cannibal; kendall roy

27

Marguerite sighed as she looked over her appearance in the mirror. The loss of Kendall in her life for the past month had apparently done her in. She'd found no point in trying to cover up the bruising and bags on her face, he would've spotted it through the concealer anyways. Besides, there were the huge thick bandages on her nose.

Most of the swelling had gone down, but she just wasn't ready to take any of it off yet. It meant looking at her nose, the same nose that had blood pouring out of it for nearly an hour. The nose that she'd gotten fixed once before, and had now convinced herself needed assistance once more.

But moving on, everything else about the woman looked out together. She had blown out her hair, showered and changed into a sort of vintage Alexander McQueen dress, since the pair had decided on dinner. Her nails were red, the darker type of shade that Kendall tended to like.

Or at least he had back when the pair had originally thrust around in the dark.

And after all that, she sighed, stalking off into her closet and just sitting on one of the plush chairs, one of the few pieces of furniture of her father's that she had kept in the apartment after her upheaval. Then, opening a drawer, she took a small bump, and picked up her phone.

No updates. Nothing.

So, she curled up into the chair and picked up one of the leather bound books sitting on her closet's coffee table, earnestly opening it and flipping to a random page. She had to punish herself in smaller segments nowadays.

Or maybe it was grieving.

She wasn't sure.

"Today I find myself thinking of the last time I visited an exhibit. It was when my Lou was fourteen and I'd plucked her out of her education for a few days. One of the rare times that I found myself with time. It was at the MET, and I figured it would've excited her, as it had seven years prior when we had gone as a family.

Instead, Lou ran off to play hide and seek with a flock of children she stumbled upon. I couldn't blame her. This is what children do. They run off and away, make friends. Forget you? And while it stings, I know what my Father would say. And I believe it to be best that she runs away.

Which is what Lou is doing now. My daughter is freshly twenty. I remember when I was twenty. Can you imagine? I was struck with the art of Impressionism, my hands too weak and uncultured to attempt sculpting. Instead of art, my Lou criticizes such as she rolls around New York, a cut off the same plate as her mother.

Vogue. I think it would suit her well, if I did not miss her, or if our phone calls weren't short and less than five minutes long. I admire her, despite her thinking I despise her. I wish I had held the same opportunity to delay my progression into the hell water that consumes my life."

She slams the book shut and tosses it in the direction of one of her walls of shoes. The book hits a pair of heels she'd taken from her mother's collection, and the book eventually lands on a well worn pair of Tabi boots. Ruby red clashing with the scratched and worn down leather.

She needed a drink.

It wasn't that the passage had been insufferable for her, it was that it had been too raw for the half drunken woman to stomach. Thinking of her father was supposed to feel like a stab wound, it was supposed to fill her with dread and guilt. Only now, it was the opposite.

Now she felt yearning, the guilt was only a hint, like the flavor of apricot in his favorite wine- only a taste.

She now felt as if she was seeing his ghost everywhere she went, or that everyone else was. From the longtime workers and board members of Garnier, to old associates and friends now giving her their congratulations, there was always a look of disenchantment or knowledgeable glances they would not disclose to her.