𝐒𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 | 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐒

CHAPTER SIX: Unwelcoming Pleasantries

CHAPTER SONG: PRISONER BY THE WEEKEND ft. LANA DEL RAY

  I think I've been in Hollywood for too long

Cause I can feel my soul burning, feel it burning slow

But I would be nothing without the touch

I feel the rush and it's amazing

Maybe I've been always destined to

end up in this place, yeah

I don't mean to come off selfish, but I
want it all

Love will always be a lesson, let's get out of its way

Cause I know, all I know, all I know

I'm a prisoner to my addiction

I'm addicted to a life that's so empty and so cold 

_________________________________________________

Chapter Six: UNWELCOMING PLEASANTRIES

PRAISES AND CHUCKLING REACHES my range of hearing causing myself to wheel my eyes. Early in the morning and that's what I wake up to. Here I stand, still dressed in the clothes I wore last night before I fainted. Still not knowing the reason burdens me. Knowing that I was well fed and energetic yesterday and suddenly my body condition changed is just weird.

I puff out a breath of frustration, following the sounds of Marcel's voice as it echoes through the compound while I yawn and stretch on the way. Seeing a door that was slightly open, common sense kicked me awake and I stride towards it and poke my head into the room.

"Morning," I drawl, carelessly sitting on the armchair beside the mirror, my legs draped over the side, my eyes glances at Marcel. I was a little taken aback that I failed to notice that he was fitting a suit as a tailor mends at the end of the pants.

"Actually, it's 2 in the afternoon," My eyes widen a little that I have slept for that long. Simply because I rarely even get the right amount of sleep anymore. However, it isn't necessary whilst I am dead and I don't need it as much as I did back then.

I shrug as Marcel smugly admires himself in front of the full length mirror, smirking gloriously. "Damn, I do look good in a suit,"

"Self-praising isn't going to get you anywhere," I state blankly, causing him to briefly glare at my smirking face.

Thierry chuckles, then turns back to the television, where photos of Tina McGreevy and Joshua Rosza, the teenagers that were turned at Marcel's party flash on the screen, indicating they are missing.

"There it is," I say, nonchalantly as I lay my head on the palm of my hand. "It's sad they don't get their own funeral set up—"

"My guy at the docks is gonna come forward as an eyewitness, say he saw those two drunkenly fall into the Mississippi. They'll be dredging for weeks. No one will come looking around here,"

Marcel puts a satisfied nod. "That's good, considering one's dead in a dumpster behind the county morgue, and the other one is a vampire now. Anything else?"

The tailor accidentally pricks her finger on a pin as she hems Marcel's pants.

"Ow!" She jerks away and examined her injured finger.