Femme Fatale (The Girls I Have Known) by Marlowe Tatiana Granados
....She got up from the bed and gazed at her reflection, her eyes were framed with panda-like black. There could be no explanation as to why; she slept more often than not. Sleeping was the only thing that she believed her mind could be silenced by, or at least her body. The death of thought. Her thoughts sometimes seeped through her down-feathered comas, the monsters under the bed. The worst nights were ones spent alone and anxiety that grew like a vine at the pit of her throat released its chlorophyll into her dreams.
She pulled on her clothes that lay in strange corners of the room (they had no feasable route in ending up where they did). She sat on the bed and lit a cigarette to calm her shaking organs. Some moments of the day she felt like dying, like this one. She had never thought of herself as suicidal but immensely morbid. She could never do it herself, though if Death had decided to take her she would have no resistance. Even as a child she imagined her funeral, the little cards that her friends would have printed their speeches on and what adjectives would be used in her obituary. She thought of the committee of close friends who would be appointed to lament quirky stories and misadventures. Death; her own death did not scare her. It was the death of others that planted fear of being left behind in a world that no longer seemed viable.
She finished the last of her cigarette and put on her shoes. She made it a point to never leave too early in the morning. The light was too honest and dissolved all ideals. Morning light revealed secrets, the stains on your jacket and the bruise on your cheek. Night was like a veil over one's own reality, the possibility of becoming who you wish to be.
She shut Stephen's door quietly and heard it lock behind her. It was rapturously windy when she went outside. She walked to the subway and ran in the train as it was due to depart. Public transportation fascinated her. It was Civility's own twisted joke. An experiment that illustrated what was socially acceptable. What stopped any of these people from killing? How many people had sex this morning? How many were married and did not wear a ring? She was always taken back when she was approached by someone; to her it seemed so illicit.
Laurel entered the café to see Esmé. Laurel had always made her wait as she never really knew how to estimate a journey's length.
Esmé always appeared like a product of pampering and excess time on one's hands. Blow dried hair and chipless nails, individually separated eyelashes and a suspicious tan. To Laurel, Esmé was enviable. She was the perfect chemistry of someone who had enough discipline to know where she was going in life and a girl who in all forms was "fun"....