+3 Confident Moodlet

Ghost Woman: “Five generations ago, doctors treated female hysteria with so-called pelvic massages. That bit I imagine Lord Shallot didn’t know. When Lady Shallot returned home looking relaxed and renewed, her Lord asked what the doctors had done to turn her into a new woman. She answered honestly. She told him hysteria was said to be a disease of the uterus, and treatment meant the doctor massaged a woman’s...ahem...intimate area until...completion.”

Rita: “There’s no way that’s real! The doctor must have tricked you!”

Ghost Woman: “It was very real. It was standard procedure. Sims didn’t know much about mental health care five generations ago.”

Rita: “That’s hilarious! I can’t believe they thought that worked!”

Ghost Woman: “Bernard was just as skeptical as you. No, that’s putting it too softly. Lord Shallot was enraged. He saw it as infidelity. He wanted to know why his lovemaking wasn’t satisfactory. He wanted his Lady to swear she didn’t enjoy it. She couldn’t lie to him, she was an honorable woman, and refused to. The fight lasted hours. Eventually, Lady Shallot retired to her bedroom because she grew tired of crying and taking the endless abuse he hurled her way. Lord Shallot did not retire. He went to his studio and piled up all the paintings of his lady. There were hundreds. He piled them up, and in a fit of rage, set them ablaze.”

Rita: “No!”

Ghost Woman: “Don’t act so surprised, child, you already knew the outcome of this story. The estate went up with the paintings. Bernard promises that wasn’t his intention, but intention means little in matters of life and death. He burned alive that night. I died from the smoke, but my body burned up eventually, too. Half the estate was lost and was only rebuilt decades later for today’s museum. I had yet to bare children, so the Shallot name died too.”

Rita: “...So, what’s your ambition?”

Ghost Woman: “Imagine, a young girl with a sweet, doe-eyed face and honey-blonde hair born into a wealthy family. Her parents name her Mimsy, which only adds to her childlike charm. Well this young girl was born to a wealthy family, perhaps the wealthiest in all of Windenburg.”

Rita: “Windenburg...?”

Ghost Woman: “Yes, they called her Lady Mimsy Alcorn Moreau until she was sold off to the Shallots of the Von Haunt Estate to marry their eldest son. Then she became Lady Mimsy Alcorn Shallot.”

Rita: “You were a Shallot?! I had no idea! Your family, is like, famous! Your mansion is a museum!”

Ghost Woman: “So this young girl married Lord Bernard Shallot and although she was rather irritated by him for a while, eventually she fell madly in love. Lord Shallot had a strange way about him. They say he was eccentric, others would call him insane. He painted, constantly. Portraits of his Lady, he said, but they looked nothing like a Lady at all. He started pursuing less conventional modes of inspiration. For two decades, he rarely slept. He rarely ate. His eyes were bulged and crazed. All the while, his passion for Lady Shallot grew.”

Rita: “What did Lady Shallot do?”

Rita: “So are you lost? Maybe I can help you...”

Ghost Woman: “Not all who wander are lost.”

Rita: “I’d have to disagree. I’ve met plenty of ghosts and I can promise you, the wandering ghosts are lost ghosts.”

Ghost Woman: “Not me. I’ve never been lost. Ever since I died, six generations ago, I’ve known exactly where I was. My body dropped to the ground, my soul rose up, and I was immediately tethered down. I had no interest in going to the beyond. Death is terribly macabre! It’s pathetic, really. I have no interest in joining the dead, with their broken hearts and sob stories. I love life and I love this world. I have more ties than I can count. Every single living person ties me here. The excitement and the familiarity of this world ties me here. A private dream I hold in my heart ties me here most of all.”

Rita: “Isn’t there anyone waiting for you in the great beyond?”

Ghost Woman: “Oh, sure...I’ve got siblings and in-laws and grandparents and nieces and nephews and uncles and aunts. No one I’d like to see!”

Rita: “So you’re tied to the world and you’re tied to the living...”

Ghost Woman: “...and by a certain ambition.”

Rita: “What ambition?”

It was nearly 3 a.m. when Rita emerged from her room with sleep-crusted eyes and a bursting-bladder. She stumbled out of her room, still half asleep, and saw an eerie yellow glow in the darkness. She rubbed her eyes furiously and flicked on the light.

Rita: “What the hell? Who are you?”

The woman didn’t pay Rita any mind. She wandered through the living room, inspecting the furniture and the artwork on the walls, completely oblivious to the irritated, disoriented teenager staring her down. 

Rita: “Hello? I’m talking to you, ghost. This is my home, so you best state your business!”

The ghost peered over her shoulder, wide-eyed. When her gaze met Rita’s, and saw she was indeed seeing her, her glow switched to green. 

Ghost Woman: “My, my! It’s been quite a long time since I’ve been blessed the company of a seer. Did you call me here, my dear child? Oh, it doesn’t matter, I’m here now! Please, please, let’s sit and chat a while. You can spare a few moments for an old, long-dead woman, can’t you? I’ve been so very lonely and seers are so very rare to come by.”

Rita: “So at that point I had pretty much blew it. The interviewer already had suspicions about my age. She kept asking me questions about my prior experience, and I could tell she didn’t believe anything I had written on my resume...”

Eva: “Well if you hadn’t lied - !”

Rita: “It was all lies! If I was truthful, then I would hand over a blank page with only my name printed on it.”

Eva: “I can picture it. GHOST CARTWRIGHT - across the top, in big block letters - oh god, tell me you haven’t been submitting resumes with ‘Ghost’ as your name!”

Rita: “It is my name! I thought I was supposed to be truthful? Should I just submit the blank sheet then?”

Eva: “No, no, no!”

Rita: “So, she was already doubting my age and experience. She’s saying things like ‘are you confident you are ready to take on a high-stress, self-directed job like this one?’ and, ‘we are looking for serious candidates who can handle the task load...’”

Eva: “Oh god!”

Rita: “So I know that I’m nearly done for, but somehow I hang on. I dismiss her fears and basically keep talking myself up like I’m some sort of customer service guru. For a minute, my false confidence was almost looking to convince her...”

Eva: “What happened?”

Rita: “The phone rang.”

Eva: “No!”

Rita: “Yeah. It rang. She looks down at it. Then up at me. And she says, ‘This is a perfect opportunity to test your skills. Go on then.’”

Eva: “What did you do?”

Rita: “I grabbed the phone. I asked, ‘what do I say?’ and she rattled off the greeting line for me to repeat. I brought the phone to my ear, and I repeated it. Perfectly.”

Eva: “So what went wrong?”

Rita: “The phone was upside-down. I had the transmitter - the chorded end - against my ear. I was talking into the speaker.”

Eva: “Oh god! You flipped it around though?”

Rita: “I didn’t know what I did wrong! I said, ‘hello, is anybody there?’ and when I couldn’t hear anyone, I looked at the phone, and then at her, and tried again. ‘Hello? Hello?’ When I still couldn’t hear anything I shrugged and hung it up. ‘Maybe it was a buttdial,’ I said.”

Eva: “Noooooo! Oh my god, Ghost! You don’t know how to answer a phone?!”

Rita: “I had never seen an ancient phone like that! It had a rack and a chord and a cable that plugged into the wall! I didn’t even realize it was a phone until the ringer went off!”

Eva: “What did she even say after that?!”

Rita: “‘Thank you for coming in today, we will contact you later about whether or not we would like to offer you the position.’”

Eva: “Jeez...you and I are never going to find jobs, are we?”

It was decided then. The bitter pang of a lost friendship wrapped around Rita’s heart. Her insides felt hard and cold. 

She tried to push Abby out of her mind, and each time she resurfaced, Rita would shove her down again and absolved herself from guilt, thinking, “I won’t be like her. That’s not me.” 

By the time Rita got home, it was past 1 a.m. and her head was still reeling from the night at Abby’s place. She drug her tired body into the kitchen, swung open the refrigerator door, and pursued over its contents. She grabbed whatever appealed to her - ground beef, some cheese, a bit of hot sauce - and tossed it all in a pan over low heat. She wasn’t much of a cook, but Francisca had taught her some things. 

As she pushed the pan’s contents around with a spatula, Rita tried to recount what events lead up to the horrible conclusion that she was left with tonight. Abby tried to kiss her, and Salim saw it. He stopped it, in fact. As unpleasant as he was, Rita had to admit she was glad for his intrusion. If he hadn’t come home, then...

Her gut churned just thinking about it. The memory of Abby’s face approaching her’s made Rita want to hurl. The worst part was that, for a moment, Rita wasn’t sure she would stop Abby. When Abby was on top of her, body against body, fingers interlocked, hearts hammering away in tandem, a strange warmth forming in her abdomen, Rita almost forgot to fight her off. If Abby only moved a little faster, or Rita a little slower, then perhaps their lips would have locked...and who knows what would have happened then. Rita sighed. She couldn’t even trust her own mind. It had nearly failed her, and maybe it would have still.

She sent a silent thank you to Salim Benali. He saved her from something tonight. What’s more, his words reminded her what she knew in her heart to be true. Girls shouldn’t do the sorts of things with each other that Abby did. As much as she loved her friend, Rita felt validated in her most private beliefs - Abby was sick in the head, and it was rubbing off on Rita.

Abby turned toward her brother and braced herself for confrontation. She went out of her way to appear aloof, uncaring, and not at all afraid. She leaned back against Rita’s legs and let her head come to rest on the wall behind her. She stared up at the ceiling, her lips pinched into a thin line, and awaited her brother’s wrath.

Rita, though, was still stuck on her almost-kiss with Abby Benali. Every part of her wanted to escape this place and run home. Only, she couldn’t. Not while she was trapped between the wall and Abby’s body. 

Rita: “What the hell, Abby, get off of me!”

Abby didn’t move. She was solid, like a wall, blocking clear passage between her and the door.

Salim: “What the fuck did I say about bringing your things into my room?”

Abby: “Please, don’t act like it’s happened a million times, it was only once - ”

Salim: “ONCE! HAH! AS FAR AS I KNOW.  Like the last time was the first. You’re fooling no one, you filthy whore.”

Rita whipped her head toward Salim once again. Did he just call Abby a...?

Salim: “I told you to keep your fucking filth out of my house, out of my room, out of my sight...!”

Abby: “We weren’t even - !”

Salim: “You weren’t what? You mean to tell me you were doing Godly things in here? My apologies, I hadn’t realized you were on top of this girl praying! I assumed such nasty things, but if you say you were praying then surely this is a happy day! A true reformation of my dear sister. Who knew that all it took to get you to speak to God again was - ”

Abby: “I wasn’t praying!”

Salim: “MAYBE YOU SHOULD START.”

Rita mouth hung agape as she watched the dispute unfold. She felt that she ought to say something to defend her friend, but she couldn’t imagine what would help ease Salim’s mind. He was purple in the face, swaying madly from too much drink. His hand gripped the doorframe so hard his knuckles turned white. His speech was slurred. Each word was laced with hate and disgust.

Salim: “Father would have struck you down and beat you bloody for this.”

Abby: “Good thing father’s dead.”

Salim: “No, no, no...he would have beat you the first time. If you forced him to see this twice...he would have killed you. You - you and your beast.”

His gaze flickered over to Rita. She saw nothing but contempt in his curled lip and darting eyes. He scanned down Rita’s body painfully slow, his scowl deepening as he soaked in the image of her laid out across his bed. Abby’s body tensed up; her eyes did not break from Salim’s.

Salim: “Aren’t you two lucky I’m not father?”

Before Rita even had time to react, Abby had positioned herself on top of her. She pinned Rita’s hands on either side of her head. Their faces were only inches apart, and now, Abby’s pink cheeks and ragged breathing didn’t make her feel safe or content. It made Rita’s gut sink through the mattress and into the floor. Abby leaned in, closing the distance between them even more, and Rita’s body sprang into action.

She kicked her legs up in an attempt to knee Abby in the back. She pushed up against the hands that Abby had pinned down and was surprised when she retreated easily. 

Rita: “What are you doing?!”

Regret swarmed Abby’s face like a storm of locusts. 

Abby: “I thought that...it seemed like - !”

Rita shifted uncomfortably against Abby’s touch, and Abby shot up like a rocket. She sat, criss-cross on the bed, still facing Rita, but careful to make sure that no contact was made. So, just like that, Rita managed to throw a wrench in their sanguine moment and make her friend self-conscious. 

Rita: “No, wait, you don’t have to...”

Abby quirked an eyebrow up.

Rita: “You didn’t have to move. You were fine as you were.”

A subtle smile appeared on Abby’s face, one that Rita wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t already been studying her. It seemed Rita said the right thing at least. Abby’s nerves dissipated, and they rolled back into the atmosphere they had nearly lost. 

Abby picked Rita’s hand up off her chest and held it between her own. She traced a delicate finger over the thin lines in her palm and along the creases of each finger. She ran her hands over the top of Rita’s knuckles. She felt each fingertip, one at a time, and squeezed them lightly between her thumb and forefinger. All the while, Rita only watched as Abby explored this small part of her body. Nobody had ever looked at Rita this way. It made her feel naked.

When the pounding in her chest was too much to bare, Rita interlocked their fingers and held Abby firmly. Rita’s next words fell out of her mouth so quickly, it almost didn’t even sound like simlish.

Rita: “So do you like the blonde, then? I worry that maybe I can’t pull it off. I know you said that you like how it looks but I guess I’m just not entirely convinced. I feel like blonde hair is just so demanding, like ‘hey, look at me!’ and I’m not sure I’m that kind of person - ”

Rita: “...and you’re sure we can be in here?”

Abby rolled her eyes, but the sappy look on her face showed there was no malice behind it. Each time she spoke it was through a badly repressed smile.

Abby: “For the millionth time, yes, it’s fine.”

Rita: “But what if your brother comes home?”

She asked the question, but only for reassurance. Rita’s anxieties were real, but not strong enough on their own to force her from the warm nook she and Abby had created on Salim’s bed. The mattress was old, worn, and the springs groaned every time either of them shifted. Yet, within the last hour they had spent laying there - talking, joking, laughing about nothing at all - the mattress grew accustomed to their shape and weight. It conformed itself around their bodies and cradled them, like only a good mattress does. Rita had to admit that she was comfortable, with her leg against the wall and Abby’s thigh pressed up against her own. Her head buried in a pile of pillows. She felt safe. Lethargic. Content. She wanted nothing at all to pull her from this sanguine moment, characterized by the darkened room, the perfect bed, the hushed words, and Abby’s gaze, steadily meeting her own. Every bit of Abby’s attention was hers to absorb, and it made her chest feel full.

Abby: “He won’t come home. I told you, he’s out drinking. He never comes home ‘till late.”

Rita: “It is late.”

Rita stretched her arms out and yawned, as if to prove her point. She let her arms fall, one against the cool, plaster wall, and the other outstretched across the bed. Abby leaned into the crook of Rita’s elbow. 

Abby: “Don’t be such a worrywart.”

Abby’s flushed ear and cheek were pressed up against the smooth skin of Rita’s inner arm. She looked up at Rita beneath fluttery lashes, and suddenly Rita was painfully aware of how close they were. Each place their bodies met felt like it was on fire. Rita choked around her suddenly dry throat.

A silence settled between them, both minds wandering along divergent paths. It was Abby who returned to reality first. She clapped her hands together, creating a sound that made Rita startle and drug her back to her place beside her. Abby threw her hands up, with newfound energy. 

Abby: “Alright, enough with all that! We came here to dye your hair! Are you ready to go blonde, Ghost Cartwright?”

Rita: “I mean, sure. This was your idea - ”

Abby: “I said aRE YOU READY TO GO BLONDE?!”

Rita: “Oh, uh...yeah!”

Abby: “LEMME HERE YOU SAY IT!”

Rita: “I’m ready to go blonde!”

Abby grinned wildly and clapped her friend on the shoulder.

Abby: “I know it must seem pretty pathetic living in an apartment like this. Honestly, we could get a place twice the size for the same price if we moved to the Spice District. But that’s up to my brother, and he says he’s gotta live in the Arts Quarter for work. He’s a freelance artist, and he wouldn't be able to find the same opportunities in other parts of the city. So here we are.”

Rita: “If he’s an artist in the Arts Quarter, shouldn’t he be making big bucks?”

Abby: “It’s not so easy. Not everyone is cut out for it. You have to be talented. More importantly, you have to be lucky. Salim hasn’t caught his big break yet. He hasn’t caught much of anything, really. I’m not sure if he’s lacking talent, luck, or both. He doesn’t tell me about his work. I’ve never even seen his art. He likes to play the bit of the mysterious, brooding artist.”

Rita glanced toward Salim’s bedroom door. She wondered what beautiful creations he had hidden away in there. Salim sounded like a strange character, but a familiar one. Kamden, she remembered, liked to paint. His work hung on his bedroom walls, back home in Windenburg. His works were mysterious, and moving, too. Kamden had a knack for pouring out his soul right onto the canvas. Maybe Salim had a comparable gift.