Pretty Poison

Three

The skies illuminate with bright pastel purples, gradually becoming darker as the eyes travel upward, creating an ombret that even the most renowned of artists cannot capture in a single painting.

I gaze through the glass, staring down below at the cars rolling forward in a line through the gates of the mansion. Rolling up and stopping at the same place a BMW had taken the two Bianchi boys away earlier that morning. Twenty or quite possibly more BMW's, Porch's, and a Ferrari Chentanaro roll to the front of the house, the front wheels turning the circle. The sound of gravel pebbles being crushed under heavy tires echoes in the palace concave, but it is not nearly as loud as the music playing inside.

The front yard stretches all the way to the main road, two neatly planted rows of trimmed square bushes lining the whole way down. The mansion pillars stretch on either side of the wide gravel road leading to the heavy front doors, supporting equally beautiful exteriors. The pillar tops were carved with a gentle hand, the designs replicating that of Brushinelli's plans for the Florence Cathedral. The stone creates an illusion of waves, perfectly curled inward with equally thick lines. The once white stone now glints a faint beige under the piercing moonlight.

I avert my gaze back down to the people below, men of all sorts dressed in tuxedos with women who have breasts too big for their small chests to support. Their short cocktail dresses hug their figures tightly, some too short for the occasion. The women's bottoms ruffle the dresses up as they ascend the steps to the front doors, and I can't help but notice the valet men staring at them as if it were a block of solid gold.

Blondes, brunettes, and jet black heads of perfectly curled hair pepper the front garden, severe laughter and utter excitement looming. The women step from their cars with their most handsome partner, other women come alone, gathered in groups with their friends all squealing and laughing about lord knows what. But one thing is the same about every single one of them...they all have hopes to find their bad man and have the night of their lives with them in one of the many, many rooms in the house.

I only know this because it's the same every time, it's always my job to go room to room and tear off the bed linens and wash them. Not the most appropriate job, but arguing would land you somewhere short of death, and that is a fact I wish I could say was figurative.

The music seemingly grows louder and louder, the thumping bass and equal tempo of the club music distracting me from watching the gorgeous men and women below. The clinking of glasses becomes a second song, the clicking of high heels on polished marble the ideal counter beat.

I push myself away from the window, twisting back to face the furniture in the bedroom. Curtains hang from the ceiling over the bed, the thick velvet material tied back at all four corners of the bed, revealing a perfectly made up mattress with black pillows and gold embroidered comforter. A bench sits at the end of the bed, the plush cotton material also a jet black. The walls made of marble shine onto the marble floors, the whole interior a magnificent block of marble.

I stride closer to the door, the soles of my shoes patting quietly on the floor. As I open the door, the party comes bursting in, the bustling sounds below alive and most vivacious. I descend the steps in the grand foyer, striding immediately to the kitchen through an exclusive hall to retrieve my drink platter.

Within the kitchen, three professional chefs scramble to put out the most tasteful and delicious foods they can create. With my platter in hand, I rush out of the kitchen and into the party, where I stop short at the sight in front of me.

There are two hundred bodies crowded in the large living space, people seated on the pristine white couches with red wine in hand, all laughing and conversing with one another, some engaging in more intimate activities. I find myself watching for a moment, wondering what such contact would feel like on my body, but I push away those thoughts, disgusted with myself.

As I stride deeper and deeper into the crowd, I see platters come around to the people seated, though they do not contain wine, but rather seven lines of a white powdery substance, a single straw like object at the edge. I watch closely as men with skull tattoos and piercings snort the powder into their noses, leaning back into their seats as if in a trance.

The laughter only continues, men and women too preoccupied to mutter a thank you when taking a drink or two off my tray.

I make my way to the second living space, where I instantly regret heading. There, Sergio and several other men to whom I don't recognize immediately sit under a cloud of smoke. I avert my gaze to the tall pole stretching to the top of the ceiling, a half naked woman in stiletto heels putting on a show, amusing the men.

"Danza!" They shout.

"Mostrare la pelle! I'll pay you five-hundred to remove the top!" At that the group of men erupt in pleasurable laughter as the woman complies, and I immediately turn away, mortified.

"A drink, Signore?" I meekly state, as I step into view of Sergio, his gaze interrupted by my figure. His eyes glance up to me, pleasure and desire in his eyes as he stares me up and down, and I can't help but feel nauseous.

"Thank you," he says deeply, his dark, rich voice scaring me deep down to my core.

"Well look at this pretty little thing," one man states, leaning forward in his seat, and standing up. He strides to me, and I involuntarily step back, no one ever coming that close to me before.

The man gestures to grab a piece of my brunette hair as my back hits against the wall, but is stopped short to Sergio's bellowing tone.

"Get your dirty hands away from her, Fabien," he states angrily, "You!" he points to me, "Leave us!"

With that I immediately leave, but without failing to hear the snide remarks following after me.

"She is quite exquisite."

"She will surely be a gorgeous soul when she grows up."

"Females as pretty as that are hard to resist, they're like a sweet scented poison," they all laugh in unison, clinking their glasses and shouting to the dancer to come over to them.

I glare at the ground, placing the tray under my arm as the last drink is taken. The ground glimmers with bright blue and purple lights, the once calm house evolving into Italy's hottest club.

"Oi! Look who it is!" I hear a familiar voice call out, but my gaze does not move.

"It's that little girl from yesterday," the other calls out, I stop in my tracks as both men prevent me from moving forward. I say nothing.

I feel one reach for me, and I step back, refusing to be touched.

"Oh come on, love! Don't be afraid!" And they both erupt in laughter like hyenas about to devour their prey.

"Please, do not touch me," I say, finally finding the courage to look up.

"You are quite young, quite beautiful, and I'm sure pure," Benedict's accent is even more apparent, full of affection and desire.

My insides turn, disgusted with this. I step back once again.

"Please," I assert louder, "Leave me alone!"

"Feisty," they both laugh, but much to my dismay, they leave me behind, disappearing back into the crowd of dancing fools.

I charge forward, not even bothering to refill my tray as I run back up the stairs, careful to not touch anyone. I run to an empty room, closing and locking the door behind me, my legs giving out from beneath me as I sink to the floor, tears waving over me.

A sob escapes my lips as I place my hands over my face, covering myself from everything around me as I become engulfed in a fit of crying.

Why? Why do I have to be here? Why must it be like this? I know nothing, no one, and yet everyone knows me, for I am the girl to avoid.

Everyone around me was too scared to come close to me, avoiding contact with me as if I were the plague. But I avoided them, too, constantly reminded of the harsh words of Sergio:

Never touch anyone.