Words: 467
You know, I'm not shocked that a fanfic based on a case called "The Naked City" came off as so tasteless. I still have to watch the movie at some point. This was inspired by "She's in Parties" by Bauhaus.
Somehow it escaped her notice that she could lose it all so easily.
Her bed was a dance floor, and the drinks were kept on ice. Many lips were on hers, and her arms and legs were stroked and worshiped lovingly. Indeed, her feet were kissed many times. Moans of "Julia, oh Julia," and pathetic mewls were sweet music in her ears. On stiletto heels, she walked down a stairwell of bent backs.
Steeped in stolen finery, she brushed out a blonde curl. Sitting up straight, her ample bosom firm, and her hands folded in her lap, Julia envisioned her reflection to be an oil painting of a majestic queen.
Julia ate sleeping pills and ingested Benzedrine like candy, while waving away sumptuous dishes of lobster and steak. Standing like a pristine mannequin, she nearly sneered at the other women who silently wept, terrified that she would steal their husbands.
"You're ugly, and I'm gorgeous, soak it up." Mascara running black trails over her face, the venomous declaration came out as choked sob in the mirror the night she was dismissed from the dress shop. Beauty wasn't a crime, and she shouldn't have been fired just for turning a few heads, Julia indignantly thought. Grabbing a tissue, she wiped hard at the make-up, but found, to her frustration, that the puffy read of her eyes remained.
Fifty percent off, read a sign next to a mannequin sporting a summer dress and a big gay hat. Pausing before the display, Italian leather purse in hand, Julia wondered if perhaps she too wore a price tag. She looked down but for a moment, and saw the ants crawling by on the sidewalk, carrying pieces of a discarded hot dog. In disgust, she continued on, being much more accustomed to white-washed walls and polished storefronts.
So she, the mannequin, contorted herself in bed. Hands up for the summer display, girls, look alive! Arch your back for the volleyball shot, Julia! Beautiful!
"Heather," she muttered, draping her hand over the side of the bed, "how is she?"
Henry snorted. "She's a rock in bed."
Julia's fingers ran along the floor, similar to a spider's legs. Finding the discarded silk scarf, she grasped it. Rising up in bed, her blonde hair falling over her shamelessly exposed breasts, she slipped the scarf behind Henry's head, and tugged him to her, "You poor darling," she touched the tip of his nose, "You need a real woman."
Fingers that once caressed her so softly held her down roughly as she gasped and cried out in pain. Bright spots like camera flashes exploded in her vision.
Morphine, depressed into her arm like a price tag clicked onto a shirt sleeve, left her a prone mannequin with nothing left to grasp but fragmented memories of grandeur.