When I look at the rich I see the poorest of quality lifestyles. I may be bias, given my submergence in a ‘well brought up’ home, but you’ve got to realize that everything comes with a price. Money isn’t the true cost of these things, passion is.
I am the corpse pulled from the coffin of inbreeding. Nobody ever worked on their issues in my household, they just kept passing them down and trying to act like living out the American dream was success. We were all miserable, I was the only one bold enough to show it.
Why? Because I, myself, am bold, and better to quote, ‘strange and unusual’. I see the flickering of a golden fire above a carefully displayed granite mantel and it only reminds me of family fights in a hotel lobby because nobody ever took the time to understand each other. It was always about fitting into the perfect mold. Not making a fool of yourself. My mother would look to me before every family vacation and say, ‘don’t you go making one of your scenes‘.
I close my eyes and feel it coming on, like a wave of grief I can’t seem to shake. It’s like coming out of your own funeral. So many memories are coming to the surface now that it all has died. It almost feels like it’s from another lifetime.
It is. And I am left blind where I currently stand, trying to make sense of the darkness and the sun.
I feel the muscles tense up in my shoulders and I want to look at the blonde to my left and ask her to stop breathing my air. She’s polluting it. Her and the tool she’s dating. I wonder what their fights are like. Petty, probably. He gives me a look up and down and I know exactly what keeps her up at night. Don’t look, pretty boy, a woman like me would take pleasure in obliterating you.
Stick to what you know.
I feel like there are knives in the back of my sockets and it’s keeping me staring up at the ceiling at night. Like a dam begging to burst but I just keep holding my head below the water. Get the body to stop shaking and fall silent. I’ll mourn later, or never. I don’t deserve the downpour.
I sigh, they turn to look at me. I don’t pay any mind, don’t even watch their faces. They are worthless of my memory and I am an uncomfortable entity to be around. They do not currently exist in my plane of existence.
A concierge sees me holding several bags and opens the door. I’d expected to kick it open with my heel, but I send him a smile. He smiles back. He knows I’m grateful and self-sufficient and not whiny and I know he doesn’t see that often anymore.
“Thank you so much.”
Money often comes when passion is lost for what’s common and correct. Societal standards are not for creatures like me. I walk into a place with a worn, faux leather jacket and I’ve no worry about those bustling around in suits, giving me odd looks. My mother always hated the jacket. She hated it when I cursed or drank, too.
I see these feigned manners for what they really are and that is fools gold.
My elegance drips off of me like golden ecstasy. It’s in my soul, not my shoes. The echo lies in my step and it pools in my hair and in my eyes. I look to my left at another blonde with her nose turned up in the air. She does not have the golden pool she thinks she does. She’s fake tanned and all I can think of is how her skin is probably screaming for her to stop abusing it.
She’s pretty enough, at least to an untrained eye. I take a look down and notice her heel height, less than two inches. I grin.
She looks like she hasn’t practiced walking in them and therefore I don’t know why she wears them. If you can’t take the heat get out of my kitchen.
I like stilettos because I simply do. They fit me well and make me stand taller, my footsteps are brazen and everyone knows when I’m coming. The power is exhilarating. I could run a mile or more. They are soles I feel comfortable in. I don’t know where I got it from because it definitely wasn’t this lifestyle. Surprisingly.
I’m taking this all in stride, I’m staring the demons in the face but my company comes from a very different past and I can tell this is drowning her. I’d been so wrapped up in thought I’d almost forgotten.
“I’m so uncomfortable here.” She mutters. And in a way I am, too. I remember when I was a small child, these places would give me so much anxiety. I could feel it radiating off of my mother. She’d bring it up all vacation, we were not ever the wealthiest family where we went and that felt like failure to her. I could agree with the fact we were not wealthy at all in comparison to other families, but on much different terms.
My father tried his best to please his own narcissism. Spent money he didn’t need to spend on things we’d throw away later and then consequently be blamed for discarding like spoiled brats. The feelings of love were fleeting and farce. I still couldn’t tell you what it feels like, but I can tell you it does not lie in objects for long. I did not receive many hugs so they feel more like strangulation than comfort. I’m learning.
A Bloody Mary sounds really nice right now. Maybe it could douse some of the fire that’s burning up my throat. No, knock it off, alcohol never dulls fire it only creates an explosion. A scene.
“Don’t be, all of this is fake. It’s not real. There is nothing to envy and you do belong here just as much as the rest of these people. Actually, most of them are trash. They don’t deserve it, they’re not grateful for it.”
I make eye contact with an older gentleman and hold the stare. He heard me, and I don’t care. I’m making scenes everywhere I go now, I’ve just learned to be a little more… subtle. He knows I’m a force to be reckoned with. He knows where I come from. He looks away with a frown pulling on his face. My mother would’ve drowned.
“Every single one of these people are so insecure right now they can’t even see straight. Their marriages are falling apart. They’re here for an overpriced, over indulgent wedding so they’re stressed. Their kids are entitled brats. Everyone is unhappy and confused. We got this room a month ago at half the price because I plan. They do not so they’re probably paying double for something less extravagant. We are the winners.”
Weddings should never be stressful, or over the top, they should be private and intimate and quiet and focused solely on the couple. That is their time, not the families.
I figure I should probably offer a word of comfort even though no one ever does the same for me.
“I’ve never fit in here, nobody ever really does, it’s a lonely existence and all you’ve got to do is let them know you know that and they’ll back off. Unearth the demons and shove them in their face. They need to view it anyways. They need to grow up. They’ll try to hide behind their wallets and cuff links, but they get their feathers ruffled easy. Point out a weakness and it gets them every time.” My grin is sinister and I can tell she’s a little uncomfortable by it, but we’re dealing with beasts so naturally I become one.
She falls quiet, the elevator doors open. I want to explore, try to get my money’s worth out of this place but in truth my inhibitions are telling me to go straight to the bar. I can’t tell if I’m angry or sad or indulgent or sick in the head. I feel as though I’m drowning in my own agony.
It keeps resonating in the back of my head, no matter how much I try to tell myself that I’m better than this. I keep ritualistically wiping off this tar but somehow it’s still lodged in my pores.
I would choose a fucking hotel like this.