Angels by Addison Moore

Author:Addison Moore [Moore, Addison]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hollis Thatcher Press, LTD.
Published: 2017-06-28T04:00:00+00:00

Fake Jen opens the door to my new room. It’s clean and dull with the same satanic wallpaper from the hall peeking out from behind the bookshelves. Two twin mattresses are pushed against opposing walls with a mahogany desk next to each.

Three statuesque girls welcome me by way of hard looks and scoffs that suggest I reek of excrement or rotting corpses. Come to think of it, both are a possibility.

“Kresley Fisher, Grayson Evans.” Jen points at two girls lying side by side on a navy quilt with white flowers embroidered in dizzying patterns, their feet sunk in ditches over the pillow.

The dark-haired one, Kresley, shoots a look of venom at me with her sharp almond eyes as though I were solely responsible for the slaughter of a thousand baby whales. She’s beautiful in a hypnotic kind of way. Her toxic brand of beauty is mixed with equal parts of viciousness and vixen with a dash of entitlement thrown in for good measure. The haughty look in her eye assures me there will be no friendship brewing here in the near or distant future. Judging people is my fatal flaw, but when you bat a thousand, it’s a little hard to stop.

The other girl, Grayson, has long hair much like my own with the exception it’s devoid of any color that I could accurately put my finger on. In fact, there isn’t a single hue found in all of nature that holds that brindle, velum, ash disaster. A dark line of roots erects itself from her scalp a clear inch, contrasting itself so harshly it looks artful in its own way. She crimps her lips, taking me in. She holds a sharper beauty than Kresley, looking less menacing in general, but you can tell the venomous nature is one in the same. It lingers to her like a patina that coats her from the inside. You can see her malevolence plain as the beauty on her face.

“This is your roommate, Casper Masterson.” Jen flicks a finger toward the girl at the desk, painting her fingernails a dark glossy crimson—dragon’s blood red.

I give a wry smile. I used to sit for hours and watch Wes, my long-dead boyfriend, run his brushes over canvas. I would give names to the colors he mixed onto the palate. It was spellbinding, watching him stir through a rainbow of his own invention. For Christmas, I was going to make a set of brushes for him with my own hair. The art supply store in town said they would do it, but Christmas came and went without Wes. He had been in the ground three full months before that day. I miss Wes with an aching passion. Maybe they’ll have a fake version of him here, too. But there could never be another Wes. When he died he took all of the color out of the world with him.

“Hello,” Casper offers, but doesn’t look up from her long methodical strokes. It sounds sarcastic, like a threat. Her short bleached hair spikes at the top, a contrast to her delicate features and soft round lips.

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