Chapter XII

Chapter 12

August 2, 4030

0929 Hours

Colony Siri, Moon

When the young girl wakes, she stretches her arms out to form a Y. She's naked and buried beneath a cocoon of blankets. She rolls on to her side; blinking herself awake. Her head is pounding, her mouth is dry. She doesn't remember much from the night before—just bits and pieces of the romantic ball, the drinks—beside her is a mysterious man with long curly black hair. He's passed out with one leg dangling off the bed. He isn't under the sheets. Instead, he's nude to catch the breeze of the ceiling fan. She turns her body, trapped between the window and the strange man in the bed. A little bit of him comes back to her. He wore an Anti-Mechanical patch on his left lower arm with a crown. He was a commander. She remembers his name starts with something like a B, whether it be Brad or Brody she doesn't know. But then again, for some reason, the name Chad falls on her lips—but she's quite sure that was one of the waiters she was hitting on at one point during the night.

-STARTI-It is definitely a Brody or a Brett.-END-

She rubs her eyes and sits up, crossing her legs careful not to wake the dead. She's looking for her clothes—which are on the floor near the door, her panties, her bra, her dress—

"Fuck," she whispers, looking at her clothes like a deck of fifty two pick up. Uniform a part and in taters,

As quiet and soft as she can, she climbs over top of him and slides off the bed.

She looks at the clock on the wall.

09:34 am

A wave of sickness inducing excitement falls over her. Her heart shatters but shines. Not only is she late to see her father, next to the clock are photos of two little girls and their mother. The mother is being held tight by a younger man with curly black hair.

Immediately, the night before floods back to her in all the gooey details.

It's the ring, it's always the ring that brings me to bed.

She turns back to the sleeping prince, with nothing but pleasure on his lips. She loves sleeping with married men. To her, there is something about feeling the sense of power that of being above their wives; known or not.

It's always fun when its wrong. It always feels better to be a tease and then the forbidden fruit. But the true excitement is when I imagine them crawling back to their wives, only to compare. All lacking excitement. All lacking me. All lacking the wildest, frienziest, most exciting night of their life; my warmth. My love. My rhythm.

A smile bubbles to the surface of her face.

Now where is that prize of mine?

As quiet as she can, she approaches the small kitchen counter in the cubicle. She goes down the line cupboards looking for the ring to signify his devoted love to his other half.

Only in fairytales she thinks.

A few coins of spare change, some tools, and an old gold chain later; she decides to try his uniform that's hanging up on the closet door. She approaches the uniform. The sight of the uniform fills her with joy. On the left chest, stitched in red, the name of Brody. On his sleeve are three red circles.

-STARTI-I really bedded a keeper this time. A Captain and commander. I am going up in the world.

She opens the flap to the inside, checking the inner pocket. Bingo. The young girl takes the ring, and heads towards her piles of clothes. Bra first, panties second. There is a feeling of stickiness on her left thigh—She picks up her dress and stops.

All the fun.

All the excitement.

Vanished.

The name Deliah in red stares up at her.

Fuck.

She thinks back to the ball—a specific memory comes to mind.

The memory of Brody as he wraps his arm around her.

Deliah? I haven't seen that name in ages—you can't be. I heard rumours of another Deliah joining our ranks. Are you really her?

It was here, she clearly remembers smirking with pride and nodding profusely.

While then it felt joyous, now the action to her comes across as pretentious.

-STARTI-The one and only Olivia Deliah.-END-

Olivia bites her tongue; disappointment in herself.

-STARTI-My first gathering at an officers ball and I've bedded a Captain using my very fathers name. Can I not accomplish anything? Even the task of fucking a man, without the aid my fathers name? A legacy that sits as a monkey on my back.

She feels sick. She can't get her dress on fast enough.

"I hate being a fucking trophy in this world." Olivia mutters, the stark realization that while she thought she was in control, it was this damn Captain who was in control this whole time.

Once dressed, Olivia opens her wallet. Inside four more shiny rings click and clack with her change.

She closes the wallet and drops the ring to the floor.

The ring hits the floor, rolls towards the edge of the bed and falls to its side.

Fuck Brody.

Olivia exits the cubicle, takes a right down the hall, and with all her might—attempts to drown the memory in thoughts of her father—she's huffs and sighs.

She's confused.

She hates the way she is. If you asked her, she'd admit she doesn't know why she gets off wooing married men. She does. She wonders if it's because deep inside, her adopted father's lover—now wife, fucked over her adopted mother. She remembers all the time's dad would come home drunk and high and sneak this slender young girl with skin as dark as space and cherry red heels to the guest house. She never told her father that she knew as young as ten that he was having an affair. But then again, when Olivia was younger, she didn't even know what to call it, let alone what it entailed. Maybe it was holding hands or giving a kiss. But no, the truth is, the girl in cherry red heels and her father were mixing with all the disgusting fluids that accompanies sex..

She imagines they got sweaty, sticky and gross. An assumption concluded by her own experience.

And yet how many times did he fuck his little mistress, before he went and fucked mom? I can only wonder what his lips contained at each morning breakfast kiss. Disgusting? Yes. But people are disgusting. And her step father was disgusting; evident by not being careful enough around his kids. As it's one thing to have a mistress, it's another thing to blatantly disregard the family dynamic. As it's the one thing Olivia doesn't forgive her father for. And that's putting her mother in a position where Olivia, as young as eleven, remembers asking about the girl in red heels.

To which her mother opened her mouth, shut it closed, and told her she had to go talk to Daddy. At one time, I even remember grabbing Paisley to go over to the guest house and do sister investigation work. At the time, I was for sure thinking that the girl was a ghost. I remember sneaking into the back and the guest house being filled with a smokey haze. And on the living room table were many small individual clear bags full of sugar—ha! Cocaine. I can only imagine what would have happened if we decided to taste the sugar. In any case, along with the cocaine were dozens of empty beer bottles, vodka, wine, and even a few coloured panties.

To this day, she hates red heels. However, she's also smart enough to recognize the parallels between her own life, and that of Natalie; the midnight black girl in red heels who stole her father from mom.

Quickly, Olivia makes herself somewhat presentable, and exits the room to a long metal hallway with grass green coloured carpet. she rushes down the hall to the closest elevator sign. Left, right, then left again, she passes the medical bay and the hotel convience store.

At the end of the hall is a green coloured elevator with an older lady, atleast seventy. she's holding a newspaper in one hand, and a cane in the other. Visible disappointment on her face.

"I know I'm fucked, okay?" Olivia answers, as she spams the elevator button. And the elderly lady smirks in silence. The ladies eyes act as weights on her back, with each passing second. She can feel the thousand pages of sins, passing as judgements.

A self-reflection of her own thoughts, of what she does, she know's as being wrong and immoral.

The elevator door opens, and Olivia steps inside. The elderly lady follows. She can smell herself from the sweaty night before. But looking at the clock, she doesn't have time to clean up her scent of being a whore.

"Who the fuck cares, anyways?" Olivia mutters out loud, biting her tongue and clenching her fists to her side.

"I, uh," Oliviva looks to the lady, whom, still stays silent.

"Excuse me for my language,"

"You're excused little one, the language is the least of your worries." The lady looks down to the floor, and back up.

"A lady of the night, are you?"

"Oh, oh God no, do I look that messed up?" Olivia explains, as she runs her hands through her hair, looking for any sort of metal to give her the slightest glimpse of reflection.

"No, no, not a prostitute, I'm just a little lost. . . I'm supposed to be at the Floweritorium to see. . ." Olivia bites her tongue.

"My uncle. and I'm late. I partied to hard last night, and. . ." Olivia closes her eyes and inhales, feeling the world spin around her. . .

"Please, just. . . where am I?" Olivia asks, as she opens her eyes to the elderly lady whom, is staring at the elevator door, giving Olivia a sense of dignity by avoiding the visual trainwreck.

"Well lucky for you, you're in the ninth district. Two streets over, across the Freedom spire and a straight shot to the United Universe Reserve. You can hit the Floweritorium from there."

"I. . . I really appreciate it, I do."

"Mhmm," The lady answers, and for the second time, looks to her direction.

"But please, after you're done with your uncle. If you need to be retaught how to be a lady again, or the funds to step away from the. . . business. . . please call my number," The elderly lady smiles; her presence warm and inviting, something Olivia will admit, she hasn't felt in a long time.

"I a, thank you," Olivia accepts the card and drops it into her pocket.

When the elevator door opens to the ground floor, quickly, Olivia rushes out to the ever busy streets; with one thing on her mind.

I'm coming for the Halcyon, Dad.

Let me be bigger than you every could be.

Let the United Universe prosper once again.