LOGIC: A SHORT STORY [h.s au]

part one

*mentions of poor mental health,
poor family relations, sexual content,
and cheating.

Each night, Daisy frosted her lids and lined her lips, with the potentiality of the evening stretched before her, holding possibility and promise. She didn't know, really, what she was looking for. She wasn't sure of much. Just that the mundane horrified her—the monotony of Yale disgusted her and the only thing she found halfway worth her time was destruction. Destruction of herself, destruction of the boys who were attracted to her like moths to fluorescent light.

The pale spring moon spied on her through lacy curtains, as she threw on a silky dress and leather boots, both designer, of course. She didn't bother to wear any undergarments. Just the ease of the silk against her buttery lotion-skin that smelled like gardenia and bergamot. The material slid over her perky ass and showed off her nipples, it hung loose around her petite frame—the kind of body that's deeply influenced by a mother who worships thinness and beauty like a god.

It fucked Daisy up. But then again, almost everything about her upbringing did. All the money in the world and parents who were noticeably absent for a good chunk of her life. And any time they missed an important event, like graduations or proms, they sent her a hefty check or a new Chanel bag. It stung at first, but she grew and morphed from it, finally taking form into the exquisitely dangerous creature she was. So delightfully beautiful and volatile. A loaded gun covered in pink bows.

She rummaged through her apartment, messy but not dirty—disheveled with stacks of novels, antique French furniture, expensive clothes strewn about, and old oil paintings littering the walls. Her parents would have given her money to live in one of those new-build modern apartments, but she preferred this—blemished wood floors, ornate white molding, the brass doorknob, beveled windows, a curved fireplace. It was so much more romantic, even if it smelled faintly of dust and mold. Pretending to be a tortured artist was a fun part to play when you have heaps of disposable money. So she scribbled poems on scraps of paper, in notebooks, on newspapers—some good, some terrible, most of them violently mediocre. But she had bouts of genius from time to time, mostly in her darkened room that danced with ghosts and shadows and the flickering of a flame.

After some time, she finally located the brown suede Fendi baguette bag she was looking for. It had been obscured by the fluffy white bedding. For how long, she didn't know. She couldn't recall the last time she'd used that particular one. So she stuffed her ID, credit card, and Dior lip oil in there and dashed out the door into the inky night.

The fresh air outside was a respite from the stale air that plagued her apartment, no matter how many fancy candles she burned, that old scent always seemed to remain, like it lived and breathed inside those walls as much as she did. It wasn't the only thing that lurked in the shadowy corners, though.

She pranced about until she found her favorite bar. They served the best dirty martini—and she liked it filthy. She also occasionally fucked the cute bartender, Ross, a fifth year at Yale studying economics, and so she got free drinks all night as long as she batted her lashes and told him sweet nothings.

Not that she needed the free drinks—but beauty was a currency that Daisy was in abundance of.

The bar was dark, with dim yellow lights dotting the ceiling like celestial stars. A wall of spirits behind the bar. Loud frat boys who took turns gawking at her as she strode to a leather seat, parting the crowd like she was the queen herself. There she found her best friend—a term she used loosely to describe Anna Drake—already talking to the 65 year old professor who frequented the bar. She had a thing for older men, Anna did. Daddy issues, the usual for poor little rich girls.