Meanwhile, back at stately Wayne Manor...
It isn't until nearly a month and a half later that Audrey remembers the journal. The one Thomas gave her.
"God..."
She recovers it now and holds it against her, wanting to shove the corner of it into her eye.
For all her potential, Audrey's never really kept a journal. She's read plenty, and she's tried her hand a few times, but once she learned that the most commonly used word in the English language was "I," an awful statistic by her estimation, her work tapered off somewhat.
So her pornography had stood as her silent vigil, the only evidence, other than her sales and building and fire permits, that she even existed at all. She doesn’t know it, but her birth and hospital records had been burned by a couple of ugly teenagers on a Halloween dare that they had been only too glad to fulfill. And they had replaced it all with a death certificate, claiming that they had found her hanging in her shop with a gunshot in the back of her head.
Everyone thought it was great fun.
So now she’s got this thing, this journal that’s too pretty for pornography, too pretty for the word “I.”
“What am I going to do with you,” she sighs to the book. “I can’t read you, I have nothing to write in you,” she snorts out a laugh, “and I can’t draw for shite. Pity.”
The book is pretty enough to stand as an ornament, but she wonders what Frank would think of that. Thomas doesn’t need any more grief falling on him, especially not from a man in women’s underwear.
So she shifts where she stands, unsure of her next move.
“I want,” she says aloud, “to call Frankie and invite him over so I can scratch his eyes out and murder him.”
That sounds like an excellent idea.
Absolutely delightful, actually, not to mention perfectly reasonable.
Oh, but there were so many people to kill and so very little time. Alex has fallen completely off-radar; Frank appears to be upstairs fixing a sandwich, looking utterly adorable; the Devil…well, he’s never really around when you really need him, and she wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight with him anyway; Cunningham’s got a Biblically nuclear family; Tom’s in excellent health in another country; Sarah’s still having the time of her life; and both of her parents are already dead.
She suddenly screams, “I MUST HAVE SOMETHING’S FLESH!”
And she flicks on her monitor to call up to Frank in the kitchen.
“Frank, dear-heart, where’s that young man you picked up the other night? Is he still here? I think we should fry him for brunch.”
Then she turns it back off and goes back to her bed to masturbate.
"God..."
She recovers it now and holds it against her, wanting to shove the corner of it into her eye.
For all her potential, Audrey's never really kept a journal. She's read plenty, and she's tried her hand a few times, but once she learned that the most commonly used word in the English language was "I," an awful statistic by her estimation, her work tapered off somewhat.
So her pornography had stood as her silent vigil, the only evidence, other than her sales and building and fire permits, that she even existed at all. She doesn’t know it, but her birth and hospital records had been burned by a couple of ugly teenagers on a Halloween dare that they had been only too glad to fulfill. And they had replaced it all with a death certificate, claiming that they had found her hanging in her shop with a gunshot in the back of her head.
Everyone thought it was great fun.
So now she’s got this thing, this journal that’s too pretty for pornography, too pretty for the word “I.”
“What am I going to do with you,” she sighs to the book. “I can’t read you, I have nothing to write in you,” she snorts out a laugh, “and I can’t draw for shite. Pity.”
The book is pretty enough to stand as an ornament, but she wonders what Frank would think of that. Thomas doesn’t need any more grief falling on him, especially not from a man in women’s underwear.
So she shifts where she stands, unsure of her next move.
“I want,” she says aloud, “to call Frankie and invite him over so I can scratch his eyes out and murder him.”
That sounds like an excellent idea.
Absolutely delightful, actually, not to mention perfectly reasonable.
Oh, but there were so many people to kill and so very little time. Alex has fallen completely off-radar; Frank appears to be upstairs fixing a sandwich, looking utterly adorable; the Devil…well, he’s never really around when you really need him, and she wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight with him anyway; Cunningham’s got a Biblically nuclear family; Tom’s in excellent health in another country; Sarah’s still having the time of her life; and both of her parents are already dead.
She suddenly screams, “I MUST HAVE SOMETHING’S FLESH!”
And she flicks on her monitor to call up to Frank in the kitchen.
“Frank, dear-heart, where’s that young man you picked up the other night? Is he still here? I think we should fry him for brunch.”
Then she turns it back off and goes back to her bed to masturbate.