by Lililth Graves
09 Jun 2012 18:31 (updated 02 Sep 2012 22:45) | 0 comment(s)
((OOC Note: Takes place immediately after the events in the log Empire Emotions.))
I cried.
It's still incredibly surreal to me. I've not cried since my parents died; my adoptive parents that is. I never did know who my real parents were, though I'd love to talk to one of them and find out what side I've inherited this pain in the ass gift from.
I cried.
It's because I helped a ghost. I try NOT to help them. Maybe for this specific reason. I helped Megan. I've helped other ghosts since then. None of THEM made so emotional. Esther and Bernard had me crying though.
I need to stop caring so much.
Stop involving myself.
I should be thankful that Detective Curtis was there to speak for me when I choked. It helped that he was there, but I HATE crying in public.
These are my thoughts as I slip out of the cab and start the walk to my Manhattan apartment. "Thanks," I mutter to the cabbie, paying him far more than I should for the short ride from the Empire State Building to my building.
I'm at the door and about to open it when I feel the presence behind me. Steeling my shoulders, I swivel around and find myself staring through a man in a white wig, with a sharp widow's peak, and a pointed nose.
I try ignoring him.
You do know that if you dressed more appropriately, that man would not have put you into the horseless carriage and sent you home.
It's really hard to ignore something like THAT, though.
"Excuse me?"
Men do not like women who dress like ladies of ill-repute. If you wore a little more clothing, and did something with that atrocious hair of yours, you would be married already.
I blink at the ghostly specter and turn to face the door again. I can still make the man out in the reflection of the glass. Pushing the door open, I hold it long enough to see if he's planning on following.
He does.
Unlocking the next door, I give a curt nod to the doorman. I don't say another word until I'm safely ensconced in the elevator.
"Just who the hell do you think you are, telling me I'm dressing like a hooker?"
You curse like a sailor as well. A well bred lady should not be talking as you do.
"Well, you've got me there. Guess I'm not a well bred lady." Setting my eyes to the floor numbers as we go past each one, I try to ignore the man again.
You obviously need help. You are a veritable old maid, and you will never catch a man with that attitude.
"Maybe I'm into women," I quip, just as Mrs. Quincy, and her little fluffball of a Pomeranian step onto the elevator. She gives me the oddest of looks and squishes herself against the far right side of the elevator, away from me.
I'm quiet for the rest of the ride up.
Upon finally reaching my apartment, I slip in to find Mr. Wig-and-nose waiting. "Okay. I'm not an old maid. I'm not a crazy cat woman. I have plenty of life, and I plan on living it."
Alone?
This ghost is quickly getting on my nerves. I imagine this is what it'd be like to still have parents. Pushy, well meaning parents.
It's almost enough to make me cry again.
"If necessary."
A woman like you should never be alone.
"Well I've got you for company now, don't I?" I really am growing weary. I just want a nice glass of wine and a warm bath so I can settle myself down after the encounter with Bernard and his ring.
I do suppose that you do.
"Though if you don't mind, I fully intend on having a bath. So can you either disappear, or wait here for about an hour?"
All I get from the ghost is a nod.
"I promise, I'll be back to help you with whatever problems are keeping you here after that. I need a bit of downtime."
Nothing is keeping me here, Miss Lancaster. I have chosen to stay to help you.
His use of my adoptive name throws me and I stutter. "How did you… who ARE you?"
John Jacob Astor, at your service.
I stare through him for a few minutes in silence, and then snort. "Well alright then. I'm going to have a bath. See ya."
I hurry toward the bathroom with just one quick glance over my shoulder. Time to get my Google on, it seems.
