Purpled Affair (eBook)

AA Lagrimas Jr (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
256 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-2311-7 (ISBN)

Infos

Experience the passionate turmoil of 'A Purpled Affair.' A model's life takes an unexpected turn in the arms of an artist, unraveling a thrilling tale of love, obsession, and the mysteries that bind them.

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Dive into the intoxicating narrative of 'A Purpled Affair,' where the world of glamour intertwines with the enigmatic realms of passion, obsession, and dark mysteries. Roxanne, a captivating model in her mid-20s, has achieved fame and beauty but lost her passion along the way. Alone in the heart of New York, yearning for a deeper connection, she stumbles upon Ethan - a visual artist trapped in a web of an unconventional marriage. Central Park becomes the stage for destiny's dance as Roxanne and Ethan's lives collide in a fleeting encounter. Drawn to Ethan's captivating charm and his unique blend of hyperrealist-surrealist art, Roxanne succumbs to a passionate affair that awakens emotions she never deemed possible. Yet, the tale takes a sinister twist when Melissa, Ethan's dramatic and enigmatic wife, emerges as a shadowy presence in Roxanne's life. Melissa stalks her with eerie persistence, invading Roxanne's personal space with chilling intent. As the mystery deepens, Roxanne confronts the inexplicable and the threatening, struggling to comprehend the truth behind Melissa's actions. Choosing to flee with Ethan, the couple seeks refuge across a lavender farm on Long Island, only to find themselves trapped in a nightmarish pursuit. Roxanne's flight through the ethereal purple haze of the lavender fields becomes a desperate bid for survival, as the boundaries between obsession, madness, and reality blur.

Textauszug

Chapter 1

The club’s dance floor is packed.

No matter how disparate the bodily movement to the music is, everyone shares the same bass drum pounding on their senses. Many of them are here to be seen. They dress up cool, sexy, shake off everything real about their lives and project a filtered swag in their glitzy photos and videos. All for a host of emojis and likes on their social media accounts. Some of them just need the company. Solitude is not the place to be on a Friday night like this. Yet, that’s what the woman feels as she swings her hands in the air, as her shapely hips sways to the music beat, as her sweat moisturizes her face, with the club lights alternately making her pop in and vanish in the dance floor while shimmering in her slinky red dress that hugs her body as if she was born with it. She dances with everyone, yes, but really, she’s all alone.

At a little past 2 a.m., the woman sits by the bar finishing a drink. She feels someone nudge her from behind. A drunk guy slips away towards the front door when she turns around.

She catches a chill, so she rubs her arms and notices she has goosebumps. Someone’s watching her. She knows it. She surveys the rest of the bar behind her and spots a shadow standing near the dance floor. It retreats out of her line of sight when she catches on to him. This worries her. She waits. But the peering eyes are gone.

The woman dismisses it. She’s had some gin tonic to spice her spirits up and she is not going to waste that kick by being paranoid.

She’s a beautiful woman. Guys will look at her the way they always did. There are those who will be shy and quickly look away and there are those of bolder breed who will take every chance to fill their eyes with the sight of her beauty even after she catches them. Men objectify women. It’s the truth she lives by in her business.

The woman hears somebody laugh loud. She turns her attention to a stocky mid-thirties white man with Middle Eastern features two bar chairs away, working his whiskey with obvious delight as he becomes chatty with the bartender. He’s wearing a pair of John-Lennon-shades at that hour of night, probably trying to make himself look cool, the woman assumes. The man, from what the woman hears, took his citizenship oath earlier that day. He’s celebrating his becoming American, which in this age of global connection means shit, the man claims, but he’s giddy that he was finally able to change his name. He says a name should be something a person gives himself, not his parents or anyone else, so he can go about life introducing himself to the world with utmost confidence because it’s a name he likes, a name which echoes who he is. Every man’s trouble starts with his name because it’s not really who he is but spends most of his life unconsciously trying hard to become it.

The man turns to her. “Do you like yours?” he asks.

With that pair of shades, the woman is not sure if the man is talking to her or someone else behind her. But she admits that was a good segue to a pickup line, not cheesy at all. She smiles and prepares to leave.

“Yes,” she says. “I like mine.” Then she walks away.

Roxanne. That’s the name she goes by. For as far as she can remember, that’s the name that was built into her, no nickname, no alliteration. She hates any endearing attempt to call her Roxx or Roxie by anyone. Roxanne has always been the name she used to get by in the world, it will be till the day she’s gone.

She heads to the rest room. Just as the door opens and another woman walks out, a sudden pang of anxiety hits her. A lump in her throat. Roxanne finds it hard to breathe. She retches and hangs her head before the wash basin, but nothing comes out. She blinks. Her lavender eyes feel the sting of the late hour. They’re itchy and she knows her eyebags are swelling. Roxanne avoids looking at herself in the mirror. She doesn’t think she will appreciate how she looks right now. She’s a beautiful and sensitive woman who should value her worth. But her self-esteem has hit rock bottom. Her supposed fun date tonight was a no-show. A male model she met in a photoshoot stood her up and explained in a text message he needed to attend to something important. Apparently, Roxanne is not important. It made her sad. What made her sadder is an hour later, she saw a friend’s Instagram photo with the same man. But what’s even more depressing now is realizing that she anchored her day’s happiness and self-worth to the company of a perfect stranger when she’s got bigger concerns about her life to worry about.

Out of the club, Roxanne walks along the dead ambiance of Broadway heading south under a black trench coat. She questions this aimless stroll. But there’s really nothing on her calendar the next day. She’s been suffering from bouts of insomniac rage that leaves her existentially anguished. She’d rather be out and moving than be back infinitely restless in the solitude of her own apartment.

As she reaches the 911 Memorial area, she catches that familiar chill and these damn goosebumps. She is positive someone is watching her. Again. She is out on the street, practically alone except for a couple of homeless people sprawled on the sidewalk. Roxanne turns a corner and walks on until she has no idea where she is. Or maybe she does. But what does it matter knowing exactly where you are if you have no clue where you’re headed?

By daybreak, Roxanne sits on a bench in a quiet corner of the Brooklyn Bridge Park. It is the middle of autumn on a chilly Saturday morning. The sun barges into the world with the light of day, its temporal presence a reminder to Roxanne that while it gives warmth, it is indifferent to her plight. Whether or not she survives the day, the sun’s going to be here again tomorrow, giving that photogenic bridge an early morning glow.

Roxanne watches the surface of the river. The glimmer blinds her momentarily while she thinks about her life and what’s in store for her. The mere thought of things to come already scares her.

She is a model who’s had plenty of prospects, but nothing solid on the present plate. Roxanne knows she is at the end of her rope career wise not because she’s ageing, but because she’s lost every bit of passion for the job. Every gig her agency forwards to her attention becomes a tired idea even before she considers it. Modeling is already faking it. Faking it further is going to leave her with no dignity. So, her life’s prospects beyond this are really the big question in her mind right now.

Where is she going? What is she going to do? Is she going to just wait for the universe to open new doors for her? What kind of monster will swallow her beyond those doors?

There is something about waiting for the unknown to unfold that is entirely macabre.

Roxanne emerges from the subway and turns towards 32nd Street from Park Avenue. She heads towards the direction of 5th Avenue and passes by a burger restaurant after crossing Madison. It’s a block like any other block at the heart of Manhattan—a street oppressed by the towering structures around it, every business rushing with adrenalin to survive the rules of economics. Like the beauty salon across, this trendy hotel here, the wine bar there.

As she approaches the building where she’s staying, she turns her attention to a shop at the front of the building whose signage spells out the letters, big and bold, to the word psychic.

Roxanne stops by the curb right in front of the shop and surveys the interior.

No one’s inside. But the idea tempts Roxanne.

She’s been thinking about her future for a while now and the psychic who owns the shop claims she has the power to unlock what’s in store for those who want to know. But really, can any mere mortal see through the chasm that separates the present from what’s coming?

“Foolish?” a woman’s raspy voice speaks. “Or brave?”

Roxanne catches the whiff of cannabis in the air as she spots a woman wearing a shiny flower-printed bandana around her head, seated on the building stoop as if she owned it. She puffs on a joint while watching Roxanne with big brown eyes unsettling as a lemur’s. She could be in her fifties, pale as a corpse. Ember from her joint drops into her tattered denims, she nonchalantly swipes the ash off her pants making her oversized yellow sweater jiggle. She takes another hit. Roxanne sees her cheekbones poke from under her wrinkled skin.

Roxanne looks confused as the woman points her stick towards the psychic’s shop.

“Those who want to know their future,” she explains. “It’s usually one of those. Foolish or brave.”

“What’s the difference?” Roxanne asks as she steps towards the woman.

“Foolish are those who don’t need to know the future,” she says. “They’re not gonna do shit about it anyway. All they’re willing to spend is some loose change because they’re curious what magic tricks ‘em psychics can do.” She pauses. “Brave are those who know something horrible is coming their way because of the choices they made.” She leans forward to make sure Roxanne catches her wary eyes. “Yet they need some sort of validation.”

Roxanne throws a glance at the shop. A...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 11.2.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-2311-7 / 9798350923117