05 > Gallery of Femininity: Locked in Stasis
Maxine Lowe was the kind of woman that had far too much time and money to herself. Well, arguably. She was dying. Old age, they said. She never talked much to anyone anymore. She had rented a suite at the ritz-carlton a few years back and hadn't left since. Gave the staff a ridiculous amount of money just to let her renovate the place to her liking. It took two years just to get it the way she liked it. She was very particular about how it was supposed to look, you see.
It wasn't when her daughter, Claire, was murdered that she began to act strange. In fact, no one could really trace Maxine's odd behaviour back to any point other than, perhaps, the death of her husband, Edward Simpson. That was nearly twenty years ago. Claire never really got to know her father.
Carl re-adjusted his ratty overcoat a few times as he knocked on the door to suite 462. Maxine had a bit of a reputation for not liking uninvited company, and what with her daughter's death just a few days ago, Carl was pretty certain she wouldn't want to see him.
A tall man who looked like he was poured into his black suit answered the door. His motionless face inquiring as to why Carl had chosen now to arrive. Carl's angular features squirmed for a moment. He wasn't always very comfortable being the one asking the questions. Shale, however, was too crass for this one. Maxine didn't take kindly to almost anyone, least of all crass police officers.
The hallways were a bright pink. They shot out at Carl like an eerie reminder of something he couldn't quite place at first, until he remembered Maxine's daughter. Her room had been nearly soaked in red... in more ways than one...
Carl shook the thought out of his head for a moment as he stood in the foyer, and heard a gnawing old voice from the other room. Carl felt sympathy for Claire, no matter what she had done. Hell, even Shale could feel sorry for her, and he usually was as callous as they came.
"She'll see you now," said the tall man in a baratone. Carl nodded as the tall man escorted him through the narrow pink hallways into the bedroom.
Hot pink and cheap white designs that Carl couldn't make out adorned the carpet. The whole place was pink. Even the bed spread. The few spots of a light blue were on a nightstand, the plastic mound attached to the foot of the bed that looked like a Swan, and the pajama's of Ms. Lowe.
Her face was leathered by age, but paled by staying indoors. Her white hair was cropped short, just as any respectable old lady's should be. Her faint blue eyes didn't look over at Carl, even as the tall man walked away. She held a remote control, and watched a television that was too far behind a wall for Carl to see. He could make out from the noise that she was watching CNN.
"Ms. Lowe?"
"Good day, Detective Fidget." The old lady never turned to look at Carl as she spoke. In fact, it seemed as though she wasn't truly looking at anything at all. Her eyes were merely staring vacantly ahead.
"There are many things that aren't to be answered yet, Detective Fidget, and yet you seek them. Why is that?"
"I'm not sure I understand what you mean, miss." Carl wondered why it is that this lady would live in a place that looked like it had been rejected by Las Vegas. He wanted to reach for a smoke.
"I was once just like her, you know. I was young and pretty and had my whole life ahead of me. At least she was smart, and didn't waste it all in marriage."
"If I may, Ms. Lowe, Claire seemed like quite the troubled young girl."
"Of course she did..."
It seemed like there was supposed to be more than that. Carl waited for the rest of the sentance. Maxine didn't even look to be thinking. She just continued to stare up at the television screen, with no physical ques to suggest that she was paying attention to anything. Or, perhaps, she was paying attention to far too much.
Carl nearly turned to go, frustrated by the old woman, and then turned to speak. She beat him to it.
"Never underestimate the Butterflies, Detective Fidget."
"What?"
"You're disturbing my Swan, Carl. I think It'd be best if I asked Rick to get you to leave now."
Her thumb moved on the remote control, and the sounds of CNN increased in volume. It seemed almost as if the pink absorbed the sound. Maxine had never even looked at him. Had barely moved. Normally it was the criminal who spoke in riddles, but this was more than Carl was used to. Rick floated over to Carl's side and ridgidly pointed towards the door. Carl simply tipped his non-existant hat before pulling away a blonde lock of hair and heading back through the pink maze to the exit.
The hallway was a soothing brown as he stood there, his back to 462's door for longer than he can remember. Old ladies were like the greek Fates. Always telling you pieces but never the whole.
Or maybe the whole was there, but just misplaced?
Carl pushed a cigarette into his mouth before walking back down the hall, towards the gigantic mess that lied before him.
(GALLERY OF FEMININITY: A collection of images of various women from the LiveJournal Random Image Generator turned to Stories. Short blurbs that are introspection into how Women affect men, society, and vice versa. I don't know how long this will last per se, but I hope to have one a week until it is done.)
all but the image is (c) 2005 Eric Logan Taylor.
[01 > Night Cap.]
[02 > The Road to Metamorphosis.]
[03 > Defining Perception.]
[04 > One of Many.]
It wasn't when her daughter, Claire, was murdered that she began to act strange. In fact, no one could really trace Maxine's odd behaviour back to any point other than, perhaps, the death of her husband, Edward Simpson. That was nearly twenty years ago. Claire never really got to know her father.
Carl re-adjusted his ratty overcoat a few times as he knocked on the door to suite 462. Maxine had a bit of a reputation for not liking uninvited company, and what with her daughter's death just a few days ago, Carl was pretty certain she wouldn't want to see him.
A tall man who looked like he was poured into his black suit answered the door. His motionless face inquiring as to why Carl had chosen now to arrive. Carl's angular features squirmed for a moment. He wasn't always very comfortable being the one asking the questions. Shale, however, was too crass for this one. Maxine didn't take kindly to almost anyone, least of all crass police officers.
The hallways were a bright pink. They shot out at Carl like an eerie reminder of something he couldn't quite place at first, until he remembered Maxine's daughter. Her room had been nearly soaked in red... in more ways than one...
Carl shook the thought out of his head for a moment as he stood in the foyer, and heard a gnawing old voice from the other room. Carl felt sympathy for Claire, no matter what she had done. Hell, even Shale could feel sorry for her, and he usually was as callous as they came.
"She'll see you now," said the tall man in a baratone. Carl nodded as the tall man escorted him through the narrow pink hallways into the bedroom.
Hot pink and cheap white designs that Carl couldn't make out adorned the carpet. The whole place was pink. Even the bed spread. The few spots of a light blue were on a nightstand, the plastic mound attached to the foot of the bed that looked like a Swan, and the pajama's of Ms. Lowe.
Her face was leathered by age, but paled by staying indoors. Her white hair was cropped short, just as any respectable old lady's should be. Her faint blue eyes didn't look over at Carl, even as the tall man walked away. She held a remote control, and watched a television that was too far behind a wall for Carl to see. He could make out from the noise that she was watching CNN.
"Ms. Lowe?"
"Good day, Detective Fidget." The old lady never turned to look at Carl as she spoke. In fact, it seemed as though she wasn't truly looking at anything at all. Her eyes were merely staring vacantly ahead.
"There are many things that aren't to be answered yet, Detective Fidget, and yet you seek them. Why is that?"
"I'm not sure I understand what you mean, miss." Carl wondered why it is that this lady would live in a place that looked like it had been rejected by Las Vegas. He wanted to reach for a smoke.
"I was once just like her, you know. I was young and pretty and had my whole life ahead of me. At least she was smart, and didn't waste it all in marriage."
"If I may, Ms. Lowe, Claire seemed like quite the troubled young girl."
"Of course she did..."
It seemed like there was supposed to be more than that. Carl waited for the rest of the sentance. Maxine didn't even look to be thinking. She just continued to stare up at the television screen, with no physical ques to suggest that she was paying attention to anything. Or, perhaps, she was paying attention to far too much.
Carl nearly turned to go, frustrated by the old woman, and then turned to speak. She beat him to it.
"Never underestimate the Butterflies, Detective Fidget."
"What?"
"You're disturbing my Swan, Carl. I think It'd be best if I asked Rick to get you to leave now."
Her thumb moved on the remote control, and the sounds of CNN increased in volume. It seemed almost as if the pink absorbed the sound. Maxine had never even looked at him. Had barely moved. Normally it was the criminal who spoke in riddles, but this was more than Carl was used to. Rick floated over to Carl's side and ridgidly pointed towards the door. Carl simply tipped his non-existant hat before pulling away a blonde lock of hair and heading back through the pink maze to the exit.
The hallway was a soothing brown as he stood there, his back to 462's door for longer than he can remember. Old ladies were like the greek Fates. Always telling you pieces but never the whole.
Or maybe the whole was there, but just misplaced?
Carl pushed a cigarette into his mouth before walking back down the hall, towards the gigantic mess that lied before him.
(GALLERY OF FEMININITY: A collection of images of various women from the LiveJournal Random Image Generator turned to Stories. Short blurbs that are introspection into how Women affect men, society, and vice versa. I don't know how long this will last per se, but I hope to have one a week until it is done.)
all but the image is (c) 2005 Eric Logan Taylor.
[01 > Night Cap.]
[02 > The Road to Metamorphosis.]
[03 > Defining Perception.]
[04 > One of Many.]