The Journal of John Abbott

After six months in the Burlesque theatre troupe, Heather had barely made a dent in her debts.

Nobody dropped out of veterinary school after three years -- it was insane. At $20,000 a year, who could afford to pay back the loans without a white coat? She slogged through her classes and clinical rotations, but that fucked-up feeling like the walls were closing in didn't go away. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. It isn't for me. Well, she'd made her bed, they told her. Now she had to lie in it.

That bed was a cot in the converted den of a Key West cottage. Her costumes hung from pegs on the walls, bright splotches of pink and turquoise against the wood paneling. Close up, they weren't sexy. You could see the spots where sequins popped off and had to be re-stitched. Her feet kept blisters from the acrylic platforms she wore on stage.

( The Blue Convertible )

God, he was drunk. Three sheets to the fucking wind. John recognized it but did nothing to prevent himself from becoming quite sloppy over a cluster of shot glasses and a pile of discarded lime wedges.

They designed these places for loners, he thought, his chin resting sleepily on his palm. The tiny tables had room enough for one chair, two if gentlemen didn't mind rubbing knees, which most of them did, for fear of accidentally rubbing something else. He supposed they all looked like starved, neglected dogs, too, a few dodgy enough to paw the buttocks of waitresses who wore top hats and glittery bow ties, and who shook their breasts like maracas above the cocktail trays. At least, those waitresses who weren't in drag.

( Strange Art )

The daylight was fading into the early evening hours. The dun blanket of night tucked in the city of London with as much care as any mother might her child. If one looked close enough, in the hustle and bustle of the early evening hours, one might notice a womanly shadow jumping down from the steps of a hackney coach. The woman paid the driver, then he sped away, off to the next well-pocketed passenger. The woman paused for a moment, dusting off her dress with one hand, and squinting at the scrap of paper in the other.

Yes, this would have to be his lodgings, she surmised, looking doubtfully at the building. She hoped in the early evening hours to catch the erstwhile English professor before he left his abode. This was going to be, she knew, more discomfiting than it might had he not been who he was. Why she had even to tell him of this new position--this new hope--she could never say. But surely he would not mind? After all, neither party had made any promises the one to the other. Sure, various fanciful notions had been tossed back and forth, but was that not that common in such things?

She bowed her head a moment, then took brisk, confident steps to the tenement. It would be nothing to him, and indeed it was less than nothing to her. What she had done with him--well, it was little more than passing fancy, and so must pass. Besides, new fortune awaited.

The interior of John Abbott's home made for a sanctuary of sorts. Each wall held up paintings or shelves. Books and journals lined the flat surfaces of those. His furnishings crowded the space, more a nest for the vampire's fleeting interests than a proper apartment. Necessities, such as a shaving stand, were crowded between superfluous items, like a globe and a wooden lectern. When the sun slipped behind his building, it became quite dark, but he kept his curtains open so he could view the street below and any passersby. If a coach stopped outside, John often went to see who was coming or going, provided he wasn't absorbed in a task.

( Never a Positive Omen )

( Strange Logic )

"Sasha." The vampire reached for a lock of silky hair, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. The twenty-four-year old's hair was like a red sunset. It was dyed. He knew that bit without a doubt, didn't he?

He met her in New York, or rather, saw her there and began to follow her. A few days, nothing overt, enough to overhear of an impending vacation to Key West and a stay at the Westin. A signature on a restaurant check told him her name. They took separate flights. He found her in a bar on Duval Street. After a flirtatious introduction and drinks, they walked back to her hotel room, where he sat her on the bathroom sink (thank God she didn't turn around and check her make-up in the mirror). A slap-happy mess of intoxication and dehydration from the sun, she bunched her skirt around her waist and wiggled out of her panties. They dangled from her toes, which a nail technician had decorated with palm trees.

She smelled like coconut.

( Mysterious Visitor )

( An Entity With Many Names )

( Character Profile for Low Tide )

( Character Profile for Victorian Nocturne )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/27375.html

Marguerite found that she was getting quite bored of being the prim Englishwoman she had created in Elizabeth Stoker. The woman she had become as a result of sudden fear of a priest was the very antithesis to everything she upheld as a modern woman. She was dull and easily afraid, and only cared about her sewing. How such women even managed to survive she would never know. She found herself wandering away from the others, wanting to be alone. Though it had been recommended that they stay in pairs, she grew weary of the idea after a while and parted with Miss Cramwell. Besides, she could take care of herself. She had done so for nearly one hundred years, with only a few scrapes to show for it.

She found herself wandering into a nursery, evidenced by the little wooden rocking horse in the corner, the small, covered bed, and the children's books which lined the shelves of a single bookcase. Leaving the door ajar, she knelt before a little chest and opened it, perusing the contents within. They were the jewels of childhood: a dirtied rag doll, several seashells, a book of a child's awkward sketches, a photograph of a family, a lock of hair. All were kept as though enshrined. She opened a Bible and found within it various pressed flowers, and another photograph, this one of a small girl, eyes closed as though in peaceful sleep, propped up in her own coffin. She looked at the picture for a moment, then dropped the book with a small thud, as though she had been burned.

John stood at the threshold of the nursery. The redhead made quite a picture kneeling there, sorting through the keepsakes of a little girl's childhood. At first, he thought her simply charming, but as the seconds ticked by, she took on the look of a grieving mother, and the idea of it settled poorly with him. Perhaps he was thinking of Virginia Abbott. Though it did not look like the sort of moment one should interrupt, her particular breed of madness made him afraid to leave her alone with the episode, if she was about to have one.

"Knock, knock." He rapped his knuckles on the door and went inside. "I hate to intrude, ah..." He settled against the wall and put his hands in his pockets. "Miss Stoker, yes? I hate to intrude, but there's a mystery that has plagued my mind all the while we've been trapped in this house. I hoped you could help me with it." He reached up and pulled on his earlobe, his expression giving away some confusion. "It so happens that you are identical to a Madame Marguerite Larousse," he said, "With whom I share a casual acquaintance. I mean, the resemblance is impeccable! Now, I don't think she'd mind if I took up company with you instead, but I thought I should ask first...

( You're Not..? )

( Seance Scene )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/24089.html

The Dragon's Arms
Earlier in the Evening...

( The Bet )

Simon's Residence
The Present

( Ouch! That Smarts! )

Phèdre having run its course, it was refreshing to Marguerite to have the silly humor of that satire, The Mikado. Gifted with a fine voice as well as acting abilities, she had been cast as Yum-Yum, the female lead. Every evening she would don the uncomfortable black wig and the rice powder. She wondered if Japanese women actually dressed like this, if they wore this much paint, if their kimonos were so burdensome as this. When she viewed herself in the mirror, she was much changed. Beneath the paint and wig she barely knew herself. She wondered if her audience would recognize her.

But recognize her they inevitably did. She was fast becoming a favorite in the theatres, heading toward the title of prima donna. And yet she had still not chosen a patron. Tonight this perturbed her as she sang her silly lines, becoming a comedienne when last she was a tragic figure. She had been receiving offers, gifts, and she accepted them, but she never gave a definite answer. She found herself relieved when she returned to the solitude of her dressing room, shutting out the sickening multitudes.

She sat down at her great vanity, leaving her maid to take care of her admirers. She liked to look at herself, though not, as one might think, for vanity's sake. She liked to see how the makeup changed her, how the costuming made her someone else. She stared at her reflection, wondering what it would be like were she one of those famed geishas, serving tea and sake in small glasses and entertaining dignitaries. She flipped open the fan prop she had. It was screened with a dragon. She peered out over it, fluttering her eyelashes in a coy, silly way. Like a girl, she made faces at herself for an unspeakable amount of time.

The performance was marvelous, or so John thought. The costuming, the song and dance, the music... All of it was bright and exotic, invoking images of the Orient, though the satire poked fun at the British Empire. On the first occasion, he purchased a ticket on a lark, wanting to see Marguerite on stage. He, unlike so many admirers, had been unfamiliar with her reputation prior to meeting the courtesan, so he was curious as to her talents outside the bed chamber.

( Privacy? Not a Concept He's Familiar With )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/20070.html

The Journal of John Abbott
August 31, 1891

( Morning Rain )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/17751.html

( A Brief Note for Madam Larousse )

http://asylums.insanejournal.com/v_nocturne_rpg/15564.html

[Takes place before 'I Love You, I Hate You']

( The Courtesan's Boudoir (Adult Content: Strong Sexuality) )

( Regarding the Viscount )

Impressionists in England. It was far too strange. Marguerite, French through and through, could not help but attend such an exhibition. She wondered what the English thought of a movement which was already developing into something else in France. They must indeed have been lucky to receive the graces of Manet and Degas in their stolid, musty halls. Such things were always a treat to see, even in France.

Being a courtesan, Marguerite could go to such things escorted or unescorted, as she wished. She preferred attending alone. Nonetheless she was resplendent in soft green satin, the train of her bustle a bit shorter than it might have been. She often worried about careless gentlemen stepping on and tearing her gown. An elaborate necklace of emeralds and jade adorned her neck, the neckline of her bodice dipping to almost scandalous proportions. Her hair boasted an elaborate gold and jade flower, the fiery curls creating a wild frame for her face. Long, satin gloves completed the ensemble, climbing up to her elbows. She liked to be looked at. Indeed, if she were not viewed as much as the art, it would be a pity.

She stood before Degas's L'Absinthe. This was the first showing of the painting in England, if she recalled correctly. Others were crowded near it as well, murmuring in outrage and disgust. But she ignored them. She looked at the woman, the expression of her face. She was a plain thing, but she looked blank. Before her stood a cup of that illicit spirit, absinthe. It moved her. She imagined the cup flowing with blood and placed herself in the painting. Yes, sometimes things were too much to bear, sometimes life seemed to trundle on aimlessly, with no rhyme or reason. She wondered why people could not see past the act of drinking the absinthe and into the woman's soul.

A man approached the courtesan's shoulder. It wasn't his intent to hover, but in the press of bodies before the piece, space was at a scarcity. A small pick of wood clenched in his teeth, John observed the muddied colors of the painting. His tolerance for impressionism was higher than other artistic movements, such as neo-classisism, whose works could be so patently obvious, so empty of the need for interpretation that it made him wonder why one bothered calling it art at all.

( Lifeless Art )

( A Study of One Another )

July 18, 1891
Kingdom's Variety

( How It Came About )

August 8, 1891
Somewhere Off George Street

( Rambling Along Quite Drunk )