INCANDESCENCE

Nadia Rexler

Description

Imaginative but socially inept Jerrie Howard has always perceived herself as a moth surrounded by people full of beauty, color and light. Undeterred by lingering childhood struggles, she managed to achieve high academic honors and graduates from a prominent college by the age of 20.

Now 23, she is co-founder and editor in chief of Lion Publishing Group. With her promising career, bewitchingly gorgeous boyfriend, Leo, and an endless bank account, her life is all figured out - until October 22nd, the day she meets Charlie.

Despite meticulous planning, routines and years of preparation, the fragile pieces of her existence start to fracture. She will have to protect what’s important and face the possibility of losing everything else...her dreams, lifestyle, love, even herself.

Sujets

• Noir
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Tablo Pty Ltd
• Date de parution: 03 septembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781922309891
• Langue: English

Extrait

Breakdown
A sharp pinch alerted me, I looked down, seeing blood slowly seep from one of my fingertips. Standing there, watching the blood bubble fill up before spilling over, I made no attempts to contain it. It felt satisfying, relieving, like a small amount of pressure had been released from my body.
The bloodstream crept down my finger’s length and wrapped around my hand to my forearm. The cut released the last of my composure, which had been fading away for months. Anger and broken pieces of my soul was all I could feel, my image tarnished a long time ago. All the secrets, the pain, memories hiding in the back of my mind I'd convinced myself rose water washed away- I started to drown in them.
The once white flowers were now decorated with drops of the red liquid which made a winding river down the petals, branching like veins traveling to the stem. Beautiful, like a modern poster for the Shakespearean tragedy called my life. I picked up one of them, spreading my blood over the petals before plucking one, then another and another, tightening my grip on the stem and letting the thorns pierce my skin, causing more blood to drip on the rest.
Intense anger matched the growing relief the pain created, leaving me wanting more. Picking up a handful of the flowers in one hand, I ripped the flower heads off with the other, continuing not to care about the thorns scraping across my palm and sinking into my skin.
After they were all destroyed, I picked up my mother's vase and threw it across the room, watching it shatter against the wall. Grabbing the vase closest to me I repeated the same action with the flowers, slamming the vase on the ground. As I grabbed the third- I heard a knock at my door, ignoring it, I kicked off my shoes and smashed the vase on my desk.
Glass shards were flying everywhere, the small pieces stuck to my face, arms, and feet. My body was heating up like I was literally letting off steam. Stripping off my blazer I continued my rampage, moving faster, ripping, smashing and screaming.
When there were no more flowers, useless office decorations became victims. Things off the walls, my degree, awards, pictures, papers, books, my computer, nothing was spared. Out of breath, I stood at the edge of the trashed room, skin covered in sweat and blood, and let out a weary sob.
Prologue
HAPPINESS IS PAIN
From the moment we are born, we learn to mask pain. Cooed and coddled by our mothers, who place band-aids and kisses over our scratches. Being brave like our fathers, who appear to never cry. Medicated by our doctors, when the mask breaks under the intense pressure of pretending. Our surroundings teach us the only acceptable place for pain is in the deep dark corners of our minds. Abandoned, suppressed and out of reach where it can't be a burden to our loved ones.
When we are troubled, we use the pain, or rather the years of suppressing it, as an excuse for doing bad things. Preferentially, to instill sympathy into an audience who have the power to promote us into a better life. It's a key to open doors, a lug wrench to change a tire, a pen to write our thoughts with, pain is a tool; we use it but never do we simply, feel it.
Instead, it's the good times which truly plague us. It's the song on the radio which used to be your favorite, but you can't bear to hear it anymore. The restaurant with the best food you've ever tasted, but you won't step inside again. It's your warmest, comfiest sweater which hides in the back of your closet, while you shiver in a sub-par replacement. Why? Because happiness is to blame. Your broken femur wouldn't have existed if it weren't for your love of climbing trees. You could still wear your favorite sweater if only you could wash out the memories.
The memory of the painful incident on impact is stored away, in some dusty old file cabinet, in a locked room you lost the key to. The only accessible fragment is happiness. Short moments before the tragedy, passive-aggressively polluting our minds with its gentleness while reminding us of our naivety. Haunting us like the friendly ghost you can't bring yourself to hate. We were never trained to resist the seductive charms of happiness, so we accept it with open arms, knowing it brings us to a fatal end.
1.
NEGATIVES
Noun: a photographic image made on film or specially prepared glass that shows the light and shade or color values reversed from the original, and from which positive prints can be made.
I had a good life- one I didn't expect to live to see. For years, I wished to join my parents in heaven, although my grandmother tried her very best to keep me out of it. The ostracism from my peers, who fearfully believed being orphaned was contagious, was almost too much to bear. I became a living example of people's worst fears, therefore, I was easy to ignore. A shadow in a world I no longer belonged to.
Things began to change when I decided to get lost in worlds created by imagination. Living in different generations, universes and classes made me feel alive again. My once-promising academic career made like a slingshot and propelled me higher than before. Like a miracle, I made it, 23 years old, alive and well, the creator of a successful business, living in my own home and in an exclusive relationship for the past 6 years.
I had a good life... or, so I thought.
Like any other day, the morning of October 22nd started with me groggily shutting off my alarm clock. My eyes focusing on the wooden rectangle which displayed 7 am in blue neon. I made my way downstairs, turning my kettle on with my eyes half-opened.
I knew every inch of my loft like the back of my hand. It was cozy and contemporary, the open concept and large ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking the southern New England city made the small space appear larger. My things were neat and simple, a sofa, TV, bookcase and coffee table in the living room, a small table off the kitchen and stools behind the kitchen's peninsula island. Upstairs held my bedroom and en-suite.
Everything had a place, and everything was always in its perspective place. Down to the minute, I knew what I planned to do every day. For nourishment, I ate 1300 calories or fewer: 400 for breakfast, 350 for lunch, 350 for dinner and 200 for snacks.
I exercised in my building's gym, thirty minutes of cardio three times a week, and 30 minutes of strength training twice a week. I was in bed by 11 o'clock every night, getting a perfect 8 hours of sleep before my alarm rang. It was a strict schedule, but it gave me a sense of sanity.
Halfway through my morning routine my phone rang, I dropped my facial cleansing brush and picked it up, knowing exactly who it was.
"Hey," I said sleepily. Instead of a voice, I was answered with a loud noise sounding like an air horn.
"Hey baby," Leo's voice sounded unusually adenoidal and half dead.
"What was that?" I asked, slightly panicked, knowing the answer wouldn't be one I would favor.
"I'm blowing my nose... baby, I'm sick," he wheezed.
"No, you're not allowed to be sick today," I said matter-of-factly.
"What do you mean?" His voice cracked, and he coughed, "I can't control it."
"What I mean is, we are opening our brand-new office today, you have a shit ton of interviews to do and I have to manage the building and my own projects, I can't do it all!" My palms began to sweat thinking about it.
"Kat can help you," he told me simply, "we've given her a set of keys, she knows what to do." I could tell he was already annoyed.
"Kat is not you, plus, she doesn't like me," I complained.
"Fine Jerrie, I'll come to work, most likely infect our potential employees, so we won't be able to hire anyone. Meaning we won't be able to handle all our new accounts, thus putting us out of business. Is this what you want?" He ranted, his nose suddenly sounding clearer.
He was undeniably annoyed.
While my anxious reaction was no surprise to him, he couldn't understand it. Years of being a loner had left my social skills at less than favorable. I wasn't much of a social butterfly, to begin with. My brain functioned like Dial-up Internet once a person was in front of me. All I could hear was a horrible screeching sound as I tried to process, one, what they were saying, and two, why they were saying it to me.
I felt pity for those who attempted to get to know me. The remedial task of finding my personality was entangled with layers and layers of security measures. If you somehow navigated passed the palisade, the restricted area behind it was filled with land mines called secrets.
As far as butterflies went, Leo was a Blue Morpho. Bright, colorful and striking all at once, you couldn't help but be attracted to him. Captivating and sociable, he made you feel like the most important person in his world, whether you met him a moment ago or last year. He would be equally alluring without his sculpted by the Romans features. I always knew he would never fully understand people like me; I was but a common moth.
"OK, stay home big baby," I chuckled, deciding arguing wouldn't solve anything.
I would have to suck it up. My opportunity to show him and myself I was a capable businesswoman had finally presented itself.
"Thanks, Jer," he sighed weakly, "you'll be fine, I promise".
"Of course, I've survived worse," I resolved, "I'll be over later to bring you soup... and behead you."
"OK baby I'll see you... wait, WHAT?" he tried to shout, making him cough uncontrollably.
"Love you, bye," I giggled and hung up the phone.
The story of Leo and I, more than anything, is unorthodox, but we had come far. When we met, he was already in his Junior year of University, I was technically still meant to be in high school. He asked me out within days of our first meeting, but I was reluctant. I had no interest in rich, party-loving frat boys.
Naturally, I rejected him, reciting those exact words. He took the news with a smile, promising to prove his worth to me. Over the e