Title: Sweet Thing
Author: Aviry Nolane, slvrluna47@aol.com
Rating: Rather PG
Summary: Yeah, Sarah is back from the Underground. So what? She's a big girl, with big problems. Welcome to the new genre of Labfiction, Evil Sarah. She's tired of being at the beck and call of Jareth, and falling helplessly in love with his devilish charms. Sweet Thing, Sarah Williams puts up a fight. Will she still end up with Jareth? Who knows.
She hasn't decided yet.
So back off.
Keywords: One Evil Sarah
Notes: Chapter 2, for your viewing pleasure. It's not edited, or checked, or ANYTHING, so if it sucks, let me know. Also, any suggestions for the plot as a whole are appriciated. Thanks to Redaura for getting me motivated on this one, love me now, love me?! lol.
Sweet Thing
Chapter 2 - We All Have Our Bad Days
Sarah's mood must have lasted, because the loud pang of her keys against the kitchen counter was sufficient enough to bring Scotty, her usually elusive black cat, out of hiding and into the adjoined living room, a puzzled expression playing on his face.
His whiskers twitched as Sarah slammed a few cabinet doors shut, obviously failing in her mission to locate dinner, and Scotty simply forgot to be interested, wandering away back into the folds of the sofa.
"Is there nothing in this house?" Sarah scoffed. Beaten, she reached into a box of NutraGrain that lay idle near the dark marble of the sink. Grabbing a bar she made her way into the living room of her spacious apartment, pausing only to kick off her ridiculously uncomfortable black heels and to remove her leather jacket.
She reclined onto a nearby stuffed chair and closed her eyes with a sigh.
She didn't want to see any of it right now. She didn't want to see the décor that populated her apartment, the dark hues of black and blue that entrapped the leather furniture in a somber mist, or the sharp red frames that held pictures of local theatres and playbills, instead of friends and relatives. She didn't want to see the icy looking chrome wall hangings, lamps, and tables that usually were such a source of pride for her. She had more money in those few sculptures than many people had invested in their own homes.
The fact that she had chosen it all herself made it seem all the more invasive.
She grimaced, she was tired. It had been a long day, even longer than she had let on. It had started out as a day of bad omens. She had woken late, to find that the building was under a strict boil alert, making showering nearly impossible. Then she had stepped on Scotty while she was dressing and received a right leg thick with scratches, and finally on her way out the door, she had managed to spill an entire pot of life giving coffee all over her kitchen floor and herself.
It was then that she had made it to the parking garage, just in time to see security pull away from her car, a bright yellow slip of paper proclaiming her next unlucky turn.
From there, the day had gotten progressively worse.
The rest of her casting crew had been incompetent East end rejects, set on casting the opening show as a variable who-do-you-know showcase of talentless relatives. She wasn't about to let John's show be reviewed as a "can I do you a favor?" show, this was important to her, and she had worked very hard to get where she was.
Yes, she reminded herself mentally, that she had.
The tiny brunette Sarah that had wandered, bleary-eyed, onto her stage had just been too much to handle. Sarah was all too well reminded of herself when she had first come to New York at seventeen. Her mother had scored her a modeling contract with a semi-prestigious agency, and she had come naïve, innocent, and unprepared into what she expected to be the greatest turn of her life.
She shook her head at this thought, young, longhaired, misty eyed, Sarah Williams making her way into the large double doors of Gilbert Clientele.
She had been so very young, and so very stupid.
The young Sarah on the stage today had been the personification of her youthful self. She desperately hoped that she had instilled enough shame and fear into that poor girl that she'd run home to her mother and never return to the city again.
People got hurt in the city.
Barely moving, she reached down to her bag and pulled the girl's crisp application out of her bag.
"Sarah Jean Deacon," she read aloud. An eyebrow raised slowly as she read the next line, "New Anchor, Massachusetts?" She herself remembered spending a few summers at the town of New Anchor. An aunt had lived there in an old house she barely recollected. She frowned, somehow sharing the town of New Anchor with this young girl made her remarks seem even more personal. She shook her head. She was only looking out for the girl's best interest, after all. A bright, sweet girl like that had no business in this profession. Acting wasn't for the trusting, she had learned that firsthand.
She no longer regretted the person she had become after these last years. It had been a rough road, but she had come through stronger. There was no one who could take advantage of her now, there was not one person who could get inside the walls she had built, no one who could hurt her.
That had ended.
She had learned these last few years that people who offered you your dreams always wanted something more costly in return.
That lesson itself reminded her of another fell point of the day.
Her anniversary. Her ninth to be exact, of the night she had learned that to trust was to fail and to love was to deceive.
The night of the Goblin King.
As if on cue, the lights flickered at this thought.
She started a moment, her brown hair falling in waves around her chin and shoulders. The flicker passed, the lights kicking back on around her, and she stood from her seat, grabbing her bag from beside her, and made her way into her bedroom,
Laughing.