don't bother to knock. open.

[nathaniel]

Despite what many thought of the eldest of the Waldgrave offspring, he wasn’t the kind of man who would enjoy the likes of hardcore S&M. He’d pondered his lack of interest in such exotic sexual activity one night as he’d loosened his tie, sipped his wine and sat down to watch a porn documentary. Lighting a cigarette the man of twenty eight years had almost choked on the smoke as he watched one man pissed on his girlfriends face and then slapped her with his erect penis. It was something that Nate could only shudder at as he shook his head and leant back. Yes, he had done some terrible and inexcusable things in his lifetime but the one thing he’d been adamant about was that he’d never mistreat a woman whom had done nothing wrong. His surly, furrowed brow exterior might scream ‘woman beater’ but the man had only ever harmed one woman. And that’s because she’d never let it drop. She’d never stopped. She’d threatened to go public with his fathers affair and had smirked as she watched Nathaniel squirm under her charms and her relentless taunting. She’d bedded his father several times that year and was about to ruin their reputation of a closely knit family. Nate would never have such a thing happen to the family business. So he’d hired a woman to off her.

He still had nightmares about it.

But as he sat in the dark with the cigarette smoke coiling towards the ceiling, Nate couldn’t tear his eyes away from the documentary before him. How so many people could give in to such pressures as to please their familiars with such horrific acts of love. Was it even love or was it merely insatiable curiosity? When would they stop? He watched one woman gag her partner and whip him feverishly with a long leather whip. His skin began to redden under the pressure with large lacerations opening up. She didn’t stop until the man screamed out RED. RED. RED

[/i] It appeared to be some sort of code as the woman then cut her home made video with a devilish smirk on her pouted, glossy lips. She was a prostitute. You could tell by the way she had barely touched the man with her bare hands. She was a new one; one that had a high libido but a slight revulsion for men. Nate was no stranger to hired help. He’d throw parties filled with the higher end escorts, their lacy underwear being their party dress for the night as they roamed around his apartment with expensive champagne and bags of coke falling out their panties. Those nights had been blissful, his stresses rolling away as women doted upon him. They fed him strawberries and massaged his tender shoulders with their dinky little hands, their glossed lips whispering things that would do for tonight but would quickly become increasingly irritating should he ever strike up a relationship with them. The boy had only ever had one girl he could possibly call his girlfriend and she was, without a doubt, the girl he’d loved. The blonde haired boy doubted that he’d ever find something like that again. That he’d find someone who could bring his conscience to the forefront of his mind or that could even dent his heart with their words.

It was a sad existence for the boy at times but he barely found the time to dwell upon it. Pulling him out of his contorted mind came the housekeeper. We have a guest, Mr Waldgrave.[/i] Their well trained eloquent voice reverberated round the room without even the batting of an eyelid as a woman began to orgasm on the television. Fake or real, the boy couldn’t tell. She was a good actress if it was fake. Changing the channel and switching the television off, just in case, Nate stood up and slowly walked towards the front door. At any other time the sight of a womans plastic breasts would have aroused him but tonight his mood was too far south to be uplifted by such material appearances. Yes? He rudely drawled as he looked at the person standing on his doorstep. What do you want? The German bred, New York raised boy asked as he flicked the dead ash to the ground. This wasn’t his place to do such things, the building belonging to his absent minded sister. Not that that had ever stopped him from being such a bad houseguest.
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[esperanza lillian buganski]

Praise heaven, jesus, the holy mother, dear lord our god in the sky she hadn't thrown them away.

Her mother did find it within herself to love her, to give unending affection and then tough love and finally end the evening with a heart-rendering course of delicious, scraggly, profound attention to detail. The clothes, in their black, shredded, studded, desecrated glory resided in a black garbage bag in the basement of their home, the slant of afternoon light just bringing in enough illumination for Ezzie to spot the end of one of her old cardigans poking from it and from that moment there was hardly a pause as she ripped apart the plastic with her fingernails, clothes and shoes and everything flying every which way as she buried herself in the warm skin scented artifacts of the life she'd used to have, and given up when she decided she didn't love herself enough. Unfortunately, that too had the tenacity of a retarded puppy and had shifted with her next gust of wind: three months, two weeks and four days and she was split like her legs used to be, right down the middle, knobby knees bent apart as some dude or chick she didn't know did whatever the fuck they felt like doing and she'd just moan or cry out accordingly. She'd hated herself and wanted to die and she believed that for that three month period she did die, she was a hollow shell of hurt and anger and lust and sometimes when she slept at night and dreamt of Caro it scared her enough to scream. And now she was sitting in a basement rifling through clothes her mother hadn't thrown away even though she specifically dictated that she toss them, and perhaps burn them – for she did always have a flair for arson. She hadn't been so emotional – good or bad – since Dougie died of heart issues next to the food bowl and she was forced to reconsider the diet she'd put him on of green beans and shucked corn.

And suddenly, it donned on her spinning head (for she'd been running in what seemed like extremely elongated circles for the past hour and a half, prancing around the house in nothing but a pair of underwear and slippers and declaring it steaming, hot, that she was melting, pounding her fists on the counter of the kitchen and demanding that they turn the air down, open windows, something) that she had to tell someone of her discovery. There was no way such an occurrence could go unknown to the society that she'd submersed herself in – her proper behavior aside, she felt it was her absolute and immediate duty to define the existence of herself and everyone around her by rooting them in reality. She'd found her clothes, so therefore she must have existed in a time before now and thus they must have too, which meant inevitably that they also existed, and were existing, now. Shoving her long, slender arms through the holes of a destroyed dress, ripping the sleeves halfway to her elbow and ignoring the terrible tearing sound, the way the fabric sagged instead of fitting to her skin because she'd lost so much weight, too much; she'd been skinny before but now she wasn't even remotely fleshy. The healthy coloration of her cheeks had gone, in it's place hollowed evidence of her excellent pedigree, hair lifeless and wild about her slender face, eyes pushed back and dull. In the mornings she stood in the mirror and watched her hand crawl up her back, counting the vertebra that stuck through her skin. She hadn't been eating. If it wasn't one addiction, it was another. Always. A hundred and five pounds, a hundred and three, a hundred and two. At five foot eleven, that was a shockingly low amount of flesh to her bones. Forcing the sleeves to remain folded above her elbows, she pulled a pair of shoes from the recesses of the black bags, chuckled at the thought that it could have been a body – the size and shape were about accurate – and lit a cigarette as she left the house, walking, no license, to Anna's, where she inevitably declare her realization with the proud countenance of someone who wasn't crazy, who wasn't speaking in tongues, who didn't have a mental disorder simply because she was saying something so unimportant so excitedly.

She pounded on her door, breathless from running the rest of the way, hair tangled and matted in places and faded red because the last dye was starting to pale, lips blue from the utter lack of oxygen getting to her mouth and she didn't even care, she was ecstatic, proud, thrilled even to be saying what she had to say, even though she was almost positive that as soon as the tiny brunette answered the door she wouldn't remember. She'd lost her shoes halfway to the house and kept running, afraid that if she stopped something cataclysmic would happen, something detonating and dangerous and she'd die and everyone else would die too which wouldn't be so bad because then they'd be united in heaven but still. She didn't want to die before she told Anna this very important piece of information. And so when Nate opened the door, she didn't hesitate in throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing, happy to see even him despite how cranky and irritated he looked and she pulled away before he could push her away and greeted with the familiar nickname, coming to her now despite her complete lack of identity registration just a few days ago, “Peg leg!” and she leaned against the doorframe, wheezing, practically choking on the air, “she didn't throw away my clothes!”

click here for outfit.

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