Gods & Monsters

Prologue

The mahogany elevator doors open with a soft ding, their gold buttons a'glint. Jacob sort of wants to smudge them with his fingerprints, give a bit of texture to their overly manicured sheen—he's got grease on them still from the chips he found in that one boy's fridge. Whatever his name was. Timmy? Something.

He emerges, steps onto smooth wooden floors the color of bitter chocolate, his shoes leaving little dirty scuffs with each stride. The dirt mars the potentially fresh wood polish, which is nice. It's always satisfying to see things a little fucked up. People—especially these people—are too pristine. Too up themselves, if you will, worried about how things look, worried about how they'll be perceived.

Fuck that, honestly.

Smirking at the scuffs, he continues down the hall, Kurt Cobain screeching the question of "where did you sleep last night?" into the buds stuffed in his ears. Best singer, that Cobain. It's like, whenever he sang, he poured every disparaging, awful, shit feeling he'd ever felt into his vocal cords and ripped them from his body, threw them into the air and down others' throats. It's raw, you know? And real. Just fucking...real.

Jacob likes real.

Still though, he probably should step out of his realness and step into the world he's currently in now—the fake one. Ironic, innit?

He plucks the buds out, stuffs them in his shitty jean jacket that's tinged with sour smoke and nicotine stains. With its little tears from disuse and sharp edges. Scuffs from being shoved onto pavement. Rips from slinking past rusty iron fences. You know—the usual. Living the charming life. They'll put it on his gravestone: 'Here Lies Jacob Bixenman. He lived a charming life.'

To be fair, though, that is probably how he'll be remembered. As charming. Maybe a few other things, but charming should definitely make the list. 

"We'll be back tonight, darling," a luxurious female voice suddenly says as Jacob makes his way deeper into the flat. It sounds like eighteen carats of gold and satin. It sounds like anti-wrinkle cream and posh perfume. Pristine.

"Alright, mum," Timothee's voice says, indifferent. "Will you be back for dinner? Or should I have someone fetch something?"

Fetch something? Jacob can't help but snort—Timothee's such a fucking prince. Spoiled little preppy prince. Sexy spoiled preppy prince. It's annoying but since Jacob would kindly like to suck his dick again and house all of his major credit cards, he figures he can let his quirks slide. Timothee tastes like money: Jacob's favorite flavor.

"Best do," his mum says, and the shuffle of cloth is heard, the clink of a purse. "We'll let you know if we dine somewhere local." She says the word with obvious distaste as Jacob rounds the corner and enters the room, her hand gesture flouncing the sentence away from her. It's then that she spots him, one eyebrow arching in Disney-villain distaste as she assesses him with green eyes that scream the words her very polite lipstick won't say.

Jacob doesn't even attempt to disguise his smirk as he meets her gaze. She fucking hates him.

Jacob's not got money, see. He's from the other side of town (snort) and he's "dirty" and "uncouth" and "dangerous" and "unrespectable" and all those other fucking words that are associated with one who doesn't possess a chauffeur or a summer home.

Fuck off, ma'am, thanks.

"Hello, Martha," Jacob greets happily, making sure to show his teeth and pushing his cheeks up into the least sincere smile he can manage. He slides his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket—and, god, she hates that jacket even more than she hates Jacob. Her lip is positively curling as she tracks the movement and her nostrils most definitely just twitched. As if she could smell it or something. Smell the sweat and drug abuse and bitterness and dried cum and dead-ends.