Holly Golightly Syndrome

By C.E. Wanders

A dark comedy about an author who loses control of her characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.E. Wanders
• Release date: Jun 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476125626

C.E. Wanders

If you guess who I am I'll give you a trophy.

Book preview

Holly Golightly Syndrome

By C.E. Wanders

Copyright 2012 C.E. Wanders

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"The worst evil which can befall the artist is that the work should appear good in his own eye" – -Leonardo da Vinci

Chapter 1

We are gathered here today to honor the memory of Cyril…

Father Flanders shook violently in the unforgiving damp-cold with dew fringed glasses teetering on the bridge of his nose.

An urgent cough accentuated his mistake.

I beg your pardon. Sybil N. Vane. Yes we are gathered here today to honor the memory of Sybil Vane.

If Sibyl were to see here funeral through the eyes of a raven flying overhead, she probably wouldn’t have been very pleased. Though there was a vaguely large turnout, and they all looked respectable enough in black, most of the mourners remained largely dry eyed. A coughing, hysteric sob crawled out of the throat of a woman on the edge of mourners who defied the general wrinkled demographic of the ceremony and who no one seemed to recognize.

(Great, the raven sighed, the only woman crying at my funeral is someone I don’t even know.)

(Who does she think she is, dramatizing my funeral, like I don’t have enough mourners?)

(And in heels?)

(For shame! Who wears heels to a funeral? )

(And why in the world George looking at her like that for? Isn’t he still dating that nice Asian girl?)

His head leaned towards her and she pictured them ogling over her corpse.

(No George, don’t do it! I don’t trust that one.)

Bertha Fall however, was immune to George’s advances.

She was attending therapy.

It was raining, which was of course even better for her psyche.

This naturally hadn’t been her first option.

She sat in the variously generic offices of psychiatrists, psychologists, and counselors. She faced acres of men, women, red haired, brunette, and gray, on green, yellow, orange, black sofas, all clockwork with paperwork and pretentious glasses. It was like one of those children’s flipbooks where you could incorrectly pair an alligator’s head with a bear’s stomach and human feet.

They all read the same script. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with you.

But no one outside of the professional world seemed to accept that consensus either.

Between extravagant, unsuccessful relationships which often left both her and the others feeling as though they had just been picked up by a twister and left somewhere inconvenient, and a few resulting melodramatic public dramas in college, Bertha slowly began to realize that she needed the equivalent of an emotional garbage disposal.

It began with charitable commercials, which was unfortunate because it gave people the impression she was charitable. But she found that role a bit too repressed and flourished as the character of the secret American assassin Mini on Lagrimas. When the depression switched to mania she’d hire herself out as a groupie for bands no one had ever heard of and as an extra on car commercials with sales so big they had no choice but to instigate robust dancing sequences with clapping. They were all more profitable than having a pair of glasses declare her normalcy.

Excuse me. Someone grabbed her elbow. I don’t believe we’ve met.

(Shit.)

This unfortunately had happened on a few occasions, and Bertha quickly became the sister nana gave up and never told you about, or personal mistress of the deceased. All very thoughtful stuff.

Oh I’m sorry. Normally she could think of something right on the spot, but the man who had grabbed her elbow thoroughly intimidated her with an icy glare. I must have gone to the wrong funeral. I’m sorry I have a memory problem and…

He smirked. Really, you have a memory problem? Look its ok I’m onto you. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and began to pace on the water logged lawn. There’s no shame in being homeless. I mean granted being homeless in a cemetery I think would be a more depressing option as far as public places to…

I’m not homeless. She snapped back. Do I look homeless?

Well no, it’s just….I see you here a lot. His blue eyes were mocking her but she loved them anyway.

Well if you see me here a lot, that must mean you’re here a lot too.

What’s it to you? He shot suspiciously.

Oh nothing. Bertha was eye level with him on the step, and she tried to meet his gaze. If you really want to know the truth I have a lot of emotions, but I don’t have anywhere to put them. So I…ah… sort of….maybe pretty much… kind of … ah…attend anonymous funerals.

He gave her a look. You can’t be serious. What is this, fight club?

I’m very serious. It’s something I’d rather not discuss at the moment, now if you please I have to go home.

Well sorry then He stepped back and lit up a cigarette, which went out promptly in the rain. Sorry to bother you Miss.

He said miss as an unanswered question word, and threw the cigarette on the ground in defeat. You shouldn’t litter. Bertha pointed out.

I beg your pardon. Water began to run in rivulets down the crevices in his face.

Well you shouldn’t smoke. And you shouldn’t litter.

Well you shouldn’t cry all the time it gives you wrinkles. Goodness, are you really still crying?

Bertha attempted a half laugh, but it came out as that pitiful sob-laugh where you’re not quite done being miserable about something but you can’t help laughing.

(So much for being charming. I sound like I’m on a horse tranquilizer in slow motion.)

Sorry I’ll be on my way now.

Wait he called. She attempted to speed walk across the soggy lawn in heels, and ended up looking like someone who really needed to go the bathroom. Here, I gotcha poor sot.

Suddenly she found herself looking at his back and backside, which was quite nice, and wondering if she truly seemed that intoxicated.

I’m not drunk. She shouted over the thunder.

Maybe that’s your problem. He shouted back as the rain began to pour down so hard it was deafening and finally set her back on the sidewalk. His eyes glanced inquisitively at her, as if she were some rare specimen on the discovery channel. I do realize… this is a bit ridiculous…but you look a lot nicer when your face isn’t all scrunched up. Do you want to get a drink?

Sure! Why not?

They settled into some pretentious looking bar with legitimate business people in button down shirts and ten dollar drinks. Women with matching umbrellas and designer rain boots sent disgusted stares at Bertha and her wet hair.

Unfortunately, several drinks in, she had all but forgotten her budget, and her new friend George wasn’t doing much better. Slightly tipsy, she set her glass down forcefully and said George, George darling I’m giving you an ultimatum.

And what is that? He was on his third beer.

Well I have to give you a disclaimer. I am, in case you haven’t noticed, completely insane. You have two options. The first and most advised is that you run for your life. Just finish that off, maybe stretch your quads, and start running… She and looked at him expectantly. He hadn’t moved. Do you doubt my warning, sir?

Bertha. He said in a flat voice. I found you bawling your eyes out about someone you’ve never even met.

Yes, well I’m just as crazy when I’m happy. I’m warning you. But I’ll give you the second option and then you can reevaluate. Well you see I’ve always wanted to race someone down the street in the rain. She grinned goofily and hiccupped.

So to be clear… He rested his head on his fist. I’m going to be running in the rain either way?

Mhmm. She nodded curtly.

I may as well beat you in the meantime…

Who says you’re going to beat me?

After they finished their drinks they walked swiftly to the door, so as to not look too suspicious, but being drunk and far less subtle than they assumed themselves to be, they did evoke some derision from polite society and looked even more conspicuous running down the city sidewalk towards his apartment.

So there you are being all cocky for nothing? He arched his eye brow up.

I guess so. She panted.

For a moment they stood in silence, breathing and listening. A woman rudely hit Bertha with her purse, but she didn’t seem to notice. The next thing they knew, they were pressed against each other, a sopping tangled panting mess without a name.

(Oh shut up I know it’s cheesy.)

Bertha woke up with a headache in a foreign bed with wonderful silk sheets.

His apartment was immaculate. Everything seemed to have its place. She felt like an intruder, messing up the order of an internal universe.

Hi there. He nodded, with bags under his eyes. It was immensely difficult to read his face.

Good thing it’s a Sunday or I would have had to kick you out much earlier.

Oh. Bertha was taken aback by the comment, and began to look for her outfit from yesterday, which she found neatly folded. Did you do this? She unfolded them, suspiciously.

Call it a compulsion, but I like having everything clean and in order.

Me…me too. She stammered a bit in relief. I like color coding my closet.

He laughed, and grabbed the small of her back, pulling her into a long drawn out kiss. That’s so sexy.

(How long can I hold on to this one before he goes running for his life and sanity? Hopefully longer than a week…) Sorry I’m not terribly intelligible in the morning. I sort of have a coffee problem, do you happen to know if there’s somewhere nearby I can get some.

I’m not sure I don’t drink coffee. However I do have some for when my family visits.

You don’t drink coffee? She gasped.

Not really. I don’t like it unless it has a lot of cream and sugar.

Oh. She shrugged.

It was a step up from the other guys she had dated, who didn’t want to seem unmanly and ordered black coffee if she did too, so as to not seem inferior in some sense. She could always tell they were fakers because they’d make an accidental grimace, or would leave it scarcely touched. How do you do it?

I sleep for one, He smirked …probably quite a bit more than you do. You’re not much of a sleeper, are you?

Oh I sleep ok. Unfortunately I’m much better at sleeping in the morning and afternoon than any other time. Sometimes I think I was born to take a night shift in something…

What is it that you do? He began to put a pot on. The rest of his house was substantially smaller than the bedroom. Bertha peered at the pictures on either side of the leather couch. Each one featured what she assumed was his family; a skinny mother, a stoic looking father, and a sister. They shared the same smile. The sight of his sister gave her the sensation of spiders crawling around in her stomach. She had never had problems getting approval from older or younger brothers, but sisters don’t work the same way as brothers, especially because she looked about the same age. There’s more complicated programming involved. It had taken her an eternity to accept her own brother’s girlfriend, despite the fact that she was perfectly nice.

"I primarily work at a magazine for teen girls. It’s not an ideal job, but