Art's Conduct

Art's Conduct: Bittersweet =10=

= 10 =

My head fell horizontally prone to  the table, rolling it around between a mixture of mild starvation and drastic irritation syndrome. I huffed a silent plea before hauling my indignant and helpless figure back into the fire pit called the living room, but any portion of the mansion could have been considered a fire pit. The dining room was a fire pit. The kitchen was a fire pit. The hallway was a fire pit. Even the dog next door was a fire pit, and he wasn't even resident to this hulk of a building!

It proved just how much this place was sickening.

I must have done something in my previous life, if I did have a previous life, angering the president of some miniature country or other, so that now, I had to suffer because of the deed I'd accomplished, or I could have invaded a colony that was on the verge of recovery from a terrible outbreak of malaria. Or, maybe. Just maybe. I had to stop reading Lore's monthly issues when I had nothing better to do than read heated banter about whether or not they should allow geneticists to sacrifice embryos for the benefit of stem cell contribution to living, breathing tissue because this was getting utterly ridiculous.

In two months time, I wouldn't be surprised if I managed to name the embryonic stages of a life form as well as the sections and subsections of the brain, and seeing as I could already recite the parietal lobe, temporal lobe, frontal lobe, and occipital lobe without batting a lid, the timing couldn't have been any more impeccable, and what more? 

I knew the hypothalamus controlled temperature.

Shoot me now before I evolved into an endoplasmic blob of evolving malignant tumors, spouting medical terms like a prophet of zeal because there were no apparent signs of closure if this progressed.

I plopped listlessly on a random couch and shook my head violently so that my hair stood at odd ends, making me appear like Machu Picchu, but in a worse calamity than it was now, and possibly some Incas to add as a form of decorative beads because a few moments in the dining area confirmed the embarassing notion that I had been munching on none other than plastic decorum intended for the gala.

I had such rotten luck!

I shook my head again and pouted solemnly.

No wonder they looked too good to be real. They were only decorative pieces to taunt guests that they should have taken a bite to eat before leaving, and I would have done so already if I wasn't holed up in this darn place.

Anything would have been better than here, like a sinkhole or a mantle of vermin infestation, even playing the weeds in a ballet would have been ideal, yet there stood the cumbersome facts that a single layer of dirt wouldn't be wet enough to provide a sinkhole of any sort; I was probably inhabiting the most sterile environment in all of France, if we were still in France at all; and I didn't hold the grace of that at which a ballerina could withstand because gravity seemed to have problems with upholding my weight at proper order, or at least, when standing on my toes.

It was that or I had fragile bones and muscles networking my toes and soles.

A platter of well-adorned crème brûlée came into my line of vision, right as my stomach emitted a belching yelp that left me keeling over.

"Take it," Davin's voice gruff with a strange sense of warmth, not fake or forced. Just that. Warmth.

I inspected it closely, and after concluding it appeared harmless and lacked a form of laxatives, I took the spoon from his hand and dug in, almost smearing the whole dish onto my cheeks, but when one was on the edge of starvation, no one would question the habituals of a human being.