At What Cost

Beep beep beep. Good morning, Charlotte. It’s 23 September 2043, 5h00. A beautiful sunny day in Simpleton today.

In half-asleep aggression, Charlotte slaps the device. The curtains draw on queue, boasting blue skies partly shielded by glass monsters towering over the metropolitan jungle. Sliding off the silk, she strolls to the kitchen, her fur slippers squeaking on the porcelain floors. She’s welcomed by perfectly timed ground coffee cascading into a golden mug.

Savoring it as she would water in a desert, Charlotte sips, admiring how the sun catches the glass ornaments on the coffee table, casting rainbows all around the Persian rug and teal walls.

All is well, she murmurs.

It’s a new day.

Don’t forget to get the PA to fetch your dress.

What a beautiful day. 

Ugh, I need to get that wine spill cleaned off the rug.

Tick tick tick.

Large arms clock through Charlotte’s ears from the lounge wall. 


Right. Meeting at 10am.

Tick tick tick.

I wish Sarah would just stop her nonsense. Nobody actually cares. I don’t need any of them, I really don’t have time for this. Not with everything going on in my life.

Tick tick.

It’s okay. You’re okay.

The chauffeur. He’ll be here just now. 20mins.

The shower runs. Splendid drops of nectar onto a mosaic floor. Tiles like Gaudi’s Park Güell.

Vera Wang spreads out on her bed, ironed fresh for the new day.

Before stepping into the shower, Charlotte throws her head back. More pills, straight, no need for water. She smiles into the foggy mirror, her one eye twitching in ecstasy.

Just another Tuesday.

She is good at everything she does, especially this.

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