Extraordinary Machine ✷ Succession

I: some good saints get screwed

Act I. / 01

CLYTEMNESTRA:
And are you happy?

CASSANDRA:
I could kill you.

Dreams of Clytemnestra, Dacia Maraini

🍸♟🗞

tw self-harm mention

                                    It's 2:27 A.M. and a full moon when Maeve's mind begins to stir. Her Ambien-induced slumber is interrupted by the dream—the same ones she's had since she was nine, the same one that ends with the dove between her teeth, facing absolution. Her body, almost as restless as her mind, twists in satin sheets, seeking some sort of release. She's itching to burn something and tries to fight it. Really, she does. She pads aimlessly around her apartment in somebody's old work shirt, looking for something to distract her, weaving in and out of rooms, trying not to make too much noise. Looking in the mirror, Maeve doesn't realize when she became this. She can't remember the last time she actually slept through the night—Thursday, maybe—and tugs at the darkening bags that slope under her eyes. Frustrated, she groans, releases the skin, and fastens her hands against the marble tile the sink is sunken into. Fuck. You.

Inevitably, she ends up on the balcony. The beginning of fall is unkind and New York City is cold, despite the hot buzz of white electricity bleeding against the skyline. Exposed to the chilly air, Maeve's hands shake. The pack of Newports she plucks a cigarette from is warped from being left out in the rain too long. It takes her three tries to ignite her lighter. If it took another she would've taken it as a sign.

The cigarette has sharp, defined teeth marks when she finally pulls it from her mouth, lit. Maeve blows out the sour smoke and replaces the cigarette with the tip of her finger, just past her nail, and bites down again. It stays there until it begins to hurt. The same marks from the cigarette are imprinted on her skin. She lets her hand hang by her side, semi-satisfied and dizzy.

A second round of boredom settles in halfway through the cigarette. Maeve resorts to her phone. A pool of messages stream down the lockscreen, simultaneously piquing her interest and deepening the pit in her stomach.

Most of them are from her assistant, Sadie. Some are from colleagues, co-workers. One is from Kendall, inquiring marketing details regarding the upcoming Vaulter deal, and another—the one that catches her attention—is from Derek, only an hour ago.

     Derek: Need to talk to you.

Maeve frowns. Something with claws pulls at the muscle in her chest when she notices their last full thread of text messages was months ago. Almost a year. She cringes at the way he used to address her. Sweetheart, Baby... it's absolutely sick. He wouldn't dare call her that now. She hates the way she loathes the fact.

Maeve: Ok.

He's typing less than a minute later. Then he isn't. Maeve let's out a groan of frustration and her fingers run ahead of her.

Maeve: Asshole.

She shuts her phone off and places it face down on her thigh, pretending she doesn't care how he responds. The pit in her stomach says otherwise.