Life use to be simple. Get up, go to school, eat, party, repeat. The not so simple part was the constant push and struggle to succeed. I know my dad meant well but now that he's gone, how will I know when it's enough?
I am still numb, part of it still hasn't registered. Six months ago my cell phone rang at about 7:30 in the morning. James announced my dad was on the phone. I thought it was odd he was calling me so early, but when I took the call, it wasn't him and I would never hear his voice again.
His best friend's voice rang through the speakers in my penthouse, a place my dad had never seen because my success was not "traditional", it didn't come from a "real job" so I hid my entire world from him. Trying to make him proud through more 'traditional' types of success but that was never to be. I felt numb as I listened to Rob sob on the other end of the line, telling me my father passed away from an apparent heart attack.
They'd been on their way to the hospital to visit a friend who'd just had surgery, when he slumped over in the passenger seat, then he was gone. No sound, no words, life simply left him.
The doctors confirmed at the hospital that the ending would have been the same even if he'd been standing in the Cardiac Care Unit. He'd just been given a clean bill of health and then he was simply gone.
They always leave. First my mom during childbirth, and now dad's gone too. For weeks I'd been too numb to move, but Samantha helped me slowly focus on the things that were important.
Her soft persistence, and sometimes not so soft demands, pushed me to get off my sorry ass and live again. Her outwardly pragmatic New Jersey attitude hiding her concern for my emotional and mental well-being. I knew she cared and I also knew she was getting restless not being able to travel because she was carrying my load of the work too.
It was my job to keep things running, it had always been her job to be social and 'live it up' for publicity sake, though more times than not she did it because the guitar player of the bad was hot.
While I looked like I was heeding her words, inside I was simply surviving but there was job that needed to get done and I was the one who needed to make it happen. As the managing partner for McKenzie Kingston my emotional hiatus wasn't helping business, not to mention the fact the Empyrean club, an alternate adult lifestyle club, was rudderless without me at the helm. All I ever wanted was to be a success for that man, to make him proud and I could never show him the things I'd achieved because they were so unconventional, frowned upon but right now they needed me.
Each day I get further from the call, I feel more numb to it. Writing has become harder but deadlines don't wait for life situations, clients at the PR firm don't care that your world is falling apart, only that you make sure their lives do not; and the club...ah the club, a place to escape from life that everyone seeks. At least it's an escape for the clientele.
Throwing myself into the many aspects of my complex life has helped me get through it all. On the outside I know I appear in control, together, aloof, standoffish and confident. There are other words that could describe me - intense, arrogant, overwhelming and intimidating, but I've worked a bit to attempt some balance; though some people in my life would argue I've yet to find it. I think about my recent disagreements with Samantha and her constant comments on my general demeanor.
I wish I could be more like her, somehow tough and tender in the same instance. So open to new experiences rather than cowering behind the internally built walls; to just be able to let go to an experience. Of course lately, it seems, more times than not, the intensity of my own life is causing me to internally tamp down all of the feelings that seem out of place for a woman who has it all together, but we all have our secrets and ways of dealing with pressure.
I suppose it could be worse. Early successes have left me monetarily successful, even if a bit alone. It's hard to know who to truly trust but then again that was what dad always said anyway: Never be vulnerable, never be weak.
I stretch. My mind immediately starts to race about the things that need to be done here or there. Shoving the thoughts aside, I roll over, punching the pillow hard attempting uselessly to go back to sleep.
"Good morning James," I call to the ceiling.
"Good morning Ma'am. I noticed that you have only obtained 4.24 hours of sleep. This is not adequate sleep to maintain a healthy lifestyle." The disembodied British accented voice echoes through the room from the speakers overhead.
I roll my eyes at the computerized voice. "Set status to morning routine."
"Current status changed to morning routine."
The thick window blinds begin to slide open, ushering in the sunlight just starting to light the sky outside. The room lights slowly turn on, increasing in brightness in increments.
"Good Morning Ma'am. The current time is 6:13a. Inside temperature: 66ºF, new inside temperature setting to 69ºF. Outside Temperature: 68ºF, Feels like 66ºF. Today is forecasted to be nearly the same as temperature as yesterday. Showers possible. It is currently partly cloudy with winds from the NE at 5MPH. The humidity is 37% and the Barometric Pressure is 29.75" and falling.
Sunrise: 6:13a. Sunset: 7:58p. Air Quality: Good. Ozone: Good. Pollen: High.
House status: Coffee is complete. House is in Awake mode." He completes his computerized report.
"Set oven to Broil." I call back.
"Oven temperature confirmed to Broil."
"Start shower. Set temperature to 105ºF."
"Shower started," James confirms the command.
For a few minutes I stare up at the ceiling watching the light of the sun slowly increase, inching over the horizon. Finally throwing off the covers, I walk into the bathroom and begin my morning routine, steam already wafting into the bedroom.
The next half hour is full of morning activity. Putting on one of my favorite bum around the house and write outfits, I head out to the kitchen. The smell of dark roast coffee greets me immediately making my lips pull into a smile.
Pouring myself a generous cup with heavy cream and a couple of spoonfuls of sugar. It is a decadent cup, but its richness brings a smile to my face and helps wake up my lagging senses.
Turning to the stove and grabbing a skillet, I begin the process of beating eggs with parmesan, salt and pepper; pouring the mixture to let it set, finishing the preparations for the frittata with the addition of the ham and asparagus. A few minutes later, the aroma blooms in the kitchen, I pull it from the oven. The light fluffy texture and golden brown top making my mouth water. Cutting a piece, I place it on the tray with my coffee carafe and head for my writing studio.
"Open all patio doors." I call out along the way.
"Patio doors opening."
The first breeze of the morning blows through the penthouse. The light sheers billowing in the soft movement.
Setting the tray on the side table, I survey my writing desk trying to find a place to start. For the next hour I find everything else to do but write. I pull up the most recent reports for the club and the PR firm, sort through emails I don't really read and click a game of solitaire. Never truly focusing on each things, my mind trying to find any inspiration to jump start and idea. Picking up the papers on my desk, I sort them, file them and repost the fallen book notes back on my computer screen. Draining my coffee cup, I fuss at myself for the procrastination.
Reaching for my coffee, I spoon sugar into the cup; the darkened organic sugar falling through the air like the sands of a far away desert. Dropping the spoon into the cup, I turn to my computer and begin to type.
He looked down at her kneeling form. The sapphire collar of his slave gleaming in waning sun, the matching leash draped down her ample bosom and into his hand.
"You look gorgeous, kneeling helplessly before me." He spoke softly, winding his hand through her hair. Tightening his grip, he pulled her head back and lifting her to her feet. "You'll look even more glorious under my lash."
I read the line shaking my head at the sad prose, but at least it's a start, and the ideas slowly begin to flow.
My pen doodles on paper, free flowing ideas from one part of the snippet to the next, letting myself get lost in a world of my own creation. A vain attempt to alleviate my frustration.
Normally the words flow in my mind like a film. Giving me a place to escape the harsher realities of the world. Each idea weaving ever complex patterns into threads of vivid imagination, forming a universe where there's often at least a 'Happy for now' ending.
"Ma'am, Miss Kingston is here, shall I let her up," says James, his computerized voice reminding me he's a talking box, no matter how "friendly and warm" he often sounds. His voice startling me out of my reverie.
"Yes, James." Releasing a sigh, I brace myself for the onslaught that is often Samantha Kingston.
"Very good Ma'am," comes the reply.
A number clicks and soft hums whirls work their way through the house as the front door prepares for her arrival.
I hear James' voice echo lightly through the penthouse, "Good afternoon Miss Kingston, Miss Devereaux is in her writing studio."
Moments later, Samantha Kingston comes bounding in the room like a tigger on springs.
"Atlas, darling," she says in an exaggerated Staten Island accent, falling into a fit of giggles seconds later.
I look up from my writing, attempting to seem overly annoyed so that she'll get the hint and leave me alone to sit quietly, creating the book that is quickly coming upon my publisher's deadline.
