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Figments | And the Story Goes...

Blue button-down. Grey dress pants. Black belt and shoes. The shoes- sparkling clean. Nobody would've known where he'd had to walk from to avoid the chauffeur from telling his parents.
Red skirt, big black shades, white halter top and electric blue pumps. She's just your typical girl-next-door with a no-bullshit attitude to add some flair to her character.

An orange towel, hanging from the balcony of a 34 story tall apartment complex that's still in the process of being built. A family, perfectly well placed in a society that is all too obsessed with perfection.
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There are wails coming from the nursery decorated with a motif of a terrifying yet friendly bright-yellow lion. The dueling couple inside the duplex couldn't care less. Pieces of a transparent vase scatter the floor, husband and mistress carefully avoiding the big pieces while hurling insults at each other suitable only for the streets. Illusions of happiness, shattered.

In the kitchen sits the matronly governess, smiling to herself while stitching the torn up pieces of the orange towel, satisfied for having exposed her lord's infidelities.

"You were supposed to leave her you disgusting piece of human trash!" says mistress #3, secretly applauding herself for having come up with some clever, biting words. The governess puts in the final stitch, and gets up to give baby#1 a bottle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'Why is this raggedy old thing still here? I asked you to get rid of it months ago!"

The old lady removes the towel from the trashcan it was hurled into, and carefully places it in a bag in her room, promising herself that the thing will never see the dumpster as long as she shall live. Her boy, her precious, precious boy, turned into an angry, self-loathing man, void of emotion.

Once his father's scandal broke, he was left with pretty much nothing- money gone, fiancee broke engagement off, mother's electric blue pumps laid to rest with her all-too-sick-too-soon body, the list he repeats to himself in his head goes on and on and on.

She wishes she could go back, make it all better. She wishes she had run away with the child, the child that they never loved nearly as dearly as her. The child that was forced to stare at the church-like neon tinted windows in his room longing for some life and laughter to enter into his room besides that pesky old lion.

She wishes that she could offer him something, something more than her company. Something more than the assurance that she should never leave, the assurance that her and the raggedy old orange towel were here to stay, for as long as he should take to return to his old loving self, should that ever occur.
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