And I discovered that my castles stand,
On pillars of salt and Pillars of sand
Viva La Vida, Coldplay
He fumed, pulling down the curtains, the ones they had picked so painstakingly during their wedding. They were hideous, but all the latest fashions were hideous, everything monstrously expensive was hideous. Like his fucking wife. His so called trophy wife, the model socialite, whose Botox bills and thousand dollar spas he paid for, while she fucking blew the younger, naive shitsticks he hired.
He stared at the thin bony fingers, the lines of fate which had dictated his entire life. The hate that churned through him, through the lungs weak with chain smoking, the stomach dotted with ulcers, prizes of his hectic schedule, the liver weak with the nights he had drunk himself into a stupor.
His life had been spent tying an elaborate noose, a single straight rope which he had excelled at knotting and reknotting- making the perfect noose for himself. All that was left to do, was hang himself. He wouldn’t be the first disillusioned millionaire to take his life.
Deep in thought, he called in the maid, rang a bell and watched the wreckage he had wrought in the prized drawing room. The couch upturned, the cushions near the door, the french paintings askew, the curtains ripped off the widow poles, flooding the decorated muted colored walls in garish reality, bringing out the plastic in their carefully made-up world.
Heels clicking on the floor, click, click, an ass moving so perfectly you’d think it was a picture, the hair in a raven sleek ponytail, she appeared, holding the biggest anti-climax since batman vs superman- a vacuum cleaner.
Yet, there he was, living up his end of the deal, dancing to the tune, his midlife crisis, his Nicole, his depravity, his damning, the reason he would lose half his earnings in the upcoming divorce trial.
He knew, his witch of a wife had planted this bewitching over-qualified maid. He knew where the cameras were, he had put them on himself, spying on each other was one of the many perks of being a million dollar couple.
Yet he swaggered, felt the compliance in her skin- it didn’t gall him, getting things he wanted had made him familiar to apathy. He played his part, he did his bit, put up the show he was meant to, tightening the noose around his throat.
Another soul to meet my void then
Of anything bare that’s made of gold
A physical kiss is nothing without it
And you close your eyes to see what it’s done
Gold, Chet Faker
The way her thighs depressed the leather, his thin bony hands laying claim on her body, feeling her recoil inspite of her professionalism, the brutality of his actions sinking his heart like lead, till he was as lifeless as the gold he had chased all his life.
All his victories were as hollow as the seed he left inside her, sperms that were inconceivable, that lay drawing a trace up her back, his bony hips and fingertips leaving bruises on her alabaster skin.
As she stumbled to her feet, her five inch stilettos barely wobbling as she straightened the skirt, tucked the shirt, and went on with her work. He stared outside, watching the world spin by, feeling his heart constrict, feeling
pathetic, helpless, Godlike.