The Imposter Who Slept in the Den

Chapter 1: To Know Her.

I knew the transaction like my own facial features. The mirror in front of me lay a skew and the rippled upturned grayed silver fractured my eyes. There was a girl next to me, awaiting my order. Underneath the sheer essence of her body heat, I felt her hyperventilate. I felt it before I heard it, the eerie outstretched breath she breathed now she wouldn’t understand at this moment how taxing it was. You didn’t just take drugs for the game of experiment. Not now, not ever.

Yet here she was, having snorted her napkin full of cocktail swirls and attempting to gasp her climax of breath. She did it like a racer expecting an impact, gunning it faster and faster, eyeing right and left, but never letting glimpse of the road ahead for longer than a second. She was fluttering and dancing before my eyes, gambling me to prepare myself for another of her tests.

Just as easy as whatever that impact could induce on her frail shell, she would move on when she could prove to herself that she would get there. In her monotony I saw myself and I couldn’t believe how much I hated her. I couldn’t believe how empty her eyes would become, and how lifeless the reflection could mirror.

She’d never ascend; she would clip away her life and convert atoms to make me wrong. What could I do here and now? I wanted to bend over, loom over her in my lanky form and kiss her sweetened fiery cheeks, tell her she’s fevered and put her to sleep like old lovers do when they worry the other will die. It would be odd pitter-patter, she’d force me out of my own hovel and tell me she was just there and she’d seen god, but in my own graying spite I’d left her alone not long enough and that second was quickly fraying and that she had proved me wrong, but that I had not paid attention.

It’s hard to confess anything when you’ve toxins enabling god complex, I’ve seen women come out pregnant and knife themselves, blaming the men and calling their bodies goddess prevailers, choking the babies to death in the ghost world.

Everything wafts in this world of half span lives; you can picture two gilded gates with entangled vines and bubbling aphrodisiacs fuming the air and being absorbed in plush blanched eyelids. I flick out my tongue as if I’m there and throw my hair back, wavy locks bouncing, framing nothing.

That’s when I gap, when I open back up to see the victim in near ecstasy, she’s tasted it too. She’s know the bittersweet sensation, and I bet she’ll want more tonight. Her measure is the most I lend tonight. She’d come back to me, I’m the lowest lord in the batch, and they always come back for more. But what she doesn’t know in this state of lost is that she’s beautiful here and now. Where she has gone has silvered her open, it wears her skin but could never be her. It could never be Alice Frazzelle. It can only be the imposter.

Chapter 2:

She hangs immobile in my arms, wheezing and flapping her hand open, demanding an inhaler, saying it’ll reach her the extra mile, and that it is possible to go back. I tell her no, that she could never go back to what she wants, that here and tonight she has stepped in my den and here I mark you, here reputation is forked and fed to the fighters.

It means for her to understand, my words. But she defies them and tumbles out of my grasp because I won’t hold her back. I never hold anyone back. I just make sure that payment is gained or held back payment will resort to death. I have mercy to those wanting something, but I require no title as a freeman. This government requires money to allow my passage. And I put in my stay. No one remembers me because I am an tainting ideal, and if you stand too close to who I may be, you’ve strode too far from where you were. You lose yourself in finding me.

Her chest heaves, her lungs shake on the edge to breaking, and I slap her. Her eyes dazzle, even in the hazy murk of dirty luminescent glowing, I can see she wants it so bad. She wants what may never come to anyone, but I can’t let her die knowing she has lost just yet. That isn’t pure torture. Any affiliation to me results in agony, which is never let on. But she is my new pet, my new lure for someone better.

Can there be anyone better here, though? They are destitute and grasping their last dollar for an overdose death. Most have no body; they are figments even before they walk in my door. Alice is just prettier than all of them; she’s a student without a prostitute price overhanging her soul. She’s here to show me what she can do. But she didn’t expect the immediate pressure on her heart. They either don’t expect it, or embrace is so fully they pass out on my greased gasoline floor, having been lulled by the resounding sound enhancing their thoughts.

She’s back now, though. Her fingers twitch first, her eyes show no recognition of my existence, and I sit to speculate on how many hours she will remain there, and once she has been reduced to my storage case every night, I wonder if I should shack with her. She’s quality attraction; she’s a beauty caroler whose voice will be coated in molasses before I let something alter her voice box.

I let on to her what I’ve been contemplating and she lets out a small whimper, a tragic groan and I see what could end in a spewing massacre trickle down her bony chin. She begins to fade like a dismal damsel in speckled and soft color tones.

She’s never been a diamond, but yet her eyes surge like gems in the rough, but she will never be what Hollywood fabricates as seductive bitches. I always wonder why I know her name. Why can’t they just give me money without a second’s notice of their arrival? I never wanted to know as much as I know. Not with her.

She squirms in my stay; she wields translucent strings and implores me to stabilize her body, mounting her challenge once more. Here, I have failed. She sways.

A/N: I have some ideas mulling in my head where to go, but I’m not sure if it’s interesting enough to continue. Insight would be profound. Thanks. No, I’ve never done drugs or anything of that sort, so…