Page 85 of A Dead Man's B-Side
She grinned. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
“But you don’t believe me.”
“How about this, you tell me mine, and I’ll tell you yours.”
My skin felt tight under all the layers covering me. “Alright. You…” I scoured my mind for what I knew of Paris. She gave an extroverted impression of herself, smiling and giggling and red-lipped. She was vibrant and sometimes indecent, sharp-tongued and sharp-minded.
If I looked closer, I’d say she built the perfect image for herself. Blonde and slim, smart but only academically, talkative but never anything of substance, playful but ultimately pure.
Paris is careful in playing the role she’d assigned herself, one she may have slipped into out of necessity, I don’t know.
“You assume that you easily have everyone fooled because they can never figure you out, leading them to unknowingly underestimate you. But… you’re beginning to lose control of whoyouare, and who you created.”
She tilted my head to inspect her work, pointedly avoiding any eye contact. “Is that so bad? Fatal?”
“Arrogance isn’t always bad—being arrogant of your sense of self-deterioration, however, is.”
She didn’t smile or wave off my words. Her eyes caught mine for only a second and narrowed, though it wasn’t in suspicion or the possible accuracy of my words but rather, thoughtfulness, as she nodded slowly. “I see.”
She didn’t tell me if I was right, but from the way her shoulders tensed, I knew I was. “Well, I think…” She thought for only a moment, or at least gave the impression that she was thinking, before speaking, “You’re like this empty well and you know that the void isthere, somewhere in the back of your mind. Yet, you assume that it’s your greatest strength.”
She wasn’t far off, but the dubious tone to her words made me ask, “I assume?”
She nodded, pausing to place the back of her hands on my shoulders, her stained gloves avoiding the cape. “You never learned that life is so much more than a Machiavellian mind.”
I didn’t understand what she had meant, but I didn’t need to ask, because she elaborated, “Survival is important, and scheming is a grand skill to have if you’re anyone who’s anyone at Castle Hill. But this empty well that you have will stay empty, never knowing the true essence of life if you don’t start learning how to fill it.”
In my silence, she returned to my hair, leaving me to my thoughts.
I didn’t deny that my focus had never been my emotional or mental state throughout my years in solitude; it was never a priority. And ever since I began imagining my death, I’d long forgotten about my life. Once, what now feels like decades ago, I tried imitating the partygoers and rule-breakers. I do not blame my younger self, but it was then, I learned that I do not have the privilege of carefreeness.
To throw caution to the wind and enjoy my youth. Because the last time I’d done that, the knife stabbed into my abdomen and the stolen money thrust me back into reality.
But perhaps Paris was onto something. Perhaps there was more to life that my sphere of familiarity wasn’t allowed to expand to.
It was silent for another few moments before Paris nudged me. “Well, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud. You’ll be sure to get wrinkles that way.”
“Wrinkles are the least–”
A knock came, hesitant and soft against Paris’s door, and for some reason, we shared a look we both seemed to understand.
It could only be a society member this late in the night.
Paris straightened and began removing her gloves, pushing me back down when I’d tried to stand in an attempt towards the door. “I bet you five quid it’s your codependent neighbour.”
She smirked before heading to the door. I didn’t believe her in the slightest. “I’ll take that bet.”
Smiling at the easy money, I reached a hand out of the cape enveloping me and pulled between the roots of the untouched section of my hair to eye the natural colour peeking through. It wasn’t entirely noticeable at first, and with the length, it was barely-there.
But I knew it was there, and that was enough to make me feel nauseous.
“What’d you want?” Paris leaned her hip against her doorframe, talking to someone I couldn’t see. Her voice took on a tone of mild boredom and slight exasperation.
There was a murmur on the other side, feminine. I didn’t know who Paris frequented outside of the Founder’s Society, but that voice sounded oddly familiar.
Soft and kind.
“Listen, I’m a bit busy. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She didn’t let the poor soul speak before closing the door, albeit not slamming it in their face–a small mercy.
