.  You used to have a massive walk-in, with expensive dresses and endless clothes because the media would have a fit if you wore the same thing twice.  Now your closet is a hutch, and there are ten dresses in it, at most.  You find one that's dark blue, short and tight, cut out at the sides and low-cut in the front.  

You squeeze yourself into it, smiling at the way the large watercolor fox tattoo on your thigh and the phoenix on your ribs become visible.  With every piece of your old life gone, you'd decided to do some reinventing on your own terms.  You have four tattoos now, and after the freckles drilled on your face, they had hardly hurt.

You dig through a modest pile of shoes until you find silvery stilettos, and you slide them on.  You haven't lost your steadiness in heels, at least, and when you finish doing your makeup and transferring the essentials into your "going out" purse, you walk out the door like a woman who knows exactly where she stands in life.

Which is ironic, since you have absolutely no idea anymore.

A cab takes you to one of the only four bars in the town.  It's the only one with a dance floor.  The old Taylor Swift never would have walked into a somewhat skeezy place like this with no security, if at all.  But you're Eva Sterling, and you're sad and alone and want the buzz of alcohol and human contact.

You slump at a barstool quite ungracefully, and when a bartender with a tired smile approaches, you order a vodka on the rocks.  The glass is cool in your hand but the drink burns as you swallow it in large gulps.  You let it sizzle in your throat.  You hold it on your tongue, feeling the sparks, waiting for them to ignite.  In the rush from the alcohol, you can feel Karlie's name pumping through your bloodstream, and it's dizzying.

You down two more glasses of the sharp alcohol, and then you walk on to the dance floor, your inebriation surprisingly not hindering the strut that Karlie had taught you once.  And of course your head wanders to her again, but as you sidle up close to the speakers, the pounding beat helps shake the memories.  Just slightly.  They rattle and blur and it's harder to focus on them.

Fear of repercussion muffled you back then, but now you don't hide your affections for the fairer sex.  Taylor Swift had never been with a girl before Karlie Kloss (and even then, you were never physically with her, not like that).  But like you always have to remind yourself, you're Eva Sterling, and you like the way girls whimper under your hands.

One is pressed against you now, a little bit shorter than you, but with long hickory hair and green eyes.  She's thin and has pronounced cheekbones and you try to ignore the similarities.  Her hips grind against your ass with dancer's grace and you close your eyes and pretend she smells like mangoes, like Karlie.

Her hands graze your sides and you catch them, turning and gripping her wrists.  Your eyes close when you lean in to drag your tongue along the too-sweet skin of her neck, feeling the pulse hammer in your mouth.  She moans and asks you if you want to go home with her, and you agree.

The next several minutes are stumbled steps and blurred, sloppy kisses.  Her apartment is near the bar and as soon as you're inside of it, you're the one leading.  You don't let them touch you.  You never do.  Instead you push the girl on to the couch and pin her hands, ordering her to keep them still.  Her skin feels wrong beneath you and she looks like Karlie but doesn't sound like her and as you make her shudder, you feel sick.

She tries to reciprocate and you swat her hands away, gathering your things.  She sits up on the couch, looking at you in confusion, "You don't want to stay?"  And she sounds kind of hurt.  Taylor Swift feels bad.  Eva just scoffs.

The sound feels harsh as it falls from your mouth, but it's there anyway, "Don't act like this meant something, sweetheart." You tell her the words, dipping them in acid before you press them against her skin.  Your fingers are still slick with her and you wipe them on the arm of her couch, your lips pulled into a sardonic sort of smile.

She looks like Karlie but she isn't Karlie, and a part of you feels like a monster for the way you've treated her.  But as you stumble through the door and walk home in the thick night air, your footsteps seem to ring with the sound of Karlie's voice.  It weakens your knees and dizzies your thoughts.  You can't even focus on where you're walking.  It's amazing when you manage to make it home.  

You stagger to your bedroom, yanking open the bedside drawer.  There are papers, a vibrator, a box of condoms.  And something else.  Something you worry will burn your fingertips when you touch it.  A Bible.  You can't remember the last time you truly believed in something, but with everything stable you ever knew gone, there's not much else to rely on.

You clutch the book to your chest, fingernails digging into the slots of its tattered spine.  You cling to it and whisper prayers for forgiveness.  Your shoulders shake with tears and you plead and plead and plead that the god you don't even know for sure is watching you will forgive you for your shattered heart and your horrible ways of coping.

You pray until the words stop making sense, until the buzz from the alcohol slows to a lazy hum in your head that makes your eyelids feel heavy.  The New Testament papercuts your fingers as your eyes close tight, your last amens dying on your lips.

You fall asleep to Karlie's sad, tired eyes looking at you in the bakery like she'd seen a ghost.