(no subject)
It has been a long day, thinks Hedwig as she relaxes in her new salon chair, but the good sort of tiring--productive, anyway. She has cleaned up and decorated the room in her suite that will serve as her new beauty salon, and now intends to relax for the rest of the night.
She's pleased with how it turned out. Her goal was to infuse it with the sort of rock sensibility that she always tried to live out in every aspect of her life, make it flashy and a little trashy but always from the heart... and sometimes a little lower. Whether or not any customers come, it's a space she is pleased to inhabit, and that's what counts.
The only thing she needs right now is a drink, so she retrieves a bottle of bourbon from the shelf under the mirror and takes a swig. Perfect. She uses the remote to turn the stereo on, turns up the Stooges--let her neighbors hate her, she doesn't much care. It would serve them right to be exposed to some culture for once.
Her musical reverie is broken, several songs and more bourbon than she's willing to admit later, not by a knock on the door but rather by the sudden awareness that she's no longer alone in the room.
Standing before her is a pale, cold, angular man; a familiar man, and one whom, had she not already met the Goblin King here, she would not have believed it possible to meet--yes, in person, or so it seems, her favorite incarnation of the Living Bowie. He takes a drag on his cigarette as he watches her, unblinking.
"Well, hello there," she says, rising to her feet, turning the music down a bit. How do you greet rock royalty? Should she send out for some coke? "You're my first customer--have you come here for that? Anything you like, honey."
He doesn't answer, just watches. It starts to unnerve her.
"Maybe a hand massage, if you're feeling a little shy," she continues, setting the bottle down. "Hands can get so tense, you know? Yours are beautiful. You'll feel so much better--"
"That's not why I'm here."
Oh, he sounds just like him... can it be?
"Then what can I do for you? Name it and it's yours."
"There's nothing you can do for me. I'm here for you."
"Well, I have been a very good girl this year--"
"No." The smoke from his cigarette seems to form a halo around him; whether angelic or infernal she can't be sure. It chills her a little, either way. "You've had two years, and what have you accomplished? Nothing."
"That's not true! I've--"
But what has she done? Gotten a job working for the devil, earned her cosmetology license; had a string of failed relationships, many of which barely qualify as failed one-night-stands. She's played her guitar a little...
"Exactly." He flicks some ash onto the floor. "I spoke on your behalf and all you've done is disappoint me. In two years you haven't learned anything. You're no closer to the truth than you were when you died. My faith seems to have been misplaced."
"What truth?" she asks. "There isn't one. People are born, they live, then they die. They should enjoy what they have while they have it, is that what you want to hear? Some people never find their other half. Some people can't even find themselves. What hope is there for anybody?"
"No," he says. "That's not a valid lesson. You should know that. And you don't have much time left, I'm afraid. Two years, gone for nothing."
"What do you mean, I don't have much time? What's going on?"
"This was only ever meant as a transition."
"Then what happens next?"
He shrugs lightly, takes another drag on the cigarette. "That depends on you. If you don't fuck it up, maybe you'll move on to something better. But you can't stay here."
"What do I need to do? Where am I going?"
"The first rule of reinventing yourself is to remember who you are, where you came from," he says.
"But I do that already."
"Do you." A statement, not a question. "Try to do better. And get your affairs in order--or have one, as you see fit. There's not much time."
"How much is not much?" she asks, but he is gone, leaving nothing but a few stray bits of ash on the otherwise spotless wooden floor.
Story of her life--men disappearing without warning.
With a sigh, she turns to fetch the broom.
She's pleased with how it turned out. Her goal was to infuse it with the sort of rock sensibility that she always tried to live out in every aspect of her life, make it flashy and a little trashy but always from the heart... and sometimes a little lower. Whether or not any customers come, it's a space she is pleased to inhabit, and that's what counts.
The only thing she needs right now is a drink, so she retrieves a bottle of bourbon from the shelf under the mirror and takes a swig. Perfect. She uses the remote to turn the stereo on, turns up the Stooges--let her neighbors hate her, she doesn't much care. It would serve them right to be exposed to some culture for once.
Her musical reverie is broken, several songs and more bourbon than she's willing to admit later, not by a knock on the door but rather by the sudden awareness that she's no longer alone in the room.
Standing before her is a pale, cold, angular man; a familiar man, and one whom, had she not already met the Goblin King here, she would not have believed it possible to meet--yes, in person, or so it seems, her favorite incarnation of the Living Bowie. He takes a drag on his cigarette as he watches her, unblinking.
"Well, hello there," she says, rising to her feet, turning the music down a bit. How do you greet rock royalty? Should she send out for some coke? "You're my first customer--have you come here for that? Anything you like, honey."
He doesn't answer, just watches. It starts to unnerve her.
"Maybe a hand massage, if you're feeling a little shy," she continues, setting the bottle down. "Hands can get so tense, you know? Yours are beautiful. You'll feel so much better--"
"That's not why I'm here."
Oh, he sounds just like him... can it be?
"Then what can I do for you? Name it and it's yours."
"There's nothing you can do for me. I'm here for you."
"Well, I have been a very good girl this year--"
"No." The smoke from his cigarette seems to form a halo around him; whether angelic or infernal she can't be sure. It chills her a little, either way. "You've had two years, and what have you accomplished? Nothing."
"That's not true! I've--"
But what has she done? Gotten a job working for the devil, earned her cosmetology license; had a string of failed relationships, many of which barely qualify as failed one-night-stands. She's played her guitar a little...
"Exactly." He flicks some ash onto the floor. "I spoke on your behalf and all you've done is disappoint me. In two years you haven't learned anything. You're no closer to the truth than you were when you died. My faith seems to have been misplaced."
"What truth?" she asks. "There isn't one. People are born, they live, then they die. They should enjoy what they have while they have it, is that what you want to hear? Some people never find their other half. Some people can't even find themselves. What hope is there for anybody?"
"No," he says. "That's not a valid lesson. You should know that. And you don't have much time left, I'm afraid. Two years, gone for nothing."
"What do you mean, I don't have much time? What's going on?"
"This was only ever meant as a transition."
"Then what happens next?"
He shrugs lightly, takes another drag on the cigarette. "That depends on you. If you don't fuck it up, maybe you'll move on to something better. But you can't stay here."
"What do I need to do? Where am I going?"
"The first rule of reinventing yourself is to remember who you are, where you came from," he says.
"But I do that already."
"Do you." A statement, not a question. "Try to do better. And get your affairs in order--or have one, as you see fit. There's not much time."
"How much is not much?" she asks, but he is gone, leaving nothing but a few stray bits of ash on the otherwise spotless wooden floor.
Story of her life--men disappearing without warning.
With a sigh, she turns to fetch the broom.