A Myriad of Stories

[ghostyghost]

Just a quick thing. Light cursing and mentions of alcohol. Wrote using The Most Dangerous Prompt Generator. I've been a little busy lately and just haven't finished a lot of what I've started writing.

Everything about her was a lie, but that's how she likes it. Truth is just so boring, and she really doesn't like boring. Why would she ever admit to just being some girl from down South when she could make up so many other interesting stories? Alternate realities--truths of another time, really.

Besides, it's not like anyone really cares. Why would they? Everyone is but a flickering flame in the world, here and then gone, and whether or not she tells the truth for her short time really doesn't matter. It's not like she has family for anyone to meet--she cut ties with them long ago.

Or, more accurately, they cut ties with her. For no reason, really, other than the fact that she just wasn't what they wanted. Unlike her sister, she bitterly recalls as she takes a long sip of her wine. Unlike her sister, who was perfect in every way--every single damn way.

Except one--looks. She wasn't bad, really, but nothing compared to her. The one thing she could always pride herself on--her looks. Her long, elegant, graceful ebony hair, her naturally smoke grey eyes, flawless figure, fine-boned face. Above average, she knows.

But where has it gotten her? She sighs and looks around her studio apartment, littered with stuff. So much stuff, she muses as she takes another sip of her wine. Stuff from times long past, times that are gone, times that'll never happen again. Relics of past relationships, mainly, but some hidden gems in there from other things.

"Worthless, all of it," she sighs out loud to herself, and she casually drains the last of her wine before hurling the glass at the opposite wall. It shatters beautifully, and she calmly stands up to pour herself another glass. Stalking back to her couch, she feels the fabric of her dress slipping past her legs--a comforting touch.

Not that it means anything, though. Not that any of this really means anything. Here and then gone, she reminds herself. What really is the truth, anymore? Who is she? Is she that wounded damsel who needs saving? The confident, domineering female who will do the saving? Cute, innocent? Or dark, mysterious? Elegant and graceful? Or awkward and clumsy?

All of those things and yet none of them; she is what others make of her. What she makes of herself. And right now, she's a waste of space getting drunk on her couch. The phone rings, as it's done all day, but she ignores it. Voicemail comes through--her sister.

"Hey, Valerie. I know it's been a while after the little fight we had, but I just wanted to know if you'd please come down home for Christmas. Timothy really wants to meet you." End of message. Timothy--her two-year-old nephew. She doesn't even know what he looks like, but she sure as hell knows what his father looks like.

"Mister Byron Jones," she sighs a little wistfully, tilting her head back slightly as the memories wash over her. Her first serious fling (although serious is quite the exaggeration). She took him home one day, and somehow he got it into his head that she needed to "settle down" with him. She wasn't ready for that; her sister was.

Of course, it was a year later that they started dating, and the two of them had never been that serious in the first place. Still, though, she can't help but wonder if Timothy could have been her son as she drinks away her life, thousands of miles from anyone she really knows and unsure of who she even is anymore.

A useless thought process, really, because she knows that she wouldn't have settled down. She still wouldn't because... because that's not what she does. Her sister is the good child, the girlfriend you can bring home, the one you make your wife. She's the one you sneak into your house, the one who breaks up homes without a care.

Except she's not. At least, she tries not to be; it's not her fault men aren't always honest. Or is it? She sighs and takes another drink to clear her head. Or, rather, to fog it up to the point of not even being able to think anymore.

Another phone call. She sighs but simply lounges further on the couch, and her empty glass dangles between relaxed fingers as the world begins swimming before her eyes. So tired... the glass falls and shatters against the ground as her eyes slip shut; the phone still rings. Voicemail.

"Valerie, please. I didn't want to have to tell you in a voicemail, but it's serious. Mom is really sick, Val, and Byron is talking divorce because I've just been so busy and worried with her. God, what am I doing? You probably aren't even home. Do you care, Valerie? I'm--whatever. If you get this and you still remember who we are, call back."