Creative Writing Endeavor: Viv

A dusty pile of torn magazines sit in the corner as a sleek raven haired young woman rests her long delicate legs on a prim cushion near her black leather chair. She peers out one eye at the magazines, compelled to enjoy them, to go through them once again, to analyze and recreate the happy memories she had the first time she touched their glossy pages.

“I’m always trying to help those filthy slags, and this is what I get!” Viv mumbled under her breath as she readjusted her black-framed Dolce and Gabanna glasses. “They’ll wish they would have listened before….when I’m gone.” Viv looks back into the empty double old-fashioned glass resting in her grip that once contained vodka cranberry and drains the last few drops on her warm tongue.

She stands wobbling a bit as she grabs a Navy Mont Blanc pen encrusted in tiny diamond stars off custom built cherry wood desk resting up against the wall. A she stumbles across the room she picks up a note pad sprawled with several notes: “Take Toby to Fifi’s Dog Spa,” “Buy Chipz,” “Research Tory Burch’s spring flats,” “Call Brig.” Viv looks up on her desk to see a picture resting on the shelf her, Brig, and Noelle smiling happily in their new Nicky Ree gowns, she slams the picture down hastily.

She crumples the golden yellow lined paper and tosses it haphazardly unto the floor. She hears a soft whimper come from underneath the desk as a set of glowing beady eyes appear next to the crumpled paper. “Shut up Toby!” Viv cries as she scribbles quickly across the page, now half standing. Regaining her balance and pulling out the smooth modern desk chair, she plops down and continues to write frantically as tears flow forth from her sky blue eyes across her light milky skin. Another cry comes from beneath the desk as Toby moves about, feeling that his space had been obviously intruded. “I said shut up!” Viv ushers her rounded patent leather Maiterya pump forward nearly missing Toby’s head.

As Viv scribbles, the pile of magazines in the corner is disrupted as Toby flings his soft plush bear in the air. Out from the magazines pours countless overdue notices and yellow envelopes, marked and fitted between the pages as if they were bookmarks. Tiny notes flank the envelopes “Cute shoes, pg. 47,” “Put away tunics until 2011” rest in the pages of the respected authoritative magazines deem it so.

Horridly, Viv stands up and grabs Toby’s bear and flings into the kitchen, picking up the envelopes from the ground. Smoothing out her Paper Couture dress, she stands up and takes the envelopes back to her desk and crosses her legs leisurely as she slides back into the chair. “Fucking bastards.” She immediately grabs the shiny “Return to Tiffany’s” letter opener and slides it across several envelopes. In perfect succession, bill after bill fall out of the envelopes as Viv begins to sob. Her breathing becoming quick she grabs the last yellow envelope in her hand and in a furry slices it open, as she does, the swift platinum knife makes way to wrist where an immediate piercing pain is igniting and a rush of blood makes its way across the note. “Fuck This!” Viv grabs the pen, gripping her bloody wrist in one hand and switching back to her pen. “I’m going to get this written down if it’s the last thing I do.”

As she finishes penning the last few sentences of her note, she screams in agony and runs and gets a towel to wrap around her wrist, the blood dripping forth to her long French manicured fingernails. “Hopefully that won’t scar, but I guess if it does, no matter now.”
Her phone rings and she looks over to the id: “Brigitte,” “I guess she’ll just have to wait,” Viv mumbles in sadness as another tear runs down her check. As Viv walks away, an ink and blood stained and crumpled letter rests on the desk. It reads:

inked in pain,
and signed with blood.
torn apart,
noosed and hung.

the choices we make,
eventually come,
but what i ask? what couture do you choose?
Prada, Gucci, Louis, Fendi…

hopeless cries stain the night,
as i slowly take my life.

if not couture, give me death!
a life with no couture is no life at all.
my breathing is labored and weak,
my mind races for a place to rest.
sadness in my heart,
a tear falls down my cheek.
falling, falling, a glistening stream of pain and resentment.

pain for the fashion that i could not have,
Resentment for the slags that do.

what is the point of this life? why am i here?

TBC