AN: "Lo sapevi?" = "Did you know?" in Italian , and "Sporca puttana" = "Dirty whore" in Italian (I don't actually know Italian, so I am just going off what Google translator tells me haha if it's wrong please let me know!) Also, in order to write the 'drugged' parts I actually got rather drunk! Good plan hey :P
Carmela wore her hair long, black and wavy around her face. She was deep in concentration, as she sat before her vanity, carefully gluing long, thick lashes to her eyelids with shaking hands. The false lashes had shining silver jewels on them, like morning dew. She blinked slowly, making sure the lashes were perfectly attached. They drew attention to her glowing amber eyes, whose outlines were smudged artfully with black powder. She pouted, checking her shining, scarlet lips. She stood up, shaking slightly with a buzz of excitement and also a dull longing for a hit. It had been too long and she was starting to feel irritated, impatient, craving the glow. She twirled around in front of her mirror, looking at her gorgeous new dress. A present from her father, it was a pale grey, shimmering fabric, with a full, ruffled skirt which stuck out at the sides due to yards of black mesh underneath. The bodice was an intricate corset, laced up tightly, squeezing her waist in, wasp like. Her pale breasts were pushed up, perfect cleavage marred by her jagged scars. She smirked at her reflection, then turned and skipped from the room, shining white stilettos thumping dully on the lush rug which covered her bedroom floor. She could feel the craving slowly building within her. Had to go find a hit. Her condo was large and lavish, decorated with garish wall hangings, satin cushions and opulent furniture of white, gold and burgundy. Nothing was too good for daddy's little girl, after all. She fiddled with the silver pendant which hung around her neck as she waited for the lift. The impatience was growing within her, building to an aching insistence. She jabbed the button for the lift repeatedly. Tapped her foot impatiently and drummed her long fingernails on her tightly bound stomach.
Finally, the lift arrived, doors flying open and she stepped inside. She rode the lift down to her father's private quarters, several floors away from hers.
She skipped out of the lift, casting her gaze around the dimly lit hallway, "Dad?"
She wandered down the hall and into the exuberant dining hall. Her father wasn't there and she got annoyed; she was sure he usually had dinner around this time? The table was long and draped in a shining silver cloth. Golden candlesticks stood at intervals along its length, with huge candles, flaming merrily. The flames leaped and danced, casting flickering shadows onto the table. She heard a noise behind her and whirled around.
She glowered,when she realised who it was. "Oh, great. Where's daddy?"
Paviche smirked at her, "And a good day to you, sister!" he said in his infuriatingly Italian accented voice.
Carmela glared at him, folding her arms over her stomach. She was impatient for the glow, and wanted some extra money from her father to pay for it.
Paviche was arrogant and annoying. Luigi was not so bad, sometimes, when he wasn't screaming and yelling. But Pavi. He got under her skin like nothing else, always leering at her and making lewd suggestions. He thought he was so damn attractive, and well, okay, maybe he was, if you liked that sort of thing – black hair and sallow skin and all that. But he was so infuriating! And he was sleeping with half the GENterns; those vapid stupid women whom Carmela despised openly. How she hated those stupid bitches, always giggling and stalking about the place in their stupid little white dresses. Idiots, all of them. God knows how they had enough brain cells to carry out surgeries. God knows how she brought herself to let them to operate on her regularly. Because she hated them, she really did.
Carmela moistened her lips, fidgeting irritably, "Where is he?" She repeated the question.
Pavi walked close to her and stroked her pale, soft arm, from her shoulder to her elbow, with one finger, "You look-a pretty today."
Carmela wrenched her arm away, skin crawling. Not this shit again. Her body was starting to get the well known shakes and trembles that came with withdrawal. She felt as if she were running out of time. She had to get a hit.
"Stop fucking around!" She exclaimed, backing away from him.
Her thighs hit the dining table as she walked backwards from him and she hissed in pain and annoyance. Pavi was smirking in that stupid way, those cold eyes shining with glee. Sick fuck. He advanced on her, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her towards him. She tried to fend him off, clawing at him with those hard, long fingernails of hers. Her mouth was dry, her body hungry for zydrate, desperate for its beloved drug.
"Fuck off! What are you doing!?" She yelled, squirming as he held tightly to her tiny waist
"You should speak-a less, sister. Your-a voice, it does grate, lo sapevi? Your singing is like-a...cat who is in pain?" He grinned as he said it, tightening his grip on her.
Carmela felt her blood go white hot with rage. She screamed at him, reaching out and grabbing one of the candlesticks that sat on the table. She'd only wanted to hit him with it, honestly. She was pretty sure she'd only wanted to hit him with it. But instead she thrust that flaming candle into his stupid, leering face.
He screamed, releasing her, and she spat at him, screaming, "I hate this family!" her voice so shrill it was like piercing needles, "I hate you! I hate all of this!" She gestured wildly around the room, in a blind rage, "I hate this fucking family!".
Pavi covered his face with his hands. His skin was blistering rapidly, angry red streaks all the way across his face. The flame had caught his flesh and seared it. His once flawless and smooth face now marred with bright pink burns. But, as if Carmela cared. She didn't care if he died.
"Sporca puttana!" He yelled, as she ran shakily from the room.
She was shaking all over by the time she took the lift down, and slipped out of the lobby and into the dark streets of the city. She put thoughts of her stupid, idiot brother out of her mind and walked purposefully down the street, stilettos clicking a staccato rhythm on the pavement. Fucking dealer would have to take an IOU, it wouldn't be the first time. He would agree to it. She was Carmela Largo, after all. But she really wished she wasn't.
-
The buzzing, pulsing lights reminded her of vials of zydrate in some way as they lit the dance floor with their ghostly glow. All she could see was flashes of faces and pieces of people, twirling and moving around her as she lost herself in that hypnotic beat. She could feel the beat in her body, moving and thrumming like something living and breathing, pounding in her blood. She was caught in the thrall of it and she moved her body hypnotically, swaying her hips and reaching up towards those glowing, heavenly lights, staring up at them as she danced. So many people were on the dance floor around her, but they all seemed to blur into one body. All she was sure of was that she was moving and feeling alive. So alive! What song was playing, she couldn't tell you if you asked her. But it was beautiful and haunting and the bass was throbbing and she could feel it moving through her and around her as if she were swimming in it. She felt like queen of the fucking world.
Geneco, your friends at Geneco! Everyone loves her. Everyone worships her as she twirls and moves and feels. Feels. Feels complete. She is so complete in this moment, as if this music was the one thing she was searching for all her life. And now, here it is. Finally! Finally! Everything makes sense now! Everything is okay now. Everything is so wonderful, everything is fine. She moves, she feels, she embraces the very art of living. Living is breathing and breathing is moving and moving is music and music is dancing. So, she's alive, right? She's alive and she's spinning, spinning, spinning in circles. Oh god! God? No, there is no god, there is only the music, and the light and the colours and the wonderful feeling.
