#tetraphobics

featured wasn’t bad , was it . she seems to be sparking quite the uproar in the underground photography seen , which was cool enough . fashion shows were also cool , which was why she was here , really . to watch and walk . the piece itself was titled night to day : your walk of shame . her last ensemble was something she particularly liked , tight and nude -- pearls at her throat , an angry pink slash at the back of her dress , a taffeta train that flutters at pearly platform heels . 

she looks like shit , in an arbitrary way . but in that kind of way where you say you look like shit but you know that you look good . she’s a particular fan of the fur hanging off her bony shoulders , nuzzling into it backstage , listening to the throbbing synth music flood the convention hall . 

her walks had come and gone -- surrounded by the buzz of photographers , models , flashes from cameras and journalists with their barrages of questions . socialites , too . they seem to be more intent on gaining fashion attention than the models . funny .

she had left him over a month ago , now . up and left the motel room , and when he knocked she didn’t answer . no one was there . it made her feel good , to know she could still do that . reminded her of the venom that flooded her veins , allowed her to become someone incredibly new , but the same in that she couldn’t possibly be controlled by anything but the chaos she incited . 

it felt good . she can’t deny that . she catches a flute of champagne in the length of her digits , brings the sparkling liquor to her mouth and pressing a kiss to the glistening rim . she sips . being approached by a photographer she knew of -- but can’t seem to remember the name of . she half-smiles , shadowed eyes brimming with their static . 

she had left christian over a month ago . and it felt good to know that she could love a boy and leave him for dead .

So unwilling to awaken, Priscilla doesn’t stir even when her phone begins vibrating against the nightstand -- the caller, unnamed, will prove to be a man Priscilla had corresponded briefly with weeks ago. A photographer in the fashion industry of Los Angeles -- he had recognized the leggy woman while she strolled through Whole Foods, weariness clear on her features.

Weary was normal. Tired, usually fatigued -- hair had long since grown out, now trailing down the fragile bumps of her spine, reminding her of her mother. The photographer had recognized her from a benefit she attended a season ago. Priscilla felt it to be eons.

Her phone won’t stop vibrating. She groans -- nudges at Christian, hiding her face against his chest.

               ❛        Baby ----- get the phone ..         ❜

when the door opens, she knows he’ll be there and is already staring, fingers flicking idly across the screen of her tablet to turn down her music (she doesn’t know the genre, it’s just a pandora station titled ‘yoga’) before she places it on the counter. the song ends, and another one is beginning as she takes her gaze from his to the chairs.

‘ take a seat. i’ll get - get some tea brewing. ‘

          ❛      Christian .. how many times a day do you jack off?         ❜

     ❛      Christian.         ❜

They're at a convenience store. There has been a cat following her around. Cats aren't even allowed in convenience stores. What the fuck? What the fuck, someone get this cat away. She hides behind Chris, staring back at it with narrowed eyes as she hugs her slurpee to her breast.

After spending the majority of the night dry-heaving in a wastebasket -- Priscilla's left quivering, knelt at the cool floor of the motel bathroom. She presses a hand to her damp forehead, feels the tremors rolling down her spine as pale eyes flicker, looking towards Christian. God dammit. She almost laughs -- rests her cheek against the cool edge of the bath tub.