8 Characters so far…
Christa thinks time is timeless. Every moment hangs like an empty chair on a wall, ready to fall with fate. Precipice and what’s left, empty and dangling.
Beauty peers out at her, a devious acquaintance. What she sees of herself, fascinates, as miracle and casualty she drinks in it. Drowns in it. Dresses up in it. Fashion proclivities drift orient accumulate. Take bold exceptions. She likes lots of clothes, ok fine.
Her maid is named Rosa, who does laundry and bathrooms once a week. Kitchen floors once a month. Been with her since before, since before, since before they died, Rosa is 42.
They both believe in ghosts, as if its a choice. Rosa is from Ecuador. Their dead relatives fill the rooms.
L.I.D. is how he goes by.
L.I.D. given name was William Amad Anderson. His grandmother was from Mali. She was a hostess and then after meeting his grandfather, became a model, got married, had kids.
His father is dead. His uncles wifes brother killed him at a shooting party, by accident.
His grandfather was an importer and manufacturer of household items. Such as drying stands, baskets, clothes pins. Also worldwide: storage containers. His uncle now runs the business.
L.I.D. rebelled. Moved from Michigan to LA with his inheritance. Bought a small penthouse with its own music studio. And a wrap around wall of glass.
He records his own raps: about death, about guns, about fucking.
One is called: All survivors are damned in some way.
Chrisa’s house has 11 rooms. Filled with stuff.
Sugar money, then spices then food processor and distributor then tools for cleaning and maintenance. Mothers side. Even the house.
Christa gets up middle of night and switches beds. Does this a lot since they died. Talks to their closets.
Officially its five bedrooms, one was a guest room, another the upstairs study.
No more is it neat and tidy no more no more. Except the bathrooms and the laundry room. And once a month the floor in the kitchen.
Early mornings sometimes she dances with morbid mock febrile arrest. She glowers at the couches. Throws things around. Screams with her breadth.
Unless its a day Rosa is coming. Before Rosa comes she has to collect the laundry, maybe even strip the beds.
Her hunt a burning emptiness, a lonely prowl hungry for yearning. Her cunt a masquerade. The emptiness sings forever the emptiness sighs forever, and dies forever.
Her mother and father and brother were murdered vacationing in Mexico, Culiacán for the waterslides and hot springs. While she was in Florida with friends. Shot dead. It was probably a mixup they said. Something to do with the taxi driver.
It was on national news. Their being from Marquette Michigan and all. It showed a picture of Chrisa from her Facebook on the internet. As the lucky survivor.
L.I.D. saw it, vaguely remembers her from high school.
He wrote a rap about fucking her in a luxury hotel while her parents bodies are piling up outside, called Ejulation. With bells like gun shots ringing. Sad dark lovely, banging.
L.I.D. records at strict attention. Means more to him than anything — being “real” with his music. No jumping around while recording his voice. Strict attention to working out the phrasing. Hi end equipment. Does it again and again and again. Till there’s nothing else left to try.
Then he goes out looking for “a ride.”
Song that they said sold him to the label.
The entry is a hallway with a round table at the center. Whenever guests were coming — mom would put flowers. And a side chair and a matching bench. A staircase with hidden storage underneath that sweeps around.
Entry opens to a parlor on either side. The left parlor is connected to a sun room — its a closed in porch. Then there’s an eat in kitchen, a dining room, an office that is just off the kitchen, a walk in pantry with a door.
The library is on the right to the right of the right parlor.
Christa has decided that clutter is her new creedal. Analogous with her devastation. An expression of emptiness and outrage, her freedom to bury the past inside with her.