She was sprawled out on a pile of pillows in the center of her living room floor; her coffee table had been moved to the edge of the room to accommodate, and her couch was devoid of softness. The three-story residence that Jada was able to claim as her own was as still and silent as a tomb around her, and from her location here she was able to appreciate (and loathe) the size of it. And how alien it was, unfamiliar after a lifetime in her ancestral home. The ghosts here were unfamiliar. Her belly was flat to the pillows, her slim legs kicked up in the air. Her mass of hair was spread everywhere as though a curly blanket, thick and warm.
The television was off, yet the girl stared at it intently, ignoring the bills and open checkbook in front of her; her attention was on nothing rather than the something in front of her, such as the open diary that said only 'September 21, 2010' or the trademark purple pen that was begging to be chewed upon, or handled. The television was off, yet in the blank black reflection, she could see something, and it intrigued her.
What? What was so intriguing to her, she wondered. In the big-screen reflection, there was no polished debutante. There was no shining paragon of... whatever. Jada wasn;t able to woo the television with diamonds and smiles to make it reflect her as more beautiful, or brighter; the television was a crueler, harsher mirror, cold and honest.
And in the reflection of the television, there was just a girl. She was wearing a spaghetti-strap tank top, track pants slung low on her wide hips. Her eyes were a little too big, but nicely shaped, eyebrows thick and dark. There were circles under them that had nothing to do with makeup. but instead everything to do with exhaustion. An ingrained insomnia that had nothing to do with the power of Dylan Rasmussen and the Pyrite Prince; nor anything to do with his death or the death of the woman who loved him. The girl in the reflection was slender, unhealthily so, and it was almost as though skin hung from the bone in places, though that might be an illusion.
On the pillows next to her lay her cellular, the light blinking to tell her that she had a text message. She knew she had at least one; the light had been blinking for two days. It might be an email. Or a missed call. her phone, the never-ending and eternally demanding master of a socialite, had gone ignored from the moment she sank into her contemplation.
It was Jada's second day without seeing the sun, answering phone calls, or even moving from the general area of her living room. She hadn't gone to the kitchen area, just to the bathroom; she hadn't gone upstairs to sleep, but instead slept in her pillow pile when she needed rest. A pile of books was toppled nearby, and the lamp that she'd been reading by was turned off.
Her curtains hadn't been opened. They should be. Jada always opened the curtains in this room.
She didn't want to.
Fifty-two missed calls in two days. Most of them were from Zora, but a few were from friends worried about Jada; the heiress always answered her texts! But no... she'd be fine. She rolled from her belly to her back, still staring at the television. Her stomach rumbled, and she almost reached for the phone; her stomach rebelled, and her slim hand dropped back down to the pillows. Dark lashes closed over pale cheeks, and Jada sank into her thoughts again.
The phone rang; Fifty-three missed calls.
The television was off, yet the girl stared at it intently, ignoring the bills and open checkbook in front of her; her attention was on nothing rather than the something in front of her, such as the open diary that said only 'September 21, 2010' or the trademark purple pen that was begging to be chewed upon, or handled. The television was off, yet in the blank black reflection, she could see something, and it intrigued her.
What? What was so intriguing to her, she wondered. In the big-screen reflection, there was no polished debutante. There was no shining paragon of... whatever. Jada wasn;t able to woo the television with diamonds and smiles to make it reflect her as more beautiful, or brighter; the television was a crueler, harsher mirror, cold and honest.
And in the reflection of the television, there was just a girl. She was wearing a spaghetti-strap tank top, track pants slung low on her wide hips. Her eyes were a little too big, but nicely shaped, eyebrows thick and dark. There were circles under them that had nothing to do with makeup. but instead everything to do with exhaustion. An ingrained insomnia that had nothing to do with the power of Dylan Rasmussen and the Pyrite Prince; nor anything to do with his death or the death of the woman who loved him. The girl in the reflection was slender, unhealthily so, and it was almost as though skin hung from the bone in places, though that might be an illusion.
On the pillows next to her lay her cellular, the light blinking to tell her that she had a text message. She knew she had at least one; the light had been blinking for two days. It might be an email. Or a missed call. her phone, the never-ending and eternally demanding master of a socialite, had gone ignored from the moment she sank into her contemplation.
It was Jada's second day without seeing the sun, answering phone calls, or even moving from the general area of her living room. She hadn't gone to the kitchen area, just to the bathroom; she hadn't gone upstairs to sleep, but instead slept in her pillow pile when she needed rest. A pile of books was toppled nearby, and the lamp that she'd been reading by was turned off.
Her curtains hadn't been opened. They should be. Jada always opened the curtains in this room.
She didn't want to.
Fifty-two missed calls in two days. Most of them were from Zora, but a few were from friends worried about Jada; the heiress always answered her texts! But no... she'd be fine. She rolled from her belly to her back, still staring at the television. Her stomach rumbled, and she almost reached for the phone; her stomach rebelled, and her slim hand dropped back down to the pillows. Dark lashes closed over pale cheeks, and Jada sank into her thoughts again.
The phone rang; Fifty-three missed calls.
