Post by LadyRiona on Jul 23, 2006 0:14:44 GMT -5
Type: Oneshot
Rated: K+
A/N: Basically a spin on how much description I could do and it turned into this. Hope you enjoy.
The apartment was most certainly big enough. I'd found myself thinking that the first day I'd walked in with the realtor, and found myself thinking it again, now. The walls were mahogany paneling that went up about halfway, giving into pasty white paint, each about five feet in the ten foot high room. That had been the first thing I'd noticed, how each panel was about two inches wide, covering the entirety of the living room. The second thing had been the windows. Two tall, probably about six or seven feet, windows were set in the wall, near the corners of the room. As there had been no curtains on them, the room had been bathed in the white light that first day. On the hardwood floors had been outlines of light from the windows. There had been no furnishings.
Now, as I stood in very much the same spot, taking it all in again, I took in the changes I had made. Navy blue curtains were set over the windows now, the valence set at the very top, inches from the ceiling. There were a few impressionist paintings on the walls set in various places that were appealing to the eye. Between the two windows, was a very large Vincent van Gogh print of Starry, Starry Night. Tall floor lamps were set in or near the corners, one near a dark brown leather chair and a bookcase. A matching brown leather couch was on the right hand wall, near the door to the hallway for the bedrooms.
In front of the window on the right-hand side of the room was my most prized possession. It was a sleek, black grand piano. Beside it, against the wall, was a small shelf for my music, the music I never had to read anymore because it was all memorized. A small, black table lamp was on the piano for when the overhead light just wasn't bright enough.
While the room was furnished now, it still felt...empty. As I crossed the room and turned to the left, toward the kitchen, my shoes clicked on the wooden floor, echoing.
The kitchen, while not as scarcely filled as the living room, still carried the empty feeling. The same decorating pattern as the living room accented the walls, though the floors were white granite tile, the same pasty white as the upper part of the walls. The room was spotless, not a speck of dust anywhere. The blue granite countertops were wiped clean, with no trace of any mess. If I had to be picky about something, I would point out the large amounts of handwritten notes on the refrigerator doors. That was the only way of communication through me and the young woman who shared the apartment with me, though, since our work schedules were different. Whenever I tried to organize them into some sort of function, by day or time, or even by month, once, everything was out of order and there had been chaos enough for us to actually see each other twice in one day.
She worked a day shift as a receptionist as some big-top lawyer's office downtown, while I was a lounge pianist with the late shift. She worked nine-to-five, I worked four-thirty-to-sometimes three in the morning. If we had ever been on the same subway, even for one ride between stations, neither would had noticed the other. We were both so caught up with our own worlds, our own schedules and agendas. It would take that subway train to crash for us to just maybe realize we were on the same train as we looked around in panic.
But, it worked for us. That was all that mattered.
I walked further into the apartment, almost reveling in the quiet. As I stepped into the dining room, the empty feeling still remained, receding not in the least.
Four brass candelabra were on the right and left sides of the room, set in that perfect median between the center of the room and the corner. They were real candles, as well, lit for special occasions. The wax was still smooth and cylindrical, the wick a virgin white, never burned. A crystal chandelier, instead with electric bulbs, hung in the center of the room. It had a dimmer switch "for ambience." A table and six chair dark wood set was directly below the chandelier. In the center of the table were salt and pepper shakers, each on different sides of a black ivory napkin holder.
While never used, this room had no dust anywhere, no cobwebs in the corners. The wood paneling was set as the entire height of the room and not quite as dark as the kitchen or living room. Instead, it was a lighter color, like oak. The floors were the same color, square panels with intricate designs in burgundy paint and a glossy finish set overtop.
Without a word, I retreated back through the kitchen and through the living room to the carpeted hallway, but not without a passing glance at my piano. I could see myself playing soft classical songs on a rainy day.
Before stepping onto the smokey gray carpet of the hallway, I took off my shoes. The walls were the same dark paneling from the living room, but where the pasty paint may have been was paint almost as gray as the carpet. More impressionist paintings were on the walls, between doors all on the right. At the very end of the long hall was a single window, shedding light down the corridor. Slowly, I started walking through.
The first door was a linen closet, filled with cotton and a few satin or silk sheets. There were extra towels and cloths there, in case of emergencies, such as the washer downstairs not working. The second door was my roommate's. I never went in there unless I was missing something. One particular week in March of last year, my hairdryer had disappeared. I wrote a note about it and she said she'd borrowed it, then apologized for not asking. Since then, we've sort of had a system: if you can't find something, it's in the other person's room. We never became upset that it was in a different room; we never saw each other to ask to borrow something.
The third door was a bathroom. It was decorated in mostly porcelain white, but with curtains the same navy blue of the living room. The shower curtain was near the same color, as well. I made sure, everyday before I left for work, that the bathroom was clean. There was nothing that irritated me more than a messy bathroom. All right, there were a few things, but not many.
And finally, the fourth door was mine. As I entered the room, hoping the empty feeling would disappear, I shut my eyes. I knew my room, inside and out. There was never one thing out of place. I hadn't rearranged my furnishings once; they were exactly the same as they had been the day I'd moved in. The color scheme was very much like the living room, dark and light at the same time. My curtains were the same navy blue as anywhere else in the house. The blanket on my queen-sized bed was made from denim, with decorative pillows I removed nightly in the same material. White sheets and pillow cases were beneath them.
In the far corner was a dressing table with an oval-shaped mirror, centered carefully. The table itself was white, with a white cushioned seat in front of it. Makeup was set on the lower platform, in front of the mirror. A notepad and black ink pen were on the left hand side, as I was left-handed. On the right was an antique telephone. In front of my bed was a large chest, covered with a crocheted throw. Inside were my summer clothes. There was a wardrobe in the left corner, filled with shirts, skirts, and sweaters on hangers, and pants in drawers on the side. On the very bottom were shoes, neatly lined up. Undergarments were in small drawers on the side nearest the wall.
A few other furnishings without significance and that was my bedroom. It was as spotless as the rest of the house. It was my haven, my sanctuary, the place I went whenever I felt poorly or just needed some downtime. It was the one place that I could call "mine" without worry.
Then why, as I walked in, did I feel so foreign? The moment I had stepped in, a wave of unfamiliarity had rushed through me, nearly knocking me back. My eyes opened. Everything was the same. Nothing was out of place. Everything was organized, just as I'd had it the previous afternoon before leaving for work. If everything was so perfectly placed by me, why did I feel like the foreign object, not belonging?
I walked slowly to my bed and began to sit down, but the action didn't feel right. So I straightened, trying to contemplate why I would feel so strangely in my own room. It made no sense to me. Standing at my own bedside, looking at it longingly, made no sense, either. So I blinked my eyes a few times, turning away from the dark bedspread. Suddenly, I felt tired, like I hadn't slept in days, weeks. My feet dragged as I stepped around my bed and the chest and walked slowly towards my dressing table.
Standing before the stool, not ready to sit down yet, I stared at my makeup, neatly lined up by function, going from dark to light, foundation to mascara. And as I stared at each item, reminding myself what it did and why I wore it, I felt bare. My face felt light, like it did after I scrubbed off the makeup and the excess skin cells at an early hour of the morning after a long night at work. I felt as naked as when I crawled into bed at sometimes four in the morning, when it rained.
Not feeling comfortable, I turned around. I then saw myself in the mirror on my wardrobe. Or rather, saw through myself. A black dress hung on my every curve, going down a little past my knees. Over it was intricately designed black lace that dropped a little below the lower layer. My face was pale with a layer of makeup over it that made me look falsely alive.
Taking slow steps forward, towards the mirror, things slowly came together, the pieces finally fit. I remembered everything. It all came back to me with each step, so, by the time I reached the mirror with an outstretched hand, I knew exactly what had happened.
My name is Rachel Ladsworth, and I died ten years ago. I jumped from the sixth floor window of my apartment building. I didn't leave a note. I didn't tell anyone I had a problem. No one knew. They may have suspected, but all were too shy or afraid to ask me. But the truth is--was--that I was driven insane by my own perfection.
Rated: K+
A/N: Basically a spin on how much description I could do and it turned into this. Hope you enjoy.
Perfection
By: LadyRiona
By: LadyRiona
The apartment was most certainly big enough. I'd found myself thinking that the first day I'd walked in with the realtor, and found myself thinking it again, now. The walls were mahogany paneling that went up about halfway, giving into pasty white paint, each about five feet in the ten foot high room. That had been the first thing I'd noticed, how each panel was about two inches wide, covering the entirety of the living room. The second thing had been the windows. Two tall, probably about six or seven feet, windows were set in the wall, near the corners of the room. As there had been no curtains on them, the room had been bathed in the white light that first day. On the hardwood floors had been outlines of light from the windows. There had been no furnishings.
Now, as I stood in very much the same spot, taking it all in again, I took in the changes I had made. Navy blue curtains were set over the windows now, the valence set at the very top, inches from the ceiling. There were a few impressionist paintings on the walls set in various places that were appealing to the eye. Between the two windows, was a very large Vincent van Gogh print of Starry, Starry Night. Tall floor lamps were set in or near the corners, one near a dark brown leather chair and a bookcase. A matching brown leather couch was on the right hand wall, near the door to the hallway for the bedrooms.
In front of the window on the right-hand side of the room was my most prized possession. It was a sleek, black grand piano. Beside it, against the wall, was a small shelf for my music, the music I never had to read anymore because it was all memorized. A small, black table lamp was on the piano for when the overhead light just wasn't bright enough.
While the room was furnished now, it still felt...empty. As I crossed the room and turned to the left, toward the kitchen, my shoes clicked on the wooden floor, echoing.
The kitchen, while not as scarcely filled as the living room, still carried the empty feeling. The same decorating pattern as the living room accented the walls, though the floors were white granite tile, the same pasty white as the upper part of the walls. The room was spotless, not a speck of dust anywhere. The blue granite countertops were wiped clean, with no trace of any mess. If I had to be picky about something, I would point out the large amounts of handwritten notes on the refrigerator doors. That was the only way of communication through me and the young woman who shared the apartment with me, though, since our work schedules were different. Whenever I tried to organize them into some sort of function, by day or time, or even by month, once, everything was out of order and there had been chaos enough for us to actually see each other twice in one day.
She worked a day shift as a receptionist as some big-top lawyer's office downtown, while I was a lounge pianist with the late shift. She worked nine-to-five, I worked four-thirty-to-sometimes three in the morning. If we had ever been on the same subway, even for one ride between stations, neither would had noticed the other. We were both so caught up with our own worlds, our own schedules and agendas. It would take that subway train to crash for us to just maybe realize we were on the same train as we looked around in panic.
But, it worked for us. That was all that mattered.
I walked further into the apartment, almost reveling in the quiet. As I stepped into the dining room, the empty feeling still remained, receding not in the least.
Four brass candelabra were on the right and left sides of the room, set in that perfect median between the center of the room and the corner. They were real candles, as well, lit for special occasions. The wax was still smooth and cylindrical, the wick a virgin white, never burned. A crystal chandelier, instead with electric bulbs, hung in the center of the room. It had a dimmer switch "for ambience." A table and six chair dark wood set was directly below the chandelier. In the center of the table were salt and pepper shakers, each on different sides of a black ivory napkin holder.
While never used, this room had no dust anywhere, no cobwebs in the corners. The wood paneling was set as the entire height of the room and not quite as dark as the kitchen or living room. Instead, it was a lighter color, like oak. The floors were the same color, square panels with intricate designs in burgundy paint and a glossy finish set overtop.
Without a word, I retreated back through the kitchen and through the living room to the carpeted hallway, but not without a passing glance at my piano. I could see myself playing soft classical songs on a rainy day.
Before stepping onto the smokey gray carpet of the hallway, I took off my shoes. The walls were the same dark paneling from the living room, but where the pasty paint may have been was paint almost as gray as the carpet. More impressionist paintings were on the walls, between doors all on the right. At the very end of the long hall was a single window, shedding light down the corridor. Slowly, I started walking through.
The first door was a linen closet, filled with cotton and a few satin or silk sheets. There were extra towels and cloths there, in case of emergencies, such as the washer downstairs not working. The second door was my roommate's. I never went in there unless I was missing something. One particular week in March of last year, my hairdryer had disappeared. I wrote a note about it and she said she'd borrowed it, then apologized for not asking. Since then, we've sort of had a system: if you can't find something, it's in the other person's room. We never became upset that it was in a different room; we never saw each other to ask to borrow something.
The third door was a bathroom. It was decorated in mostly porcelain white, but with curtains the same navy blue of the living room. The shower curtain was near the same color, as well. I made sure, everyday before I left for work, that the bathroom was clean. There was nothing that irritated me more than a messy bathroom. All right, there were a few things, but not many.
And finally, the fourth door was mine. As I entered the room, hoping the empty feeling would disappear, I shut my eyes. I knew my room, inside and out. There was never one thing out of place. I hadn't rearranged my furnishings once; they were exactly the same as they had been the day I'd moved in. The color scheme was very much like the living room, dark and light at the same time. My curtains were the same navy blue as anywhere else in the house. The blanket on my queen-sized bed was made from denim, with decorative pillows I removed nightly in the same material. White sheets and pillow cases were beneath them.
In the far corner was a dressing table with an oval-shaped mirror, centered carefully. The table itself was white, with a white cushioned seat in front of it. Makeup was set on the lower platform, in front of the mirror. A notepad and black ink pen were on the left hand side, as I was left-handed. On the right was an antique telephone. In front of my bed was a large chest, covered with a crocheted throw. Inside were my summer clothes. There was a wardrobe in the left corner, filled with shirts, skirts, and sweaters on hangers, and pants in drawers on the side. On the very bottom were shoes, neatly lined up. Undergarments were in small drawers on the side nearest the wall.
A few other furnishings without significance and that was my bedroom. It was as spotless as the rest of the house. It was my haven, my sanctuary, the place I went whenever I felt poorly or just needed some downtime. It was the one place that I could call "mine" without worry.
Then why, as I walked in, did I feel so foreign? The moment I had stepped in, a wave of unfamiliarity had rushed through me, nearly knocking me back. My eyes opened. Everything was the same. Nothing was out of place. Everything was organized, just as I'd had it the previous afternoon before leaving for work. If everything was so perfectly placed by me, why did I feel like the foreign object, not belonging?
I walked slowly to my bed and began to sit down, but the action didn't feel right. So I straightened, trying to contemplate why I would feel so strangely in my own room. It made no sense to me. Standing at my own bedside, looking at it longingly, made no sense, either. So I blinked my eyes a few times, turning away from the dark bedspread. Suddenly, I felt tired, like I hadn't slept in days, weeks. My feet dragged as I stepped around my bed and the chest and walked slowly towards my dressing table.
Standing before the stool, not ready to sit down yet, I stared at my makeup, neatly lined up by function, going from dark to light, foundation to mascara. And as I stared at each item, reminding myself what it did and why I wore it, I felt bare. My face felt light, like it did after I scrubbed off the makeup and the excess skin cells at an early hour of the morning after a long night at work. I felt as naked as when I crawled into bed at sometimes four in the morning, when it rained.
Not feeling comfortable, I turned around. I then saw myself in the mirror on my wardrobe. Or rather, saw through myself. A black dress hung on my every curve, going down a little past my knees. Over it was intricately designed black lace that dropped a little below the lower layer. My face was pale with a layer of makeup over it that made me look falsely alive.
Taking slow steps forward, towards the mirror, things slowly came together, the pieces finally fit. I remembered everything. It all came back to me with each step, so, by the time I reached the mirror with an outstretched hand, I knew exactly what had happened.
My name is Rachel Ladsworth, and I died ten years ago. I jumped from the sixth floor window of my apartment building. I didn't leave a note. I didn't tell anyone I had a problem. No one knew. They may have suspected, but all were too shy or afraid to ask me. But the truth is--was--that I was driven insane by my own perfection.