The Seventh Stone

Chapter One

Never a boring night when you're surrounded by a bunch of rich, drunk people.

And at the end of the day, we've got to do what we've got to do. Since graduating art school with honors a little over two years ago, my career skyrocketed. I moved away from a crumbling, bombed-and-ruined New York to Los Angeles, and made my way into a new life—with connections, connections, and more connections... 

It's great, but it also sucks. Sucks to have left New York behind. Sucks to have had my university burned to a crisp. Sucks to have needed to start over, all because the flashes of burning buildings and explosions didn't abate. Nor did the blood-curdling fear of being unable to escape the nuke being shot toward the middle of the city...

Life has its vices, I suppose. It doesn't matter where you go. Having moved past stitching up my mental health, the next stage was reconstructing the rest of my life.

And knowing how to charm people—it's arguably more important than being a prodigy. After all, how many prodigies go on to become a household name? At the end of the day, talent can be cultivated—but a helping of schmooze and human interaction is what gets you ahead. 

That's why I fade to the background at these art showcasing events. Local universities have them every couple of months, and they're great for portfolio exchanges and collaborations—but my facial muscles start aching after hours of pretending that I'm not thinking about going home and plopping in front of the TV. 

Smiles and smalltalk take the foreground of my everyday business. I can't cuss out an annoyingly snobby patron, because he might hire me for a project. Can't sprinkle sarcasm into my morning cheerios, because I might develop a reputation. It's all carefully calculated, carefully strategized... And the slyness makes me feel dirty sometimes.

Tonight was a huge success, having sold a number paintings at a local exhibition—as successful as an artist can get, anyway. It's never terribly exciting, just a bit of mule here and there. 

No one ever giddies over my artwork or cries at it the way I do, when I'm working at the university's studio. And if I had someone waiting for me at home every night, they would probably never tell the difference between a successful night and a bust.

Despite the night's success, the energy doesn't pass with me over the threshold into my apartment. After the tirade of small talk and smiles, I flip on the lights and trudge about my apartment, going through the motions—shoes thrown off in separate directions, purse on the dinner table, big-girl clothes on the desk chair...and finally, stage four: remove uppermost layers of makeup, and hop off to sleep.

The sight of my bed is a cornucopia of pillows, blankets and sweet, sweet relief—just like usual. 

Having the utmost negligence to basic skin care, I toss the used makeup wipe on my nightstand before flipping off the lights, and crawl into the soft sheets with a heavy sigh. With the quiet, tranquil darkness muting the noises of the day, it doesn't take long for me to start drifting off to sleep. The last thing I see are the glowing digits on the alarm clock sitting on my nightstand—12:05 AM.

Every muscle in my body relaxes as my head weighs heavy into the pillow. The day starts slipping away, bit by bit, but I couldn't tell how long I've been asleep before I suddenly feel my fingers twitch—a telltale sign that something's waking me up. If it were a person, I'd smack them—thanks to my painful single hood, it's more likely a bug. And I'm about to have a heart attack. 

 Bits of consciousness start returning to me, and a faint buzzing sound starts to rise in my ear...which obviously shouldn't be there, but maybe it's a dream? I protest my return to consciousness as I roll onto my side annoyedly—leaving only a quarter of my face exposed to the air.