Home for the Holidays
Copyright © 2012 Nicole Ryan
The following is a work of fiction.
It is a product of the author’s imagination, replication is prohibited.
All rights reserved.
I sat in my parked car in front of my mother and step-father’s enormous colonial style home, my favorite metal band poured out of my speakers as the snow fell on my windshield. The dark red bricking was interrupted in perfect intermittence by eight very large windows adorned inside with thick lavish cream colored curtains, and thin translucent ones that provided some privacy. There were four on the first floor and four on the second directly above. They were decorated outside with large forest green shutters, and each of the windows held a fake candle with gaudy gold and silver candle wreaths wrapped around their bases. The fake leaves of the candle wreathes were sprinkled with tiny plastic acorns, and fluffy white glitter, garnished perfectly with golden bows at the center. The house looked like something in a magazine, there were icicle lights twinkling along the eves of the house and a thick twirling stream of smoke lazily made its way from the chimney. Through the pristine curtains I could see guests dressed in evening attire, older men and women who were used to fine things and getting what they wanted no matter who they had to step on to get it. The house was picture perfect, and I despised everything it stood for; from my fake mother, to my politician step-father.
I snorted in disgust, slammed my old gremlin into park and switched off the engine , I loved this car but had no need for it in the city, my friend Kara held on to it for me at her house, and I’d picked it up there after she picked me up from the airport. I checked my reflection in the mirror; my porcelain skin was complemented with a lovely red lipstick and blush combo, light eye shadow and winged liner in a deep black that set off my blue eyes. I knew my mother would disapprove of my makeup and dress, usually if it wasn’t neutral or earth tones my mother disapproved. I’d started modeling in Los Angeles about a year and a half ago and had started to book regular shoots about nine months ago, the clothes I’d traveled in were the same I’d worn for a shoot earlier. It was a fifties inspired deep ocean blue dress with buttons down the middle, matching pumps and scarf. I had a long black wool coat that concealed most of the skin that the dress did not. My raven black hair was curly; the photo shoot today had specified they wanted my natural curls. They were piled on top of my head attractively, my bangs hanging stylishly across my forehead.
I stepped out of my car and slammed the door closed, leaning a hip against it as I dug a cigarette out of my coat pocket. I cupped my hand around my cigarette and lit it. I took a deep drag and rubbed my forehead as I stared at a slick black Aston Martin that was in front of my car, DBS emblazoned on its back end. I finished my cigarette and stared at the car for a couple minutes, before turning back into the wind. It belonged to my step-brother Ian. Ian liked his pretty, expensive things. He always had. Our parents had married when I was thirteen; Ian was away at boarding school for his senior year of High School. I met him that Christmas; we had two dinners at the table with our parents, and spent the rest of our time with friends before he left. He came home again for two weeks the summer vacation before he started college, but I was at camp, and then a horse ranch that I volunteered for. When he’d gone to college he hadn’t returned home for most of his school breaks, this was the first Christmas in two years that he’d come back for, and that had been the first since his first visit. Something told me that it wasn’t because he wanted to see his father and my mother, we hardly knew each other until by a strange and unexpected coincidence, and our business ventures landed us both in
Copyright © 2012 Nicole Ryan
The following is a work of fiction.
It is a product of the author’s imagination, replication is prohibited.
All rights reserved.
I sat in my parked car in front of my mother and step-father’s enormous colonial style home, my favorite metal band poured out of my speakers as the snow fell on my windshield. The dark red bricking was interrupted in perfect intermittence by eight very large windows adorned inside with thick lavish cream colored curtains, and thin translucent ones that provided some privacy. There were four on the first floor and four on the second directly above. They were decorated outside with large forest green shutters, and each of the windows held a fake candle with gaudy gold and silver candle wreaths wrapped around their bases. The fake leaves of the candle wreathes were sprinkled with tiny plastic acorns, and fluffy white glitter, garnished perfectly with golden bows at the center. The house looked like something in a magazine, there were icicle lights twinkling along the eves of the house and a thick twirling stream of smoke lazily made its way from the chimney. Through the pristine curtains I could see guests dressed in evening attire, older men and women who were used to fine things and getting what they wanted no matter who they had to step on to get it. The house was picture perfect, and I despised everything it stood for; from my fake mother, to my politician step-father.
I snorted in disgust, slammed my old gremlin into park and switched off the engine , I loved this car but had no need for it in the city, my friend Kara held on to it for me at her house, and I’d picked it up there after she picked me up from the airport. I checked my reflection in the mirror; my porcelain skin was complemented with a lovely red lipstick and blush combo, light eye shadow and winged liner in a deep black that set off my blue eyes. I knew my mother would disapprove of my makeup and dress, usually if it wasn’t neutral or earth tones my mother disapproved. I’d started modeling in Los Angeles about a year and a half ago and had started to book regular shoots about nine months ago, the clothes I’d traveled in were the same I’d worn for a shoot earlier. It was a fifties inspired deep ocean blue dress with buttons down the middle, matching pumps and scarf. I had a long black wool coat that concealed most of the skin that the dress did not. My raven black hair was curly; the photo shoot today had specified they wanted my natural curls. They were piled on top of my head attractively, my bangs hanging stylishly across my forehead.
I stepped out of my car and slammed the door closed, leaning a hip against it as I dug a cigarette out of my coat pocket. I cupped my hand around my cigarette and lit it. I took a deep drag and rubbed my forehead as I stared at a slick black Aston Martin that was in front of my car, DBS emblazoned on its back end. I finished my cigarette and stared at the car for a couple minutes, before turning back into the wind. It belonged to my step-brother Ian. Ian liked his pretty, expensive things. He always had. Our parents had married when I was thirteen; Ian was away at boarding school for his senior year of High School. I met him that Christmas; we had two dinners at the table with our parents, and spent the rest of our time with friends before he left. He came home again for two weeks the summer vacation before he started college, but I was at camp, and then a horse ranch that I volunteered for. When he’d gone to college he hadn’t returned home for most of his school breaks, this was the first Christmas in two years that he’d come back for, and that had been the first since his first visit. Something told me that it wasn’t because he wanted to see his father and my mother, we hardly knew each other until by a strange and unexpected coincidence, and our business ventures landed us both in
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