cohen aubrey
She looks like she’s been locked in a basement since the last time you’d seen her. The silky auburn hair you remember hangs in limp, greasy tangles, her bright turquoise eyes sunken into the hollows of a gaunt face slashed across with a twisted, craggy scar. She’s completely naked save for a pair of four-inch silver matte heels, revealing that the toned muscles and sensual curves that once existed have been traded in for an emaciated figure, the bones protruding grotesquely while the golden, sun kissed skin that once stretched taut over her body has paled to a pasty purple. She’d been the picture of health and beauty, and now she’s nothing but a ghost drenched in shadows and bruises.
She says your name as she takes a drag from the cigarette she holds loosely between her fingers. You’re surprised by how, despite her appearance, her voice is the same, having maintained that buttery smoothness blended perfectly with that cold malice. Her eyes, too, retain the essence of the girl you used to know, glinting as viciously as ever.
“It’s been a while.”
“Indeed it has,” you tell her. “What’ve you been doing with yourself? You look like hell.”
She laughs that smoker’s laugh. “Oh, you know…”
“No, can’t say that I do. I mean really, Cohen,”-you pause, dramatic effect-“you used to be pretty.”
“Always the gentleman,” she says with a snarl. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I’m down to my last bottle of champagne and I’d really rather not waste it on you.”
You shrug. “I was hoping we could get this over with fast, anyways, so...”
“Hmm, really?” she asks, closing the distance between the two of you, placing her lips right next to your ear. Her breath is stale cigarettes and even staler coffee and it tickles the delicate skin by her lips as she talks. “I was hoping we could do a little…catching up.”
The naked girl arches her back, her spine like a bowl of Rice Krispies as it snaps, crackles, pops into place; her leg shoots out, stretches straight up over the top of her head, the toes pointed, and she’s like a rotting ballerina.“For starters,” she says from her mildly contorted position, “I’m a very sick girl.” She straightens herself out.
I’ll say,” you mutter, though you can’t help but wonder if the girl is admitting to a mental disturbance or if she really has some sort of medical issue-she certainly looks like she does. She straightens herself, placing both feet on the floor, dropping her hands from where they’ve been resting on your shoulders-her ragged-nailed fingers digging into your flesh-and takes a step back.
“What do you want, then?”
“I need your help.” Your voice is edged with resentment-the last place you’d rather be is here, in this cryptic basement with this creepy, half-dead girl.
“No.”
“You haven’t even-”
“No.”
“But-”
“No.”
You pause before rushing in to say the words as quick as possible: “It’ll be fun.” You even stretch the last word out, giving ‘fun’ two syllables instead of one.
She cocks her head to the side and arches her brows. “What kind of fun?”
You smile, then, knowing you’ve got her, knowing the infamous Cohen Aubrey would never pass up a chance to-well, she would never pass this up.
“It’s your kind of fun, Cohen,” you tell her. “Exactly your kind of fun.”
xxx
a second-person point of view of an old story, but i'm determined to reuse it this in a reworking of th same charachters, totally different plotline. and for some background here, cohen aubrey, i've just decided, is a caltech grad with a phd in chemistry
also, i seem to like backwards names for girls. i'm working on a character named phinnegan "phinn" lacy. she's awesome.
written: july 2008 // revised: august 2009
She says your name as she takes a drag from the cigarette she holds loosely between her fingers. You’re surprised by how, despite her appearance, her voice is the same, having maintained that buttery smoothness blended perfectly with that cold malice. Her eyes, too, retain the essence of the girl you used to know, glinting as viciously as ever.
“It’s been a while.”
“Indeed it has,” you tell her. “What’ve you been doing with yourself? You look like hell.”
She laughs that smoker’s laugh. “Oh, you know…”
“No, can’t say that I do. I mean really, Cohen,”-you pause, dramatic effect-“you used to be pretty.”
“Always the gentleman,” she says with a snarl. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I’m down to my last bottle of champagne and I’d really rather not waste it on you.”
You shrug. “I was hoping we could get this over with fast, anyways, so...”
“Hmm, really?” she asks, closing the distance between the two of you, placing her lips right next to your ear. Her breath is stale cigarettes and even staler coffee and it tickles the delicate skin by her lips as she talks. “I was hoping we could do a little…catching up.”
The naked girl arches her back, her spine like a bowl of Rice Krispies as it snaps, crackles, pops into place; her leg shoots out, stretches straight up over the top of her head, the toes pointed, and she’s like a rotting ballerina.“For starters,” she says from her mildly contorted position, “I’m a very sick girl.” She straightens herself out.
I’ll say,” you mutter, though you can’t help but wonder if the girl is admitting to a mental disturbance or if she really has some sort of medical issue-she certainly looks like she does. She straightens herself, placing both feet on the floor, dropping her hands from where they’ve been resting on your shoulders-her ragged-nailed fingers digging into your flesh-and takes a step back.
“What do you want, then?”
“I need your help.” Your voice is edged with resentment-the last place you’d rather be is here, in this cryptic basement with this creepy, half-dead girl.
“No.”
“You haven’t even-”
“No.”
“But-”
“No.”
You pause before rushing in to say the words as quick as possible: “It’ll be fun.” You even stretch the last word out, giving ‘fun’ two syllables instead of one.
She cocks her head to the side and arches her brows. “What kind of fun?”
You smile, then, knowing you’ve got her, knowing the infamous Cohen Aubrey would never pass up a chance to-well, she would never pass this up.
“It’s your kind of fun, Cohen,” you tell her. “Exactly your kind of fun.”
xxx
a second-person point of view of an old story, but i'm determined to reuse it this in a reworking of th same charachters, totally different plotline. and for some background here, cohen aubrey, i've just decided, is a caltech grad with a phd in chemistry
also, i seem to like backwards names for girls. i'm working on a character named phinnegan "phinn" lacy. she's awesome.
written: july 2008 // revised: august 2009