X-Mas Drabble Revisited II
Title: Christmas Drabble
Fandom/Original: Original
Pairing(s): None
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Implications of prostitution.
Summary: See notes.
Notes
I added a bit more to it, but I don't think I fleshed out Lydia quite enough just yet. I think you have some understanding of her materialistic nature as you read on about her, but I don't think I placed enough emphasis on her socially awkward behavior. I think I may backtrack and explain how she changed and then get into the differences between her home in the past and in the present. Or, I may finish fleshing out her homes of the past and present and work into the differences in her in the past and in the present. I haven't quite decided. I think it could work either way, it'll just be a matter of which one I prefer, I suppose.
Christmas Drabble
The only light seeping in through the tiny and gaping holes in the blinds belonged to the streetlamps. They reluctantly shared with the tiny apartment in the early hours of night, and then gave too much during the early hours of the morning. At least that’s what she’d like to blame her insomnia on. She didn’t like to think about the demons lurking in the shadows about her apartment.
She was sixteen when she began to walk down this path. Her parents thought it would do her some good to be amongst children her own age instead of private lessons in their ritzy home. Had they known the effects of this change would strongly grip and eventually drown their little princess, perhaps they would have thought twice about such exposure and emersion into common life. Now, instead of a cushy mattress that gently supported her while she slumbered, she was met with the harsh poking and prodding of springs in a mattress she had managed to find out on the street. There was a reason it was no longer wanted, but she had ignored it. It was better than the floor or the recliner that was left behind.
At night, when she could fall asleep, she dreamed of the life she once called her own. Lydia Bates, sole heiress to the empire that her great-great grandfather had begun. She lived comfortably. Her parents owned a summer home in every corner of the country, or what it seemed like to the younger version of the broken girl. But their main home was in LA, of course. It was the cliché castle of a modern princess.
Large, wrought-iron gates split an ornate B in half when welcoming a friend, business associate to their less than humble abode. Two stories high and filled with countless expensive pieces of art, top of the line technology, and any other method they desired to show off their wealth, there was only one thing missing amongst the riches. But it was not love.
Love existed in the household. Graham Bates loved going to the country club to play a few rounds of tennis. He also had a fondness of spending time with his business associates, even those lower on the food chain, at the racetrack, drinking dark beer and smoking rich, Cuban cigars in their box high-above like demi-gods. He loved seeing his daughter’s piano recitals when they didn’t interfere with a business meeting. He loved Armani suits and would settle for nothing less. Graham Bates loved his wife even, a woman who craved nothing less than the best.
Sylvia Bates, formerly known as Sylvia Chase, was ambitious. Although well-off by her own rights, Sylvia was not satisfied. She loved expensive cars. She lavished in jewelry and fine artwork. Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Armani, anything designer and she loved it. Anything less than cashmere or fine silk, and Sylvia did not like it. It was probably why she had some slight contempt for herself over her daughter. It was not the son she was supposed to bear. The Bates family name would die with Lydia and although Sylvia loved her daughter, she blamed herself every day that Lydia grew older and she failed to conceive for the imminent doom of the family.
But Lydia was not a wretched child to her family. As a child, many would have mistaken her for a life-sized doll. She did not run around, cry, fuss, or scream. She kept to herself and her toys. In a Purtanic society, she would have been regarded as a perfect example of how a child should be with her honey brown eyes and thin, fine coal black hair. She was quick to learn and a very creative girl as she grew taller, thinner, and attained her young hour-glass shape. But there was something troubling that her parents had noticed in Lydia. She simply did not know how to interact with people outside of the help about the house or her own parents. She would often revert from that angelic façade and become bratty, spoiled, and selfish. She had “friends,” but she would often express to her parents that she did not wish to see James, Olivia, Sarah, or Victoria again for various reasons.
The first few nights on her own, Lydia would cry to herself. To no one in particular, she would yell, “Why didn’t I just learn to like people!? Why!?” But there was no answer given. Her father and mother were now on the other side of the country doing God knows what. At first, she thought they would come looking for her; beg her to return with them. They would make all of this, this nightmare go away. But months went by and she never heard from them. There was no magical phone call or letter delivered. Lydia was left alone in New York to attempt to fight for herself. Always an independent girl, she tried to ignore the pangs of want and need to see her parents that soon filled her heart. Her new home had love just as her old one did, but it was different.
No one called her Lydia when they walked in. Her name was Diamond and they had her attention for an hour or more. Loving embraces were replaced with firm grips. Back rubs were replaced with nails scraping and scratching at the back. The faked enthusiasm existed, but it was of a different sorts. Hair stroking until she fell asleep was replaced with rough tangling of fingers in her dark hair, yanking her about until he was done. Oh, if only her parents knew the life her daughter was leading!
They would rescue her from the cotton fabrics purchased in second-hand shops for cheap. They would swoop in and safe the princess from the dark and dank prison she was now coerced to call home. She would be able to sleep soundly in her large bedroom instead of her one-room apartment that had to have been old enough to know the Great Depression. She would no longer have to listen to the drip of the sink where she washed her hair and herself with. She wouldn’t have to give a passing thought to rodents and other vermin that skittered across her floor at nights and she would never give another thought as to what the hell her neighbors were doing to cause so much noise. She would be given a goodnight kiss instead of the lips tainted with alcohol soon followed by an intruding tongue begging her to place more important needs in her mouth.
Instead of spending winter nights shivering, pulling a thin and holed blanket close to her sickly thin body, she would wrap a thick and heated blanket around her lean body. A cup of hot cocoa is usually even thrown into the fantasy of those winter nights. But tonight, such a dream only made her toss and turn uncomfortably as she was painfully reminded of where she was.
Fandom/Original: Original
Pairing(s): None
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Implications of prostitution.
Summary: See notes.
Notes
I added a bit more to it, but I don't think I fleshed out Lydia quite enough just yet. I think you have some understanding of her materialistic nature as you read on about her, but I don't think I placed enough emphasis on her socially awkward behavior. I think I may backtrack and explain how she changed and then get into the differences between her home in the past and in the present. Or, I may finish fleshing out her homes of the past and present and work into the differences in her in the past and in the present. I haven't quite decided. I think it could work either way, it'll just be a matter of which one I prefer, I suppose.
Christmas Drabble
The only light seeping in through the tiny and gaping holes in the blinds belonged to the streetlamps. They reluctantly shared with the tiny apartment in the early hours of night, and then gave too much during the early hours of the morning. At least that’s what she’d like to blame her insomnia on. She didn’t like to think about the demons lurking in the shadows about her apartment.
She was sixteen when she began to walk down this path. Her parents thought it would do her some good to be amongst children her own age instead of private lessons in their ritzy home. Had they known the effects of this change would strongly grip and eventually drown their little princess, perhaps they would have thought twice about such exposure and emersion into common life. Now, instead of a cushy mattress that gently supported her while she slumbered, she was met with the harsh poking and prodding of springs in a mattress she had managed to find out on the street. There was a reason it was no longer wanted, but she had ignored it. It was better than the floor or the recliner that was left behind.
At night, when she could fall asleep, she dreamed of the life she once called her own. Lydia Bates, sole heiress to the empire that her great-great grandfather had begun. She lived comfortably. Her parents owned a summer home in every corner of the country, or what it seemed like to the younger version of the broken girl. But their main home was in LA, of course. It was the cliché castle of a modern princess.
Large, wrought-iron gates split an ornate B in half when welcoming a friend, business associate to their less than humble abode. Two stories high and filled with countless expensive pieces of art, top of the line technology, and any other method they desired to show off their wealth, there was only one thing missing amongst the riches. But it was not love.
Love existed in the household. Graham Bates loved going to the country club to play a few rounds of tennis. He also had a fondness of spending time with his business associates, even those lower on the food chain, at the racetrack, drinking dark beer and smoking rich, Cuban cigars in their box high-above like demi-gods. He loved seeing his daughter’s piano recitals when they didn’t interfere with a business meeting. He loved Armani suits and would settle for nothing less. Graham Bates loved his wife even, a woman who craved nothing less than the best.
Sylvia Bates, formerly known as Sylvia Chase, was ambitious. Although well-off by her own rights, Sylvia was not satisfied. She loved expensive cars. She lavished in jewelry and fine artwork. Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Armani, anything designer and she loved it. Anything less than cashmere or fine silk, and Sylvia did not like it. It was probably why she had some slight contempt for herself over her daughter. It was not the son she was supposed to bear. The Bates family name would die with Lydia and although Sylvia loved her daughter, she blamed herself every day that Lydia grew older and she failed to conceive for the imminent doom of the family.
But Lydia was not a wretched child to her family. As a child, many would have mistaken her for a life-sized doll. She did not run around, cry, fuss, or scream. She kept to herself and her toys. In a Purtanic society, she would have been regarded as a perfect example of how a child should be with her honey brown eyes and thin, fine coal black hair. She was quick to learn and a very creative girl as she grew taller, thinner, and attained her young hour-glass shape. But there was something troubling that her parents had noticed in Lydia. She simply did not know how to interact with people outside of the help about the house or her own parents. She would often revert from that angelic façade and become bratty, spoiled, and selfish. She had “friends,” but she would often express to her parents that she did not wish to see James, Olivia, Sarah, or Victoria again for various reasons.
The first few nights on her own, Lydia would cry to herself. To no one in particular, she would yell, “Why didn’t I just learn to like people!? Why!?” But there was no answer given. Her father and mother were now on the other side of the country doing God knows what. At first, she thought they would come looking for her; beg her to return with them. They would make all of this, this nightmare go away. But months went by and she never heard from them. There was no magical phone call or letter delivered. Lydia was left alone in New York to attempt to fight for herself. Always an independent girl, she tried to ignore the pangs of want and need to see her parents that soon filled her heart. Her new home had love just as her old one did, but it was different.
No one called her Lydia when they walked in. Her name was Diamond and they had her attention for an hour or more. Loving embraces were replaced with firm grips. Back rubs were replaced with nails scraping and scratching at the back. The faked enthusiasm existed, but it was of a different sorts. Hair stroking until she fell asleep was replaced with rough tangling of fingers in her dark hair, yanking her about until he was done. Oh, if only her parents knew the life her daughter was leading!
They would rescue her from the cotton fabrics purchased in second-hand shops for cheap. They would swoop in and safe the princess from the dark and dank prison she was now coerced to call home. She would be able to sleep soundly in her large bedroom instead of her one-room apartment that had to have been old enough to know the Great Depression. She would no longer have to listen to the drip of the sink where she washed her hair and herself with. She wouldn’t have to give a passing thought to rodents and other vermin that skittered across her floor at nights and she would never give another thought as to what the hell her neighbors were doing to cause so much noise. She would be given a goodnight kiss instead of the lips tainted with alcohol soon followed by an intruding tongue begging her to place more important needs in her mouth.
Instead of spending winter nights shivering, pulling a thin and holed blanket close to her sickly thin body, she would wrap a thick and heated blanket around her lean body. A cup of hot cocoa is usually even thrown into the fantasy of those winter nights. But tonight, such a dream only made her toss and turn uncomfortably as she was painfully reminded of where she was.