Dysphoria- An Umbrella Academy Fanfiction

†The Performance

In a dimly lit cabaret club, a girl steps onto the small stage, bathed in the warm, amber glow of spotlight. Her presence exudes an alluring mix of confidence and vulnerability, which is of course, completely fake.

Dressed in a sleek, form-fitting white evening dress, she commands attention with every step, her silhouette casting enchanting shadows across the room. Her jet-black hair cascades in loose waves around her shoulders, framing a porcelain complexion that accentuates the deep red lipstick adorning her lips.

Her performance is a mesmerizing blend of subtlety and power. Her eyes, hidden behind heavy lashes, convey every ounce of heartache and longing in the lyrics, while her body sways in rhythm with the music.

The room is filled with a hushed reverence, and the clinking of glasses and murmurs of conversation have fallen silent as the girl pours her heart out through her music. In that moment, in that cabaret club, she is the center of the universe, and her voice, like a siren's call, carries the audience away on a journey of passion and artistry.

The song ends, and Octavia leaves the stage, running her hand along the brick wall next to her in order to not trip and fall in the near complete darkness of the backstages labyrinthine hallways.

In a dimly lit corner of the cabaret, her dressing room stands as a stark reflection of Octavia's life. The walls, once adorned with vibrant posters and glittering memories, now display the scars of neglect. Fading paint peels away, revealing the forgotten history beneath.

A heavy, lingering odour of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol permeates the air, intermingling with the pungent residue of narcotics. A makeshift ashtray overflows with discarded cigarette butts.

The room's solitary mirror, cracked and discoloured, casts distorted reflections of a blonde figure, makeup perfect, clothing neat and clean, entirely out of place in this hedonistic room.

The 32 year old wife of the most popular plastic surgeon in the city, and owner of the cabaret, Linda Monroe, was waiting for Octavia, sitting on a bar stool, her legs crossed and a smirk on her perfect face as she twirled her blonde hair around her perfectly manicured fingers.

Linda said nothing, but rose on precariously high heels to grab the underside of Octavia's jaw and pulled her less than gentle kiss, her small hands roaming over every inch of skin that wasn't covered by her outfit, which was most of it.

Octavia was very used to this kind of aggressive treatment, her lover often came to her after an argument with her husband or father, and would use Octavia to get the frustration out of her system when nothing else could.

Linda roughly pushed Octavia against the wall, uncaring about the small groan of pain that escaped from her lips as her head made contact with the wall.

Octavia ran her fingers through Linda's hair, stopping where her it ended near her shoulders and being to kiss her neck, vaguely hearing Linda chastising her for possibly leaving marks.

This was all for show of course, If Linda really wanted her to stop, she'd make her, and besides, It's not like they didn't  know Linda's husband got turned on by the thought of her with other men.

'Mrs Monroe!'

They were rudely interrupted by an intern bursting into the dressing room, intending to inform Linda of something or other, probably business related, but of course, being met by the sight of Linda's hand up Octavia's dress.

Octavia rolled her eyes.

That poor, young, stupid intern, only trying to do their job, would now surely get fired and alienated by the whole city, all by Linda's powerful, dainty little hand.

All for the crime of witnessing something most of their colleagues already knew, but weren't idiotic enough to walk in on.

Linda had found someone else to satisfy her anger, now she had a reasonably decent excuse why, and strutted towards the intern, who was scurrying away quickly.

'Say hello to Gerald for me!'

Octavia called teasingly after Linda, earning a dismissive wave in her direction in response.

Slightly annoyed Linda had left, especially now she wouldn't be getting any after-show reward, Octavia lit up a cigarette and took a vile of white powder out of a very old jewellery box, a gift from someone a long time ago who gave it to a lover, who gave it to a lover, who gave it to another lover until it was given to Linda, who passed it on to Octavia.

She tapped the rounded end of the glass vial in a practised motion, pouring out just the right amount into a neat little line onto the dark wood of the dressing table, the surface of which was stained after decades of people performing the same action.

Octavia inhaled most of the powder in one quick move, and put the tips of her fingers on the slight residue to spread on her gums.

She smirked to herself, grabbed her bag and walked out through the side exit, with, although she loved them, the idea of avoiding the other performers. They were great, but in her opinion had really been getting on her ass lately about certain habits she had.

Shivering slightly, the cold air outside burned the inside of her throat and she swallowed, feeling the aftertaste of the cigarette she had just put out.

Sitting in a taxi that had the lingering smell of vomit clinging to its cheap leather seats, she leans her head on the cool surface of the window and watches the city lights blur together as she passes the buildings.

She scratches the inside of her elbow absent-mindedly, and has idle conversation with Him in her head until he reaches her complex.

She pays the driver more than he is owed, but he doesn't mention it to her. It's almost always the same man that picks her up at this time of night, and thinks he, in his words, deserves a 'reward' for 'restraining himself' whenever he see's the different risqué outfits that Octavia doesn't think to change out of each night.

Unlocking her apartment door, Octavia stepped inside, turning on the lights to what was supposed to be a luxury apartment, but was in such a state of disarray it would be called the opposite.

Still in nothing but pearl underwear and a tiny dress, she poured herself a glass of brandy from the already half empty bottle on the stained side table, and slumped down on her velvet chaise lounge and switched on her t.v.

'Breaking news-

Eccentric billionaire and father of the famed superhero group "The umbrella academy" has been found dead in his house in the early hours of this morning.'

Octavia slouched down further into her sofa, and reached for the bottle again.