The Famoux

Chapter 7

emilee

Home. What a funny little word. Misleading. A home is never usually a house, is it? It isn't for me, anyway. The Victorian was a house--I was no more connected to it than sharing its namesake. In an identical way, our current plantation is just a house--I go to it to eat, sleep, and leave for hell in the morning. That is it. These buildings, these establishments, they have never truly been homes. My home has always been a person, specifically my mother. And ever since mom left, I've been homeless, homeless within a place that was supposed to qualify as home.

Come to think of it, living without a home is like living with no purpose. Why walk this earth if you're not walking towards that ultimate comfort? Why turn the oxygen into carbon dioxide if you're not using the air to express your deep love and affection towards that person who makes you whole? I've spent the past two years asking myself that question--what is the point in living any longer when I have no home to live for? Why let my existence continue to wound me? Why not pull some trigger of some kind and do everybody a favor? Perhaps whatever waiting for me on the other side would be the home I've been seeking.

I see now why I didn't give up, but rather hung on. I see now why no one should ever give up, no matter how drastic the situation. Hanging on means there is still a thought, still a wish needed to be granted. And this--this is just that thought, and just that wish. How was I ever to know I'd end up here if I didn't tag along to find out?

There's a strange feeling of comfort in Norax's arm around my shoulder as she escorts me out of a big black car about an hour past when I made my ultimate decision. It's almost as if I've been steadied by a particular arm such as hers once before, in some long forgotten fantasy. I've only known one other motherly figure, one other homely figure before, and though I am scared, and nervous, and unsure of what the world is going to do to me now that I have made my choice, I can feel the gravitational pull of home; real, genuine home. It's somewhere out there, calling to me like that dream of piano playing that had let me sleep soundly for the first time in forever. Joining the Famoux, I feel, is taking me closer and closer to home, whatever--or whomever--that may be.

It takes hours and hours of silent riding before we approach a sleek black tower. I must've fallen asleep along the way, for I have to rub my eyes to see it not blurred. The building nearly blends right into the darkness outside, minus the dim glow of candles in a couple of the windows.

"Apologies for the long drive," Norax tells me. "We had to go far beyond Trulivent to get here. I'm glad you could get some sleep along the way."

"What is this place?" I ask.

"One of the Famoux's many control centers," she clarifies. "We have dozens scattered all about Eldae--a couple for publicists, a couple for insurance, a couple for advertisement. There's a building for just about anything. Generally, we tend to build them in remote locations so we won't get any reporters trying to ask us questions. This one in particular deals with makeovers and reformation."

Blood rushes to my head at the thought of reformation. "Oh, okay."

The building's inside is even sleeker than the exterior. The lobby is bestrewed with candles that illuminate modern, minimalistic furniture, and the floor is made of a spotless white marble--the walls, pitch black. I imagine there's a greater effect when the lights are working, for they must shine starkly on all the leather couches and glossy inked coffee tables. In the center of it all is an ebony reception desk, adorned with a large ivory Famoux symbol directly on its midpoint.

The woman at the desk greets Norax with a curt smile. She's got all her hair pinned up into a lustrous bun atop her head, and by the way the candlelight is catching it, it looks like it's caught on fire. I can't keep my eyes off it.